The Bachelorette Party, page 15
I shake my head. “But it’s a small town where they live. There still might be.”
Toby tilts her head side to side in debate. “But we have one more problem. How do you explain the tattoo?” She starts half spinning in the chair again. “Neither Ryan nor the stepfather have it.”
“No,” I admit. “They don’t.”
Toby stares off, her eyes scrunching together. “What does Leigh Jones have to say about your theory?”
I clear my throat. “I haven’t exactly reached her yet.”
This is met by a look of consternation. She lets out an exorbitant sigh. “We’re not putting any more resources into this profile until you at least speak with the main witness. You got a couple months left. Get it together, Alex.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
NOW
Another shot rings out, hurting my ears.
I’m sucking the cold air, running too slowly, like a dream where you’re slogging through molasses, snail slow despite using every muscle as a mad murderer chases you.
But this time, it’s for real.
Another shot. A scream.
It takes me a second to realize I am the one screaming. Something smacks beside me, sending a cloud of snow into the air.
A bullet.
I keep going, my boots nearly getting ripped off in the deep snow. Zigzagging to make myself a harder target, I am cringing against incoming bullets, imagining the hot piercing of skin, a scattershot of pellets tunneling into my back, my thighs, my ribs. Blood filling my chest cavity.
Maybe I deserve this. If I had the knife and I hurt my friends, then getting shot would be one form of justice. My life for their lives, still not an even trade.
But I don’t stop running.
Bullets hit the snow, powder bursting all around me. I keep up a maddeningly slow pace, but every additional foot makes me a harder target. I don’t hear more gunfire, but I don’t dare turn around. Maybe Noah held her off, but she could still strike. I’m not that far out. A bullet could still hit me. Maybe not with a shotgun though? I don’t know enough about shotguns to test my theory, so I keep up my jog-running.
Soon enough, I find myself sidestepping into the driveway again. My boot prints remain from my previous trek, half filled with fresh snow. Moving back into the driveway, I step in my old footprints to ease my way, making the journey marginally faster.
It hits me, literally walking in my own footsteps, how futile this whole interlude has been. I haven’t accomplished anything except nearly get myself shot by some demented farmer’s wife.
This time, I do take a chance and glance backward. The house stands on the hill in the moonlight, forlorn and desolate, Noah and his mother gone. I slow my pace just a bit, my breath slowing too. The immediate danger has passed, and I’ll need to reserve my energy now to find Melody and Lainey.
As I look up at the moon weaving in and out of a cloud, icy wind slices my neck above my collar in the vulnerable inch of skin.
I flip open my trusty compass again. Maybe I should head back to the lodge. They could be back there waiting for me, for all I know. Or the killer could be there.
Unless …
No. I put the thought out of my mind. I really don’t think I could have done this.
I look behind me again at the depressing house and ahead at the depressingly long driveway, and let out a disconsolate sigh, smoking the freezing air. I don’t have any great options here. I just have to get back to the street.
Maybe a car will come by.
I trudge along the monotonous street.
The epinephrine from my brush with death has worn off. But I have renewed energy from the rest and warmth of the farmhouse at least, my clothes are no longer sopped, my hunger has been abated by the cookies, and a jolt of caffeine is running through my system.
My improved physical state has only worsened my mental state, however. Instead of spending every ounce of energy on focusing on staying upright, my brain can stray from its leash into dangerous territory. Visions keep popping up, and I keep trying to shut them out, like some sick game of Whac-A-Mole.
Blood soaking the sheepskin rug, dotting the pillows.
The scrunchie matted with Lainey’s hair.
The long knife blade, slick with blood.
The handle warm in my hand.
My arm lifting up and …
“Stop!” I yell at myself. Stop. Stop. Stop.
I blink my eyes to stop the visions, squeezing them shut. Then I open them again to everlasting white. Snow, snow, and more snow.
But then I see something—a little black dot in a halo of light, barely visible through the vast snow. The dot swells. Then I hear it, the buzz of an engine. I almost don’t want to wave in case I jinx it, like acknowledging this mirage might make it disappear. The black dot expands into a car.
I step toward the street, carefully this time. I was lucky to have woken up from the last fall. That concussion could have turned into an eternal sleep. As the car crawls closer and closer, I hear the rumble of the tires, the engine hum, and the squeak of the wipers. Closer and closer, until the car reveals itself to be a pickup truck, definitely not a silver sedan this time.
I give the driver an uncertain wave, and the black truck slows down and stops, the smell of hot fuel smoking the air. My heart soars. The car is stopping, actually stopping for me. I can’t believe my luck.
The window lowers, revealing a man’s face. He leans across on empty seat.
“Need a lift?” he asks.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SEPTEMBER
“Lilies?” my mom asks, as if she just said a bad word.
“I don’t know,” I grumble. I’m trying to “get it together,” as Toby put it, and don’t have time to worry about the wedding right now. I called Ryan back to double-check with him on the Bible class but didn’t hear back. I called Leigh Jones yet again without any success, and I’m planning to confront Adam Redmond on the Bible class, but surprise, surprise, he’s not answering my calls either.
And I still haven’t made any further headway on the Revelation 13:18 ADAM question. The whole thing seems like a fool’s errand. If it even is a password (which isn’t certain either), I still don’t know the matching username, email, or website.
“I thought you said you wanted roses,” my mom says, with a plaintive edge that grates.
“It’s not a big deal, Mom,” I say, examining the close-up of ADAM in the book. Maybe Adam Redmond is right about blood blocking a letter? Could it be MADAME? That makes no sense either though. “I guess Caitlyn thought they would look nice with the Rainbow Room décor. Jay did too.”
My mom doesn’t say anything, but I know what she’s thinking. And what does Alex want? But Alex doesn’t care that much.
“I’m just saying it’s not a huge deal.” I search TikTok for Eric Myers and come up with thirteen different profiles, none of which belong to him. Though they wouldn’t have had TikTok ten years ago.
“Okay, if you want lilies, then,” she says, disappointment flooding the words.
“Mom,” I say, her name a sigh. “You can look into roses. Roses would be pretty. I would love for you to research roses.”
“Oh okay, good,” my mom says, her tone suddenly cheery. Then she pauses. “Hold on, that’s the florist on the other line as we speak. Gotta go.”
She hangs up and I go back to work, investigating other email servers, Yahoo, WhatsApp, even AOL. They searched his Apple email at the trial, finding nothing incriminating. I doubt he has an extra email anyway. He isn’t exactly a computer mastermind. He wouldn’t have been changing VPNs or using an encrypted site. I’m trying out another username when Wiley takes a seat next to me.
“’Sup?” Wiley asks.
“Nada,” I answer. “Arguing with my mother over lilies versus roses.”
“I hope you decided on lilies,” Wiley says, taking a slurp of coffee. “Roses are so passé.”
“Your opinion is noted and duly ignored,” I say, pulling up the segment on the Crimeline episode about the note. Though I recall the piece being useless. All they did was insinuate and hypothesize, and add a dollop of overzealous intrigue, à la Fletcher Fox.
“Hey.” Wiley turns to me, pulling a rubber band through their hair. “What did Smokeshow have to say about the texting? And don’t tell me you ‘forgot’ to ask.”
“No, I asked him,” I say, taking a sip from my Babushka mug. “I’m an idiot. It’s just a normal SEC letter, not a Ponzi scheme or something. I just have an active imagination.”
They adjust their ponytail. “Occupational hazard, I suppose,” they say, checking their computer. Wiley’s researching a case of a wife killing her husband for a change of pace.
After some time, I finally hit upon the Revelation 13:18 ADAM portion in the Crimeline episode. The piece reads as I recalled, information-free. They just zoom in and out on the image, a camera technique both dated and nauseating. “Ugh,” I say. “This is useless.”
Take a break,” Wiley says, then pauses. They spread their arms out with a flourish and sing “Take a Break” from the Hamilton musical. Wiley never misses an opportunity to launch into a Hamilton song.
They’re still going when luckily we are by interrupted by Benji, the shy and skinny mail clerk, dropping off stacks of mail. Benji moves down intern row, and Wiley stops singing to check their mail. I, too, peruse my small pile, immediately tossing the Hawaiian cruise brochure (Caitlyn said she was sending cruise ideas, I told Jay that would lead to an immediate divorce), along with a clothes catalog.
Then I see an envelope with the address handwritten. My mind goes back to a few months ago, when Eric Myers first wrote me. But this envelope shows no return address, so it couldn’t be from him.
As my journalism professor used to say, sometimes the best tips come from unexpected places, so I tear it open, taking out the trifolded paper.
The message looks like it was written in finger paint, with large, smudged letters in a rudimentary print.
666
YOU’RE NEXT BITCH
It takes a second to realize that it’s not finger paint though.
It’s blood.
“We’ll send it for DNA,” Juanita says, holding the letter with gloves. “But it’s gonna take a bit. Two weeks at least.”
“Okay,” I say, sitting by her desk, my heart finally slowing down. “You think it’s the same person who sent the first note? With the roses?”
“Maybe. We’ll take another look at that one, but probably won’t get much further than we did before.”
I consider who could have sent it. It wouldn’t get through the prison. It could be Adam Redmond, though he would probably view such an act as beneath him. Ryan Johnson might have done it. He seems too benign, too lightweight for such a deed. But then again, he lied to me about the Bible class. And he doesn’t have an alibi for the whole night.
Of course, it could be any old Twitter bro or some sicko following the Armchair Sleuths. “What do you think?” I ask her. “Maybe I’m stirring up a hornet’s nest?”
Juanita shrugs, taping the bag shut. “Could be a false flag op too.” She offers me a water bottle, which I take.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, unscrewing the cap and taking a shaky sip.
“Pretty classic, actually. The prisoner gets a friend to send a scary message, then it looks someone else is threatened by your investigation, so the original suspect …”
“Eric Myers,” I say.
“Yes,” she answers. “Then he himself must be innocent.”
I consider it, though I don’t know how many “friends” Eric Myers has on the outside. The underdressed executive producer’s son lopes by the office, giving us an ironic salute, and we both pretend not to see him.
“Anyway,” Juanita says. “We’ll run it for fingerprints too. Get our handwriting folks involved if we need to as well.” She yawns into her fist. “Let me know if you get anything else.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up. I guess that’s about all they can do. If it’s a false flag operation, then it just points to Eric Myers again. But maybe that’s not it. Maybe I’m getting close to the truth and someone doesn’t like that.
And that just might convince Toby to give the profile a closer look.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
NOW
I nod, too dumbstruck to speak.
I don’t want to spoil this dream, to pervert it somehow. It seems too good to be true. A car came and actually stopped. I will not freeze out here. I will find my friends. Someone will finally lead us all back to safety.
“Come on in, then,” he says. The man looks about forty, with a military-style buzz cut, black hair mixed with gray. His face is stubbly, with a prominent cleft chin. “You might as well get out of this weather.”
I make a lightning-quick assessment, deciding he might or might not try to kill me, but it’s still the best option I’ve got. With a sharp click, the door unlocks, and I hobble toward it. But my ankle gives, and I nearly slip on the footrail.
“Whoa,” he says, holding out a hand for me to grab.
The gesture feels unexpectedly intimate, his hand warm and thick, even through the mitten. “Steve,” he says, to our pseudohandshake.
“Alex,” I answer, catching my breath.
My body quivers with cold, but the heat in the cab instantly envelops me. When the window whirs back up, the pine air freshener overwhelms the little space, and I cough, my lungs transitioning from bitter cold to warm chemical air. The blue digital clock reads 3:10 AM
“You okay?” he asks, pointing to my face. “Looks like your lip is swollen.”
“Yeah,” I say, holding in a cough. “I fell.”
“Hmm,” he says. The car rumbles off. “So where are you headed?” he asks. His tight black shirt covers intimidating muscles. Dog tags swing from the rearview mirror. He reminds me of an actor from some corny SEAL movie.
“I …” I don’t have a ready answer for this. I could go back to the lodge, but where does that get me? And what if he’s back? “I’m actually in a bit of trouble,” I admit, still trembling with cold. “I was hoping maybe you could take me to a police station.”
“A police station?” he repeats, sounding spooked. His large hands squeeze the steering wheel, a large boxy ring with a blue stone on his pinkie finger. Words encircle the stone. United States Army. So not a SEAL, but close enough. “Why, what’s going on?” he asks.
I pause. I don’t know if I can trust this guy, but I don’t really have a choice right now. “Someone hurt my friends,” I say.
His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean, hurt your friends?”
“We … we were staying in a Vrbo and someone came,” I say, but then start coughing. “I don’t know exactly what happened but … they took my friends.” The words come out between fits of coughing. “And I went to this farmhouse and …”
“Wait a second,” he says, putting his hand up in a stop motion. “Calm down. Take a breath.” He mimics deep breathing for me, in the most patronizing way possible. “Why don’t we start at the beginning here?”
“Okay,” I say, slowing the words down. The heat pours out of the vents, turning from luxuriating to sweltering, and I unzip my coat. “My friends and I were staying in this hunting lodge. And we had too much to drink.” I don’t tell him about the White Widow, unsure if he would approve, given his Army background. “It’s my bachelorette party,” I explain.
“Congratulations,” he says, with a nod.
“Thank you,” I answer, getting the perfunctory polite exchange out of the way. “And I woke up in the bedroom shower. I don’t even know how I got there. Maybe … sleepwalking or something.” I also don’t tell him about the REM Behavior Disorder—too much detail. “And when I went back into the main room, there was blood all over.” The hot air dries out my nostrils, stinging my sinuses. “And my friends were missing.”
His eyes widen. “You say there was blood?”
I nod.
His thumb thumps on the steering wheel. “How many people were at this party?” he asks, in a straightforward military logistical mode.
“Just two. Lainey and Melody. My best friends.”
“Okay.” His hands rest on the steering wheel in a perfect two o’clock, reminding me bizarrely of driving lessons with my father. My throat tickles with another cough. “And they were gone,” he verifies. “And you saw blood on the premises.”
“Lots of blood on the premises,” I say, repeating the word, which conjures up a bad cop show. “We’re staying at the Hobbes Lodge.”
He frowns with disdain. “The 666 Lodge? You one of those crime junkie tourists or something?”
The heater blasts my cheek. “It was just … for the party. They thought it would be funny.”
“Young girl gets slaughtered,” he says, leaning over the steering wheel. “Hilarious.”
I pull at the collar of my sweater, my neck sweating. “No, it isn’t funny. You’re right. But … nevertheless, they might need help. That’s why I wanted to go to the police station.”
He nods but doesn’t answer. I have no idea whether he’s driving in that direction or not. He taps his fingers on the wheel, his ring clacking.
“Or if you have a phone, maybe I could just call 911?” I ask.
Again, he doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead, his expression undecided.
It strikes me then that I don’t know this guy at all. Maybe he has a reason to avoid the police.
“Listen,” I say, swallowing with a dry throat. “Forget about the police station. All I need is a phone. I can make the call. You don’t even have to get involved.”
His gaze shifts from the road to me. “It’s coming from my phone number though.”
“We’ll put it on private,” I say. “And you can just drop me off at a corner somewhere around here. I’ll tell them where to pick me up.”
He bites his lip, seeming to consider this. “How do I even know you’re telling the truth?” He turns to me again, the streetlights glaring off his brown eyes. “You don’t have a spot of blood on you.”
