The Bachelorette Party, page 26
“Okay. Well, actually,” he says, “I have to tell you something else.” He takes a deep breath, then exhales into the phone. “I haven’t been completely honest with you. I didn’t want to worry you but … we did lose some money on a crypto deal. Eli’s not happy, and he’s leaving. And he’s one of my biggest clients so … we might be taking a hit. I didn’t give you the whole truth when you asked. And I should have. I should have told you everything.”
I smile into the phone. After everything I’ve just been through, that seems like a very little deal. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll work out.”
He doesn’t respond though.
“Jay?”
Still no response, so I look at the phone to see the call has dropped. I’m trying his number again when I notice a voicemail. I figure it’s from Jay from earlier, but an unexpected number shows up. I push play, putting the phone up to my ear.
“Hey, Alex. This is Leigh. Leigh Jones.” A long pause comes over the phone. “It’s probably nothing, but I remembered something. You asked if I knew Adam Redmond and some other folks from anything. I realized it later. I didn’t know the other people, her boyfriend and whoever else. But I used to have choir in that church. So, I’d see Mr. Redmond sometimes, leading a class. I never went in, but we’d chat in the hallways sometimes. It’s probably nothing, as I said, but … it’s a connection, I guess.” A sigh comes over the message. “Anyway, I got the other two-and-a-half K. Thanks a lot. I hope your project goes well.”
I stare at the phone, shocked.
That’s it, I think. There’s the connection. Leigh Jones knew Adam Redmond. And Adam Redmond was obsessed with the Revelation passage. So, after all this, it’s the stepfather? Not Eric Myers?
I’m calling Leigh Jones to get more information when a knock sounds at the door. I twist my head around to see who it is but don’t see anyone in the windows.
Lainey was probably right. It’s probably Esther coming to collect her money. The thought is beyond aggravating. I picture her tall, stooped figure, her cloudy blue eyes. I really don’t want to face her right now.
The doorbell rings again.
“Coming,” I moan, getting off the couch.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
NOW
I open the door, squinting at the sun.
It isn’t Esther but Noah who stands on the doorstep. He gives me a shy smile, his hands dug into his pockets. For a moment, I get a flash back to him as a fourteen-year-old, cowed by the courtroom proceedings. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back. The interaction feels awkward already. I’m not sure what sort of conversation we’re supposed to have. We’re not really strangers or friends. And he has just lied to me all night while his mother tried to shoot me.
He peeks in the door. “Your friends around?”
“They went over to your house. They were … um … paying your mom, I think.”
“Oh,” he says, befuddled. “Shit. She told me I was supposed to come here. I don’t even think she’s home.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Wires crossed maybe.” As he keeps standing there, I realize my rudeness. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, remembering he actually owns the house.
“Sure, thanks.” He walks in and takes a look around.
I must admit, they cleaned the place up pretty good. We stand there stiffly for a moment.
“I know this is a really messed-up situation,” he says. “But … I’m sorry for lying to you and all.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, leading him into the family room. “It’s not your fault.”
He wipes his boots on the rug, then follows me. “I really didn’t want to but … your friends thought you’d think it was funny so …”
“No problem, really.”
I sit on the couch, and he takes the sofa chair. He puts his hands on his knees, and I feel like I should be offering him coffee. Again, an awkward silence fills the room.
“I … I don’t have any money on me,” I stammer. “My friends should be back though, if your mom isn’t there. Or I could Venmo you maybe …”
He chuckles with an eye roll. “My mom doesn’t get Venmo. But … no worries. We’ll figure something out.” He takes off his beanie hat, his hair springing up underneath it.
“And I’m sorry for …” I struggle with the right apology in my half-drunk state of exhaustion. “Obviously I had no idea they were meeting with you. But I know you’ve worked hard for your recovery. I didn’t want to trigger anything.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, his smile forgiving. “No worries. It was a long time ago.”
Sitting there with the coffee table between us feels like a bad first date. Though I don’t know why I’m even thinking that way, with my wedding a month away. Putting my hand in my pocket, I startle to feel his paper note, which I had completely forgotten.
“I think you gave this to me,” I say, pulling it out to show him. “Did you really have something to tell me? Or … was that just part of the act?”
“No,” he says, scratching his hair. “I mean, I don’t have a ton to say. I just thought if you wanted an interview on him or something, I could do that. I knew him through Nicole a little. Not a lot but …”
So, Noah wants to be on Crimeline too. I don’t know why I find this refreshingly disappointing. I probably should interview him to fill out the profile, but I can barely remember my own name right now.
“I’m kind of beat,” I say. “But maybe I can call you next week?”
“Sure,” he says, with a noncommittal shrug, then spots the new 666 book on the coffee table. “Whoa. I’ve never seen this one before.” He reaches down, then checks with me. “Do you mind?”
“Of course,” I say, leaning back, stifling a yawn as he flips through the pages. “It’s out of print. It was a present from Lainey.” My body aches with exhaustion, overwhelmed with the desire to curl up and sleep. I wish Lainey and Melody would get back already and pay the man.
Unexpectedly, he laughs. “I don’t know why my mom gave them this picture. I look so stupid.”
He brings the book over to me, and I move closer to look, as if we’re old friends going through a photo album. He’s examining the same photo they’ve always used of him, at his desk in his room, with his unmade bed, video console, and soda cans all over, the scene a sort of biomarker for typical high school male. They zoomed in on this one though, emphasizing his unkempt, just-woke-up-on-a-weekend appearance.
“You look fine,” I say, politely. “Just … young.”
“I guess it’s dumb to even care about it at this point,” he says, about to close the book.
“Wait,” I say, jumping forward on the couch. The close-up reveals a detail you couldn’t see in the other photo. The monitor shows his video game midplay, a soldier rappelling with a machine gun in hand, fiery bullets flying.
And in the corner, Noah’s avatar and gaming name.
Revelation 13:18 MADMAN
A tingle spreads across my neck.
Not Adam. Not Madam.
MADMAN.
Suddenly, names bubble up in my head from Twitter. The names behind the obnoxious comments.
TNT
And Tom.
Thomas Noah Thompson.
“What did you see?” he asks, peering closer.
“Oh, nothing. I just thought it was something.” I slap the book shut and stand up from the couch, stretching my arms up to appear absolutely casual. “My friends will be back any minute, probably.” I start walking slowly to the door so he will follow. “You don’t have to stay though. I’m sure they hooked up with your mom by now.”
“Oh, sure,” he says, looking surprised at the sudden end of our interaction. Still, he politely stands up as well.
“I’m really exhausted. But … I’ll call you about that interview next week, okay?” I walk in front of him and open the door.
He takes a step toward the door. “Sure,” he says, with a puzzled smile.
He takes another step.
But then he shuts the door.
And he locks it.
Slowly, he turns to face me. “Maybe we should have that interview right now instead.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
DECEMBER
Dear Alex,
I hope you don’t mind the handwritten letter. It sounds weird, but you’re the closest thing I have to a friend.
They found the Engineer’s plans. So, he’s in the hole, and might even get more time. Luckily, he didn’t say anything about me. When the guards asked me, I said I thought he was joking about it. So far they haven’t asked me any more.
But that was my only hope really.
It was a stupid, unrealistic hope, I get that now. And even if we did get out, somehow we’d screw up. I’m not a master criminal. The problem is, I’m not a criminal at all. Just no one believes me. After our last talk, I could tell you didn’t either. I don’t blame you for that. I’m sorry if I scared you. I was just really upset and didn’t handle it well.
You were my only chance. And if you won’t push it, or bring attention to the case again, I might as well be dead. I’ll just spend my life dying in here.
I know I said something wrong about her necklace. I don’t know what I said exactly, but I remember that necklace really well. It was her favorite.
I didn’t kill Nicole. I didn’t kill the other girls. And I have no idea who did. I wish I did, for their family’s sake.
I see their faces sometimes, when I close my eyes at night. Photos from the trial that they showed. School photos, with their hair just brushed. I didn’t kill them, but they haunt me anyway.
By the time you get this, I won’t be around.
But I want you to know that I appreciate everything that you did for me. Or tried to do.
See you someday, on the other side.
Warmly,
Eric Myers
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
NOW
I run to the kitchen, but he gets there first.
He holds up the long kitchen knife, shiny and clean now after Melody washed it.
Could this be part of the prank? Maybe my roommates planted the picture in the book somehow?
“Listen,” I say, “if this is part of the game, I’m done. Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll pay you more to stop.”
“It’s not part of a game,” he says, in an eerily calm voice, moving closer to me.
I back up again. I don’t think he’s acting. But that’s what he would say, right? Realistic and nasty, Melody’s exact words. In the second it takes to debate this, the shine of metal flashes.
The breathtaking shock of pain that follows this seems unrelated somehow. The stab so fast, it appears impossible to connect them. But a surge of blood pops up on my arm, immediately soaking my sleeve. I grab it with my other hand, trying to stop the flow. The pain overwhelms, vibrates. An ice pick through muscle and nerve.
“Jesus,” I say, staggering backward. No, this is not part of a game.
“You think this is so funny, huh?” he bellows, darting the knife out again. I just barely avoid the knife point this time. “You and your bitchy friends?”
The next one hits. A punch of grueling pain. Hot blood escaping.
“Please,” I say.
A vision floats by—my body overlaying Nicole White’s body. The precise, bone-deep understanding now how twenty stab wounds will feel. Knife slicing skin, opening like soft leather. I don’t think I could take it.
“Why are you doing this?” I jump past another swipe.
“Why am I doing this?” he asks, spittle coming off his lips. The boy in the courtroom has morphed into a devil. “You made me do this!”
“What … what do you mean?” I ask, hoping to buy some time with questions. When he’s talking, he’s not stabbing.
His eyes redden. “I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t mean to. But she stopped talking to me.” He keeps walking toward me, and I keep backing away. “Because of some stupid shit on a video game. Okay, I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. But it was a fucking game!” He sounds incredulous, newly incensed at the injustice. “And I apologized. I tried to explain the Revelation thing too. It was a joke from her dad’s class. But she wouldn’t listen. And … I got mad.”
“You were in the Bible class,” I say, mainly to myself. I bump into the love seat and nearly stumble. “But what about Leigh Jones? What did she have to do with it?”
He steps forward and I step back. His arm remains fully cocked, gripping the knife. “Nothing, really.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, backing up.
“Just that, if I was gonna kill Nicole, I had to get someone to take the blame. Then I remembered Eric Myers, with that tattoo he thought was so cool and scary,” he sneers.
Another stab. Another feint.
“You planned it, then? To kill Nicole?”
This belies his claim that he got so mad he just attacked her. It wasn’t spur of the moment. Premeditated, not manslaughter.
“I did a good job on it too. I made sure I got every detail right,” he says, ignoring me. “Made sure she’d see it when I attacked her. And it worked. They nailed Eric Myers for it.” A bitter laugh comes out of him. “It took a while though. No one paid attention to her. I should have picked a White girl.”
The blood from my arm pours out gentle spurts with each heartbeat. With every step, my head feels lighter. I don’t know how long I have left before I lose too much blood.
“Why the other girls, then?” I ask. My knee hits the coffee table, and blood drips from my palm down my wrist. “If you already got Eric Myers to take the fall.”
He doesn’t answer right away, tracking me with his eyes. “That was going to be it though. Just them, then I was going to be done with all that.” He takes another step forward. “I got better in rehab. They talked about it, the higher power. And every time I thought about killing someone, I thought about that. And … it actually worked. I couldn’t believe it. I was getting better. I was getting fucking better,” he repeats, tears in his voice. “Then you and your friends had to come back here.”
The next swipe catches my palm, fire blowing through my skin.
“Please,” I say again. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Of course you will,” he says, simply.
I back up toward the fireplace when, without warning, he plunges the knife into my thigh and I shriek in pain. He pulls it out and my leg buckles. My shoulder hits the hearth.
“They’ll arrest you,” I say, losing my breath.
“Nah,” he says.
“DNA,” I manage to say, sputtering.
“All over the place,” he says. “I own it.” Then he shrugs. “And my mom will cover for me anyway. She did last time.”
I am lying half on the hearth and see my mittens drying by the fireplace. Is this my last vision? Stupid mittens? Time dissipates. This is the body they will find. This is how you will die.
Generalized pallor and evidence of exsanguination, multiple stab wounds, the irides were hazel and corneae were cloudy.
My vision blurs in and out. Ashy, dying fire. Mittens by the fireplace. Charred logs.
Charred logs.
He raises his arm again, but I manage to twist away just in time. With every gasp of life left in me, I reach for the still burning log. I grip it, not even feeling the embers burning my skin, and spinning around, I thrust the flaming end right into his face.
“Argh!” He lets out a guttural moan, staggering back. “You blinded me,” he shrieks, sounding almost insulted by the idea. He drops the knife with a clatter, then falls to his knees. “You stupid bitch. You blinded me.”
I try to kick the knife away, but my energy has bled out.
Eric Myers is innocent. But I can’t let the world know like he wanted me to. The story will die with me. My vision fades, tunnels. Graying in and out.
Noah has somehow found the knife, and I see the arm up again. A horror movie reel. A Crimeline episode.
“Son.”
The word floats into the room. We both turn to the sound, my eyes flickering open and closed. His mother stands in the doorway with a shotgun pointed right at him this time.
“It’s over,” she says.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
DECEMBER NOW
I don’t remember much about the hospital.
Hours and days erased.
I remember bits and pieces only. Dizzying, squeaking wheels, bouncing pain. A tube gagging me. Cold water in my veins. Hands rolling me.
Mostly I slept, or halfslept, through a haze of pain medication.
I remember only glimpses of being awake. My mom putting a blanket on me. My dad (my dad?) crying and saying I’m sorry. A thought slipping through my sedated, misfiring brain. He was a bad husband, but he was not a bad father.
Jay yelling at the doctors to help me. Someone help her, please! Why aren’t they helping her? Melody fixing up my hair. Lainey squeezing my hand so hard that it hurt. Even Toby coming by with flowers. Nurses coming and going like ghosts. Beeping and whirring machines.
And one time, Lissa sitting on my bed, her hands on mine, a calm warmth seeping through me, then seeing her fade away. My mouth choking, trying to say her name. Lissa. Lissa. And my mom resting her forehead on mine, saying, Shh … it’s okay … she’s okay now. And I tried to say her name again, and she said, It’s time to let her go, Alex. I need to you to stay with me now. And somehow, I did that. I stayed in the room, and I let her go.
I don’t remember: the epinephrine. The defibrillator. The units and units of blood. (Thank you, anonymous, good people. Thank you.) Pouch after pouch after pouch of saline hung up on the IV pole, infusion rate wide open.
I don’t remember the words hypovolemic shock. Versed. Propofol.
These are words I learned afterward at Melody’s house. When I was studying my case, reading two hundred pages of my medical records, researching myself like a Crimeline intern.
“Throw away or keep?” Melody asks, holding up red, glossy Louboutin shoes.
