After Image, page 26
“I—”
“I wish you’d have come to me first, Natasha,” he says. “Instead of Ruiz. We could’ve talked. I could’ve explained.”
“Explained?” My voice rises. “Matthew, there’s blood in there. In that kitchen.”
“I know,” he says. There are shadows under his eyes. “But it’s not what you think. Please, just let me explain.”
My phone is in my jacket pocket. If I reach for it, is there any way I could dial Ruiz without Matthew noticing?
“Please,” he says, taking a step forward. “Sit down. It will make sense once I tell you.”
I stare at his handsome face. These past four years, whenever we talked about the case, discussed the possibilities of where Allie might have gone—Matthew had known. He’d already known how that night had ended for her.
I see now why Matthew was always the one who talked to the cops, who managed the information the private investigator passed on. At the time, his actions had seemed noble, a way for him to shield Isabel from the stress of the case. But really, it was a way to maintain control. As the point person for the family, he would be the first to know about any new direction the investigation was taking.
“I could never hurt Allie,” he says. “You know that. You know how much I love her.”
He doesn’t know I’ve read the essay. That I know who he really is.
He reaches a hand toward me but stops when he sees me flinch. “Please. Just hear me out,” he says. “That’s all I ask.”
For a moment, it seems like it’s actually possible: There’s another explanation for what happened. I’ve gotten things wrong. Then I remember the flash drive in my pocket.
“Please,” Matthew says.
Slowly, I step into the living room and sit down on the armchair, aware of the flash drive digging into my thigh. Allie went to such lengths to protect it, and now I’ve brought it right to Matthew.
He sits down on the sofa across from me, and I tamp down my panic, trying to form a plan. I need to let him think he has a chance of convincing me. Of winning me over. Because that’s why he’s here, isn’t he? To get me on his side. And what will happen if he realizes he can’t?
“I’m listening.” I brush my left hand against my jacket pocket, feeling the outline of my phone.
Matthew leans forward and tentatively grasps my other hand. It’s only through force of will that I manage not to yank it away.
“Natasha,” he says. His skin is warm against mine. “I’m so sorry I lied to you. I lied to everyone. It’s inexcusable, I know that. But I didn’t kill Allie. That didn’t happen. That could never happen.”
He’s so sincere. So convincing.
“That night, when Allie went to the cabin, I got an alert on my phone. I saw she was there. So I left the conference and drove down there.” He lets go of my hand and presses his knuckles against his forehead. “You have to understand—at that point, Allie had caused so much trouble, been so reckless. I didn’t know what she might be doing at the cabin, but I knew it couldn’t be good.”
I’m holding my breath. I have to remind myself to let it out.
“Anyway,” he says. “When I got there, she’d turned the place inside out. I don’t know what she was doing. Maybe looking for something to steal, to sell.”
He knows exactly what she was looking for.
“And she’d been drinking,” he adds.
I don’t think that’s true. But it’s possible, isn’t it? Allie cracking under the strain of everything. Opening a bottle of whiskey she’d found in his kitchen.
“We argued,” Matthew says. “I told her she needed to get back into treatment. She called me a hypocrite—which, in retrospect, I was. I was telling her to get help, but I hadn’t faced the facts about my own addiction.” Suddenly, he looks very old. “I wish I had handled it differently, Natasha. But I didn’t. The argument escalated. She hit me. She was out of control.”
I sit very still. The heat clicks on in the apartment, and a hot stream of air billows out from the vent.
“When she came at me again, I pushed her away.”
Matthew is wearing a blue button-down shirt. I find myself fixated on the ivory-colored buttons, the way they gleam in the light.
“She fell, and . . . she hit her head.” His face twists, as if the memory hurts him. “It happened so fast . . . There was a lot of blood.” For the first time, his voice wavers, and he has to take a moment before he goes on. “But she was okay, essentially. She was conscious. I got her to sit up. The cut wasn’t serious, but it did need attention.” He takes a deep breath. “I went to the bathroom to find some towels. I wanted to take her to a hospital, to get stitches. But first I needed to stop the bleeding.”
Through his shirt, I can see his heart beating, the fabric shivering over his chest.
“But when I came out of the bathroom, she was gone. Then I heard a car start outside. By the time I got out there, she was driving away.” His dark eyes are bottomless. “Natasha, when I last saw Allie, she was alive. Hurt, but very much alive.”
I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hands. “Then why lie?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell anyone what had happened?”
He swallows. “It sounds so stupid now. Unbelievably stupid. But I didn’t know that night would end up being . . . I didn’t think anyone needed to know. I knew Allie. She was upset; she’d go somewhere for a while to work off her feelings, and then she’d come back.” He looks exhausted. “Then time went on. The investigation began, and the longer I waited, the more impossible it became to speak up. How could I say, at that point, ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention . . .’” He laughs. “How would that look? The blood in the cabin . . . They’d think the worst. I’d already lied about seeing her that night. Why would anyone believe my story after that?”
He must see the doubt in my face because he leans forward, saying, “That’s why I threw myself into the investigation like I did. I did whatever was in my power to find her. To make things right. Tell me, Why would I do that, if I’d killed her?”
In my pocket, my phone vibrates—once, twice. That will be Ruiz, calling me.
“Natasha,” he says, “you know me. You know I’m not capable of something like that. You have to help me talk to the detectives. They’ll understand if you help me explain.”
And there it is. The real reason he’s here. He knows he’s about to lose everything. His reputation, his freedom. His new family.
“You believe me, don’t you?” he says. A tinge of desperation has crept into his voice.
The room is closing in. I hear shallow breathing and realize that it’s mine. It’s almost a relief when the blindness comes, when I can’t see Matthew anymore.
“Natasha. Are you all right?”
My heart ricochets in my chest like I’ve run up ten flights of stairs. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands.
“Are you having an episode?” he asks. I can feel him moving closer, putting a concerned hand on my shoulder.
I close my eyes. All these years, I’ve relied so much on Matthew. He’s been my ally. My friend.
“Shit,” he says. “Where’s your medication?”
“The bathroom,” I mumble. Even as I say it, I remember: I’ve run out of pills.
“Okay. Don’t move, all right?”
As soon as I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall, I fumble in my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. Ruiz. How can I get a message to him? The phone feels unfamiliar in my hands. It takes me forever to find the Home button, and once I’ve pressed it, I realize I’m not sure what to do next. I can’t see what’s on the screen. When I hear Matthew coming out of the bathroom, I shove the phone back into my pocket.
I hear noises in the kitchen, cupboards opening. Running water in the sink. Then Matthew’s back in the living room, stirring the air in front of me. He pushes a cool glass into one of my hands and a small pill into the other.
“Here,” he says. “Take this.”
I clench the pill in my fist. It can’t be an Inderal. I don’t have any more of those.
“Please, Natasha. Take it. I hate seeing you like this.”
“I need to . . .” I set the water glass on the floor and then stand up, pushing past him and stumbling into the hallway that leads to the bathroom.
“Where are you going?”
My hand slides along the wall, guiding my steps. “I just need a minute,” I say. A minute out of his sight.
My hand touches the doorjamb, and I slip inside the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me.
“Natasha?” Matthew says.
It sounds like he’s still in the living room.
“I’m okay,” I call out. “I just need to splash some water on my face.”
I fumble for my phone, dropping the pill in the process. Fuck. Fuck. I have to focus. I have to get a call through to Ruiz. I try to remember the layout of the phone screen. If Ruiz was the last person to call me, I should be able to pull up the Recent Calls list and tap on his name. “Please, please,” I mutter as I begin to press the screen in what I think are the right places. It takes a few tries, but finally, I hear a call go through.
Ruiz picks up on the first ring. “Natasha?”
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the mirror.
“Hello?”
“Ruiz,” I say softly. “Matthew’s here.”
“What? Where are you?”
There’s a noise out in the hallway. Then I hear a knock on the bathroom door.
“Natasha?” Matthew says.
Fuck. I can’t say anything else, not with Matthew standing right there.
“Natasha?” Ruiz says, his voice tinny through the phone speaker. “Are you there? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Matthew,” I say, enunciating clearly. “I just need something from my bathroom cabinet.” Will Ruiz understand what I’m saying? I’m home, I’m here, come get me.
“Let me help you,” Matthew says.
The door handle turns and rattles.
My chest constricts. “I’m okay. Really.” Matthew would never do anything to hurt me, I tell myself. He would never—
Ruiz’s voice rises on the other end of the line. “I’m on my way. We’re almost back to the city—”
“Are you on the phone?” Matthew says, his voice less gentle now.
Ruiz’s voice is still coming from the phone, too loud. “Do you have the essay with you?” I press the phone against my chest to muffle the sound.
“Who are you talking to?” Matthew says.
The door handle rattles harder this time, and I jump. The phone slides out of my hand and lands with a smack on the floor. I get down on my hands and knees, sliding my hands along the tile, searching for it. I need Ruiz to stop talking. I need to end the call.
“Natasha,” Matthew says. “I don’t know what you’ve seen. What you’ve read. But you’ve got the wrong idea.”
Finally, I locate the phone and push more buttons, finally managing to silence Ruiz’s voice.
“Whatever Allie’s said about me,” Matthew says, “it’s not true.” There’s a long silence. “You have to know it’s not true.” He’s only a few feet away. The door is the only thing standing between us.
I scramble backward and sit with my back pressed against the cold tub.
“They’re coming here,” I say. “The police. They’ll be here soon.”
Suddenly, there’s a bang. Matthew has thrown his full body weight against the door. A small sound escapes my mouth.
The essay. I have to find a place to hide it before he breaks down the door. As I dig in my pocket, Matthew slams against the door again, and this time I hear a crunching noise. The lock is about to give way.
Quickly, I pull the flash drive out of my pocket and lean over the side of the tub, feeling for the drain at the bottom. After prying off the metal cover, I shove the flash drive down into the drain, praying it falls down far enough that it can’t be seen.
There’s a thud as Matthew hits the door again, and this time I hear a metallic rattle against the floor, like a screw has come loose from the door.
Shakily, I back myself into the far corner of the bathroom. I can’t seem to drag enough oxygen into my lungs. In some dark corner of my brain, I remember the protocol Dr. Rajmani taught me. Breathe for three counts in, three counts out. Then four counts in, four counts out.
But I can’t. I can’t. The next bang brings with it a splintering sound, and that’s when my throat closes up completely.
CHAPTER 57
When I regain consciousness, I know immediately that I’m not in the bathroom anymore. I’ve been propped in a sitting position against something soft but solid, my knuckles resting on what feels like carpet. I’m sitting against the side of the couch, I think. I’m in the living room.
I still can’t see anything.
From the dining area, I hear the sound of soft clattering. A zipper unzipping. The jingle of car keys. Matthew’s searching through my bag.
I shift, feeling something off kilter around my middle. I move my hands, investigating. My shirt is twisted to one side, and the pockets of my jeans have been turned inside out. Matthew’s searched me then, too, for the essay.
I hear him swear softly; then there’s a pause in his movements near the dining table.
“Natasha?”
Suddenly, I feel the warmth of him in front of me, the press of his hands on my shoulders. “Natasha, you need to tell me where the essay is.” His fingers grip too tightly, pinching my skin.
My whole body tenses. On the phone, Ruiz said, We’re almost back to the city. But that could mean he’s ten minutes away, or thirty. I lick my lips.
“You’re not well, Natasha,” Matthew is saying. “I want to get you to a doctor. But first, I need to know where that essay is.”
I turn my face to the side. “Matthew—” What I need to do is buy myself time. Time for Ruiz to get here. Time to stop Matthew from searching the bathroom and finding the flash drive in the drain.
“If the cops get ahold of it,” Matthew says, “they won’t see it for what it is. They don’t know what Allie was like. The trouble she loved to cause. That essay was like a bomb she’d rigged, to set off when it would benefit her the most.” His breath hits my cheek. “She was lying, Natasha. You know that, don’t you? You know what she was like.”
I fight off a wave of nausea and force myself to nod. “I know.” I need him to think I’m still on his side.
“Good. Good.” He shifts in front of me. “Where did you put it, Natasha? We don’t have much time.”
I swallow. There isn’t enough space to think. All I can think is that I want Matthew out of the apartment, before he searches further, before he thinks to turn the bathroom inside out. “My car,” I say, improvising. He doesn’t know my car is stranded on the side of the road in Crestline.
“Does anyone else know it’s there?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Where’s your car?” His voice is brisk now. Less panicked.
“In the parking garage.” If I can get him out of the apartment for a few minutes, maybe I’ll have time to come up with a better plan. Maybe there will be time enough for my vision to return. For me to get out of here.
But Matthew is standing up and pulling me to my feet. He guides me forward, toward what I think is the front door; then I hear a scrape as he grabs something from the kitchen table. My car keys.
“Show me.”
My feet drag against the carpet. In my head, I try to map the geography of the living room, but with nothing but Matthew’s hand on my arm to ground me, I feel like I’m balanced on a tightrope, empty space on all sides.
“I can’t. Leave me here, Matthew. I can’t walk when I’m like this.” The desperation in my voice is real. If I leave the apartment, Ruiz won’t know where to find me when he arrives. If he arrives.
But Matthew’s arm is like an iron rod against my back. I hear the doorknob turn. “No, I think it’s best that you and I stay together for now.” And from the grim humor in his voice, I know he hasn’t bought my compliant act. He knows I’m the enemy now.
I stumble as Matthew prods me toward the elevator, his steps purposeful and far too fast. As we walk, I try to track where we are in the hallway. We’re passing Abby’s apartment; we’re going by Mrs. Singh’s doormat, which catches at the edge of my shoe. That means the elevator doors are straight ahead. Before Matthew can press the button, though, something seems to spook him. He swears and abruptly changes direction, pushing through the steel door that leads to the staircase. As the door closes behind us, a rush of cold air envelops me, and I can smell the iron railings in the stairwell, the aluminum strips at the edge of each concrete stair.
Beyond the stairwell door, the elevator makes a cheerful ding—it’s stopping on my floor. Someone is arriving. Quickly, I twist away from Matthew. But as I do, my foot slides off the top stair, and I slip. My hip slams hard against the concrete step, and I cry out, but Matthew catches hold of my arms and drags me back up to the landing before I can fall farther. The pain in my hip is dazzling, and I can see its colors in my mind: scarlet, yellow, magenta.
Matthew breathes hard, his chest rising and falling against my back as he clamps one hand over my mouth. Out in the hallway, female voices chatter, loud at first and then fainter as they move down the hallway.
“That was stupid, wasn’t it?” Matthew says, his voice conversational despite his uneven breathing. He hasn’t pulled me back entirely to safety. Instead, he lets me balance unsteadily on the edge of the landing, my heels barely gaining purchase. His breath fills my ear. “You almost fell. Imagine if you fell again. My reflexes might not be so good the second time around.”
If he lets go of me, I’ll fall hard and heavy, down a long line of concrete steps. I feel his grip tighten around my shoulders and his weight shift slightly forward.
I let out a muffled cry and clutch at his shirt.
He hesitates. Then, after a long moment, he takes his hand away from my mouth and walks me back from the edge. “Well, then. No more shenanigans. Let’s do this quickly. And quietly.”
