The Bachelorette Party, page 7
With a groan, I dig around the snow a bit, not seeing anything. I hate to waste matches I might need later, but it’s going to be a needle in a haystack, or in this case a match in a foot of snow, so I grumblingly take out another match. Holding it carefully this time, I strike it and get a flame.
Which immediately dies out in a flash of wind.
“Damn it.” I try again, carefully shielding the match with my cupped hand and holding it up to the lock. I hold it as long as I can before the flame burns my fingers, then quick jam the key in, and … in it slides.
Smooth as butter.
I almost can’t believe it; something finally worked.
I don’t have time for a victory dance in case the damn thing freezes in there. I twist it and have to yank the handle a few times to wrench the door open, as the frame iced over as well. “Finally,” I mutter to myself, and put the backpack in the seat next to me.
After adjusting the rearview and pulling the seat forward from Lainey’s ten-foot distance, I slot the key in and turn.
Nothing.
Not even a putter. Not even a squeak.
“No, no, no, no, no …” I squeal. I turn the key again. And again.
I bash the wheel with the heel of my hand, but only a pathetic soft bleat emerges from the horn. Feeling tears coming, I lay my head on the cold, stiff wheel.
My breath comes out in puffs. Pocketing the keys, I grab my backpack off the seat and reluctantly climb out of the car. I don’t have the luxury of self-pity right now.
I have forty-eight hours.
I have to get to the street. That’s my only plan, and it’s not a great plan, but it’s all I got. If I can get to the street, maybe a car will pass me, or I’ll find a house along the way. Just get to the street. Get to the street.
I tell myself this with each grueling step, and it hasn’t even been that long yet. Twenty steps, maybe thirty steps. I’m in terrible shape. My sporadic yoga has not helped my stamina. My heavy thighs ache, and I’m absurdly short of breath.
I wish I had Jay’s self-discipline, waking up at 5:00 AM to run every day. He urged me to come along with him, promising to take breaks and only go for a half mile. Lainey tried too. To help me after breaking up with Chris. She took me to buy running shoes and jogged next to me, keeping up encouraging patter and running backward, while I could barely breathe. It was my first and last time. After that, I gave her my go-to line: “I’ll run if there’s a bear chasing me.” My running shoes sit in the corner still new and unused, chastising me.
Lainey’s pillow, soaked with blood. Her hair on the knife.
“No,” I yell at myself.
I keep walking, my toes tingling and frozen.
Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her.
Think about something else. Who could have done this?
Of course, there was the text from last night sweetly wishing me a nice bachelorette party and hoping I might die. I know who must have sent it, but that’s a dead end. There’s no way they could have done this.
So Chris shoots to the very top of the list. The ex.
It’s always the ex.
I’m ashamed to admit that Chris was my first true love. And he fooled me for a while. Narcissists are like that, con men. I saw him as intense, misunderstood, my very own James Dean. Things were always up and down with Chris, and that volatility sucked me in, intoxicated me. And the sex was off the charts.
The coercion was more subtle, baked into his bad-boy persona. It was never physical, not at first. He would text me all the time or call during meetings. When I would complain, he would say I was reading too much into it. He’d send me flowers and we’d have ferocious sex, and things would work out again. The word gaslighting is overused nowadays, but he could teach a master class. I was imagining it, always.
I took it upon myself to fix him somehow, to make him more loving and less jealous. But that never ends well, and in this case, it ended with him choking me after one particularly vicious argument, leaving a swath of purple bruises on my neck.
That very day, I was examining Crimeline crime photos for a different case and noticed the bruises, the almost flowery, florid fingerprints. I looked at my own bruises on my neck and realized that could be me one day. A Crimeline story.
So, I finally broke up with him.
Lainey and Melody told me I should have dumped his ass way before. They were right, of course. I know about abusive red flags, and they were everywhere. Then he stopped bothering me. Not after the restraining order, but after I got together with Jay. There are certain rules of engagement, after all. Abusing a woman is one thing. Abusing another man’s property is another.
And anyway, this wouldn’t be his MO. Chris loathes me, every single cell of me. Still, he once puked during a gory movie scene. He would be too squeamish for knives. If anything, he’d buy a gun and shoot us, and then himself. Then he could be both dramatic and consequence free. That’s Chris.
Could it be Chris? Yes, it could be. But I don’t think it is.
Who else could it be though? I would blame Eric Myers, but he’s in prison.
Which means maybe he is innocent after all, and the real killer has been out there this whole time. Maybe I was right to doubt his guilt, even after his slipup, and it’s another suspect from my investigation. Or maybe it’s someone new, a copycat killer.
Or maybe it was you.
You should never have smoked the White Widow.
“Nonononono,” I murmur, and keep walking.
Walking and walking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JUNE
The view dizzies me.
It should be romantic, the skyline over sherbet-colored clouds. But it unsettles me somehow, miles of concrete, glass, and metal, the buildings haphazardly scrunched together.
Flying into Vermont, you can see the earth, vast fields and trees underneath you. Gradients of white in the winter, a hundred greens in the summer, and in the autumn, clusters of reds, oranges, and yellows that almost look artificial, like trees from a model train. But you know you are landing on earth, solid earth.
Up here from the sixty-fifth floor of the Rainbow Room, you cannot see even a speck of land. The buildings appear to have sprouted like a strange cement fungus, taking over the earth and the sky. We sit at an oversized round table, too big for two but perfect for a tasting. Caitlyn, Jay’s executive assistant, arranged it, having taken it upon herself to become our wedding planner, much to my (and my mother’s) chagrin. On some level, I know my fear at this height may be a metaphor for my fear of something else, i.e., getting married. But I suppress the thought. A tasting at the Rainbow Room for my wedding should be cause for celebration, not panic.
“You think it’s true?” Jay asks, a flake of spanakopita landing on his plate.
“What?” I ask, turning away from the window, yanked back into the room with the gaudy chandelier, shifting pink lights above us, and the parquet wooden floor beneath us.
“What you said,” Jay responds, his eyes scrunched in question. “About the confession. You really think it was forced?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I sip the champagne, bubbles tingling on my tongue. “I don’t know, to be honest. The only thing is … his ears weren’t swollen at all.”
Jay nods, appearing to think this through. “What did he have to say to that?”
I debate another spanakopita triangle, but with imminent bridal dress shopping, hold off. “He said they knew how to hit him just right, so they didn’t bruise or swell or anything.”
Jay downs the rest of his champagne. “Sounds bloody convenient.”
“Yeah, I know. And he said the doctor basically lied because she didn’t like him. So she said his ears looked fine.”
He snorts and I agree, it sounds fanciful.
A waiter comes over with merlot, showing Jay the maroon-black bottle with a simple and elegant white label. Simple doesn’t mean cheap though. I caught a glimpse of the price on the menu. Two hundred seventeen dollars. (Let me repeat, two hundred seventeen dollars!) To Jay, that isn’t all that expensive. He goes through the tasting rigmarole. After twirling the red wine, Jay takes a sip and nods in approbation, then the waiter nods smartly back and pours, the wine glugging into the glass. I spread my hand over my own glass. The champagne already has me lightheaded.
Jay takes another sip as the waiter leaves. “Cracking,” he says. “I’ll have to tell Caitlyn to get the name of this one.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, sick of hearing her name in any association with the wedding. Lainey and Melody call her the c-word. Not the actual c-word, just “the c-word.”
“How are things with you?” I ask, to change the subject from Caitlyn. The sherbet clouds turn muddy outside. “I always bore you with my stuff. You never talk about your stuff.”
“My stuff?” Jay puts the wine down, leaving a rim of red on his lips. He looks oddly like an oversized toddler who’s been playing with Mom’s lipstick. “My stuff is fascinating. You wouldn’t believe how predictive analytics set up my bid-ask spread today.”
I have to laugh. “Yeah, that does sound exciting.”
“Almost as thrilling as serial killers,” he says, then looks up as two plates are delivered to the table. Salmon with a beurre blanc and risotto, and a filet mignon with asparagus and creamy, mustard-colored béarnaise. A trickle of blood pools under the steak.
“Hey,” he asks, picking up his fork and knife. “Did you look at the invitation samples yet?”
“No,” I admit. The smell of fish mixed with béarnaise turns my stomach. “You know, with the profile and everything but … I will. I promise. I will.” I don’t tell him Caitlyn has already emailed me twice about it.
“We still have some time,” he says, the knife squeaking on the plate. He takes another sip of wine, then looks around the room with a searching gaze.
“Straight back and to the left,” I answer his unspoken question. I already hit their impressive bathroom full of marble and mirrors, copper trough sinks with country club paper towels, and everything buffed just so.
“Cheers,” Jay says, then stands up and heads that way.
As he strides off, women from two tables away check him out. They meet my eyes briefly and smile, caught out. But I understand the look, the unspoken question.
What is he doing with you?
And I get it. I once asked him point blank what he sees in me, not as a fish for compliments, just a genuine question. I’m not eye-candy material, more muscular than thin, pretty, but not the pretty that he could afford.
Objectively, he could have done better.
He gave me a look and said, “You have no idea how fucking sexy you are, Alex.” I still smile when I think of that.
While I wait, classical music plays overhead, mixed with the tinkling of cutlery. A shriek of drunken laughter shoots across the room from a table full of women wearing crowns—a bachelorette party maybe. Lainey and Melody have been hinting about that, but so far I’ve held them off.
He seems to be taking a while, and I’m checking my watch when his phone rattles on the table, vibrating with the ringer off. Eli’s name scrolls across the top of the screen. After a spate of angry buzzes, the phone silences.
Then a text shows up, again, from Eli.
Did you take care of her?
I stare at the screen, my Crimeline brain going into overdrive. Did you take care of her? The text fades away.
My mind blazes as Jay appears back at the table.
“Those bathrooms are something.” Settling back in his chair, he looks at me. His eyes flicker a marble blue in the candlelight. “Is everything okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.” He rests his hulking elbows on the table.
“I’m … I’m okay.” I rub my chin, nervously. “Someone called you though.”
“Oh,” he says, grabbing his phone.
Just then, the waiter returns with a huge tray of desserts. “Are you ready for the best part?” he asks, with a fawning smile.
“Wow. That cheesecake looks good,” I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “Doesn’t it?”
Jay looks up from the text, his frown morphing into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Cheesecake,” he says, pushing his phone to the side. “My favorite.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NOW
I walk, sweat dripping into my eyes, the salt stinging them. The backpack strains my back, digging into my shoulders. I decide the Hershey bar can be my treat, my incentive. If I can get to the street, I’ll allow myself one square. Okay, two squares, I think, negotiating against myself. I’ll allow myself two squares, but that’s it. And only if I can get to the street.
This idiotic agreement keeps me going.
I let my mind wander, fly above me, watching me. I can hear my boots crunching the snow, my ragged breathing and the wind whistling in the trees. The snow drifts up sometimes, and I keep walking through the whiteout. It feels like I’m in outer space somewhere, on the moon maybe. It almost confuses me then that a full moon hangs above us, not below us. The wind rolls the snow, wheeling across the fields like prairie grass.
I flip out the compass without using my flashlight, the face just visible in the moonlight. The light is already dim and iffy, and I want to save the batteries as much as I can.
Northeast.
The compass has become a trustworthy friend in my hand, a security blanket, even though I don’t really know how to follow it. I know what northeast means, but not intuitively, not in my bones. I’ve done hikes, too many with my birdwatching parents when I was younger (and they were happy watching birds together). But I never really paid attention.
Jay and I went camping in the Adirondacks one weekend, strapped down with all his expensive gear. He would flip out the compass and make subtle direction changes to get to our campsite. He’d been trained in survival, living in Australia. You don’t mess around in the bush, he told me once. So I didn’t worry about it. I trusted him, implicitly. In the back of my mind, I knew we always had Google Maps, should we get really lost. I never followed a compass for real, when my life depended on it.
Wind swoops in, tearing my eyes. Sweat slicks my shirt. My head aches with cold, my scalp tense and sore. My body feels worn, dragged down by a heavy load. I don’t remember the driveway being this long. Sure, long for a driveway, but a half mile at most. Then again, we were driving, not trudging through snow in zero-degree weather.
I look back toward the lodge, catching my breath, the cold air singeing my lungs. The tips of my fingers tingle and throb. Maybe I should just go back. I got this far, I can just go back. Then I could wait out the night and search for them again. The weather will be better in the morning. I turn to face the other direction, eying the road back to the lodge. My knees wilt, my energy sapped. I take a step of surrender back toward the lodge.
But then I stop.
Forty-eight hours and they are dead, if they aren’t dead already. And if I did this, I can’t run away from it. I need to own up to it and find them. Either way, there is nothing for me in the lodge, except blood and carnage. I have no choice but to keep going.
Hunger grips my stomach, and I decide to have a square of chocolate. Just one to help me continue. Flipping my backpack off, I start unzipping the side pocket. But I stop again.
No. That was not the deal.
I think of Jay talking to his son. That was not the deal, bud. Xbox after your homework is done. I remember thinking, how will I know that? I’m twenty-six. How will I know how to raise a twelve-year-old? Jay said I’d be a natural, but I wasn’t sure. The specter of years with Greg—summer vacations, first crushes, school plays, SATs—riddled my nerves. I figured I would get a book on it, but I haven’t gotten a chance to do that yet.
Stop, I tell myself. That’s not important right now. You have to get to the street. That’s all that matters right now. And you will not back down. You will not stop until you get there.
I stomp my feet and slap my hands together to get the blood moving again.
And I keep walking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JULY
“You’re quiet today,” Wiley observes, typing with lightning speed. Wiley was an administrative assistant at a law office before this gig and boasts an eighty-words-per-minute rate.
“Am I usually really loud?” I ask, searching for Noah Thompson’s phone number without any success. He’s not on any social media, though he could be savvy, using an alias. I might have to dig through some of my secret people-search sites to find him.
“Well, you’re usually verbal at least,” Wiley says, and I snort-laugh at this.
I don’t say any more, however, having decided to put Eli’s text out of my mind for now. It’s none of my business anyway. The question sounds nefarious, only because I have a Crimeline brain and because it comes completely out of context. Did you take care of her? could refer to anything. “Take care of” doesn’t have to be a euphemism for threatening or killing. It could actually mean helping someone. It could refer to a client from the hedge fund with outstanding questions. It could be asking about Caitlyn, or some regulator with concerns. It could mean anything. Plus, I don’t trust Eli. So whatever he’s asking Jay to do, it doesn’t mean Jay would actually do it.
And it definitely doesn’t have to refer to me.
Why would Jay need to take care of me?
I don’t have time to worry about it anyway. Toby already nudged me about the profile. I was embarrassed to say I still hadn’t spoken with the main witness, only gotten bullied by Twitter bros and a farmer’s wife.
I check my phone to see I have an hour before my planned lunch date with Lainey and Melody.
Since I can’t reach anyone on the phone, I decide to peruse the court files.
Lawyer: “Can you state your name for the record?”
Noah: “Thomas Noah Thompson.”
