by T. L. Keary
“And she pinned it all on her sister,” Davis says, disgust dripping from his tone. He leans back in his seat, looking like he could be sick, too. “She really is a psychopath.”
My eyes drop to Charity’s picture. I take a few deep breaths, wracking my brain for any particular memories of her. But there’s nothing specific. Just her presence. “Davis, she isn’t just crazy, she isn’t just obsessed.” I look over at him and in his eyes, I see the understanding, the darkness. “She’s dangerous.”
Davis crosses his arms over his chest, and in his eyes, I see his wheels turning.
“I think we need to go to the police now,” I say. I was scared down in the bunker. I knew that I was going to die.
But then I was out. And I knew that somehow things were going to be okay.
But now I am scared again.
Because this woman is capable of murder, and she doesn’t even feel responsible.
“We don’t have enough evidence,” he says, though I can tell he hates saying the words.
“They can run a DNA test,” I say, hope and action making my voice rise. “They can test mine, they can test hers. It’s right in Ezra’s bedroom, just laying on the floor.”
“Why would they run a DNA test when they see no probable reason, Sawyer?” Davis says, sitting forward. “You’re going to look crazy, asking them to run your own DNA, and you could be bringing them the DNA of anyone. Unless you have her right next to you, showing them what’s going on, they’re not going to see a reason. And without Ezra being in provable, obvious danger, no red flags are going up. He went away with her willingly this weekend.”
“So, we’re exactly in the same place,” I state, hating that his logic is right. “We’re solving this on our own?”
Davis lets out a hard breath through his nose and his eyes wander through the house as if he’s going to find the answers. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. For now. But I do know that when we go to the police, we have to have enough evidence they can’t delay and can’t deny. Because if she really is capable of trying to burn those girls alive, and throwing you to rot in a bunker, Ezra will be in serious danger as soon as she’s tipped off. So will you, Sawyer.”
My head raises back up to meet Davis’ eyes. I’ve only been scared for Ezra ever since I got out of that bunker. But I’m the one walking around wearing the same face.
But now Davis knows, too.
“She can’t find out you know,” I say. “Or you will be in danger ,too.”
His expression changes, his color paling just slightly. “It might already be too late for that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, dread creeping into the back of my throat.
“I didn’t know she wasn’t you, but everything just seemed off, and you’d called me before,” he says. “So I was…suspicious. And I had a little fun making her squirm. I wasn’t exactly nice. And when she ate the gluten, I called her out on it, let her know I thought something was wrong when Ezra’s back was turned.”
“Shit,” I breathe. I shake my head.
There are now targets on all three of us.
“Whatever we’re going to do now, we need to move fast,” I say, my eyes sliding back to Davis.
He nods, sitting forward and grabbing his phone. “I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter Nineteen
While Ezra is finishing scaling the fish, I tell him I’m going to grab a jacket. With a contented smile on my face, I walk back to the tent.
It’s been another perfect day. We spent most of the day hiking to this waterfall and swam naked in the pool down below it. We didn’t stay in for too long, it was freezing. But it had been the perfect way to spend a day. For the last hour, we’ve been fishing in the river. I caught two, Ezra caught one, and now he’s getting them ready for our dinner.
I unzip the tent and step inside, zipping it closed behind me. I rummage through my duffel, reaching for the toiletry bag on the side. At the very bottom, I grab the pin, being careful not to prick myself.
I don’t even have to look through Ezra’s bag. He left the strip of condoms lying on the ground next to the air mattress.
Contentedly, I hum to myself as I carefully set to poking tiny holes into each and every single one.
I’m very regular. Like clockwork, five days out of the month, it’s your textbook period. Several ovulation tests have proven me very fertile, even though I’m now thirty-one.
With any luck and according to my monthly cycle, I could be pregnant in the next few days.
I just need Ezra available, all day long, at any time, to give us as many opportunities as possible. I need him well rested and relaxed. I need him available.
So there will be no working for him for the next four days.
We won’t be returning home to Snohomish until sometime on Wednesday. I have a plan.
We’ll find an ultra-flat tire Monday morning when there are no other campers around to help us out, and we’re in a rural enough camp area there is no camp host to help us out. But by Wednesday, someone will be around who can give us a ride, or will have a pump, and we’ll make it home eventually.
It won’t hurt a thing if we’re stuck here all week. It just gives us even more of a chance to conceive.
Not to mention the time together.
The job complete, I return the condoms to their place and hide the pin once more in my bag.
I imagine our child together. I imagine how happy Ezra will be when I tell him we’re starting a family. He’ll be the best father.
I grab my sweater and pull it over my head. I exit the tent and walk back down to the picnic table. Ezra is building the fire up, the fish already on a spit over the flames to cook.
I set to preparing the rest of the food.
The only chink in my plan is Davis. He knows something is wrong, that much he’s made obvious. There’s no way he could ever know exactly what’s going on, but he’s suspicious of Sawyer, obviously hasn’t forgiven her for breaking his brother’s heart. Him giving me a hard time is just going to be a headache in what is otherwise a flawlessly executed plan.
I’m going to cut the brakes in his car. Ezra will tell me where Davis lives or maybe I’ll suggest a drive by his house. And one of these days, when I know they’re both at work, I’ll head to Davis’ house and see how many vehicles he has. He seems like the type that would have many, for every different type of outing.
I’ll cut them all, just to be safe. I know how to do it so that it looks like a legitimate mechanical failure.
If he doesn’t die in the crash, Ezra and I will visit him in the hospital, and while Ezra is in the bathroom, because I’ll make sure he has plenty to drink on the way over, I know a few deadly concoctions that can be administered, in multiple ways. I can make it look like he had an allergic reaction, which is exactly what will happen.
Nice and clean.
Ezra will mourn, it will tear him up, because I know those brothers love each other. But Ezra will have the joyous news of our baby to focus on. He’ll have my growing belly to give him hope for the future. He’ll have our wedding to lift his spirits.
And then we can be a happy family who talks fondly about Uncle Davis before he died so tragically.
I feel better already, knowing that soon all of my loose ends will be tied up.
“How’s the food coming along?” Ezra asks, looking up at me with a smile.
I finish chopping the potatoes, dumping them into the Dutch oven, and walk it over to the fire pit. I lean in, pressing my lips to Ezra’s, happier than I’ve ever felt.
“Perfect,” I say. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Chapter Twenty
Sawyer
“Visitation has to be scheduled twenty-four hours ahead of time,” the woman says, and she’s none too friendly or polite.
“Then can we schedule a visit for tomorrow at five o’clock?” Davis asks, annoyance rolling off of him as he looks at his watch.
“Visiting hours end at four,” s
he says, her tone telling me she’s losing patience with him, even though this is her job. “The earliest spot I have available is Monday at two o’clock.”
Davis swears under his breath, his eyes sliding over to me.
Ezra and Charity are supposed to be back Monday morning.
I’d really like to get our answers before they get back.
“You’re sure that’s the earliest you can get us in?” Davis asks, his eyes locked on mine. “Even if there’s a few Benjamin bonuses in it for you?”
“Sir, trying to bribe an employee of a state prison is a crime,” she says, the patience disappearing from her voice.
“Monday at two it is,” he says, letting out a frustrated breath. He gives the woman our names to put on the visitation list and she gives us a list of instructions. No open-toed shoes. No revealing clothing. No cell phones.
“Thank you so much for your help.” The way Davis says it sounds genuine, but I know the condescension in his meaning.
He hangs up. “Come on,” he says as he stands and gathers up the yearbooks. “Let’s go back to my place and see what we can dig up on Charity Cooper.”
We put everything back in place, though Ezra is going to know we were here if he checks his cameras. This whole thing could be over if they alert his phone as soon as he gets back into service. He could see me on those cameras, but know Sawyer James was with him all weekend.
Fingers crossed it doesn’t happen that way.
I don’t know the exact plan, how this needs to unfold, but we have to be careful and we have to control it.
When my stomach gives a massive growl the second we get into the car, we make a detour to the grocery store. Once again, I pull a ball cap low on my head, donning massive sunglasses. We make it quick, don’t talk to anyone. And I just hope and pray that no one noticed me. We’re in and out in twenty minutes.
“This is so weird,” I say as Davis pulls into his garage. “I don’t even have a place to live anymore. All of my stuff was moved by someone else. I don’t have the apartment I lived in for two years. I don’t have a couch or a computer or even my own driver’s license. She just…took over.”
“I know this must suck,” Davis says, letting his eyes slide over to me. “But you can stay here for however long this takes to sort out.”
I meet his eyes. “For some reason you seem like the type who likes having this house to himself. Something tells me you don’t have guests over too often.”
The small smile that curls in the corner of his mouth tells me I’m not wrong. “Yeah, well, for some reason your company doesn’t suck.”
“Are you saying that most other people’s company does?” I question, raising an eyebrow.
A small laugh huffs out of his lips. “Yeah, actually, that’s what I’m saying.”
I feel myself blush, and I wish I would stop doing that. But I find I don’t mind when Davis takes it in, and I like the expression in his eyes.
We climb out of the car and take the groceries inside. Together, we sort through them, putting things away, and I set to cooking dinner. Davis takes over the vegetable chopping, working with skill and precision.
Ezra always acted like he could cook, even back when. But everything he ever made was mediocre at best.
But everything Davis has cooked thus far has been excellent.
He’s someone who, if he’s going to do something, he’s going to do it very well.
“Why did you stay in Snohomish?” I ask when we’re done cooking. He and I head out onto the back deck, sitting in the big, black, comfortable chairs outside. “It’s not that big of a town. You have to own half of it by now.”
Davis smiles, stabbing his fork into a piece of squash. “Only about twenty-five percent of it.”
“You own a quarter of an entire town,” I say, my tone exasperated. “You realize how ridiculous that is for one person. What’s your net worth these days?”
“Who the hell asks that kind of a question?” he says, shaking his head with furrowed brows.
I laugh, leaning back in my seat and forking some of the chicken into my mouth.
“I’ve stayed in Snohomish mostly just because it’s home, where I grew up,” Davis answers my question as he looks down at his plate, mostly just pushing things around. “But over time, it was largely because I understood the market so well. As the monopoly grew, it got easier and easier to keep doing what I was doing.”
“But I hear it in your voice,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re getting hungrier. You’re getting bored. Aren’t you?”
He looks over at me with the words, and he just holds my gaze for a long moment. “Are you always this good at reading people?”
I swallow my bite, looking out over the beautiful landscaping that is Davis’ yard. “Not everyone,” I answer.
“I never thought of myself as easily readable,” Davis says.
“You’re not,” I say.
Davis doesn’t respond to that. He just leans back in his seat and in comfortable quiet, we finish our dinner.
Charity Cooper doesn’t have any social media pages. Which doesn’t necessarily surprise me. As the picture of who she is slowly begins to come together, I’m finding a recluse, a socially impaired woman who desperately wanted to be something other than what she was.
Her name does pop up on the school website as having graduated the same year as Ezra and I. But it’s nothing we didn’t already know.
“Holy crap,” Davis says as he scrolls through hits on the web. We’re in his office again, him on his laptop and me on his iPad. “Her name pulls up here on a webchat talking about hiring investigators. It doesn’t exactly call her a PI, but according to this, they hired Charity Cooper to track down some girl who stole a bunch of money from her sugar daddy.”
“What?” I demand, sitting forward and looking the page over. “How long ago?”
Davis scrolls up to the top of the feed. “This is dated from eight years ago.”
“Didn’t her uncle claim to be a private investigator?” I ask, opening another tab. I type in Brad Milton’s name and find the link again.
“Yeah,” he says. “He was a professional stalker. Sounds like it was the family business.”
I scan the article again, all the right words jumping out. Stalker. Private investigation. Pictures. Schedules.
“You said Brad Milton was a creep, but he and Charity could have been close,” I say. “He could have taught her what he knew. And it makes sense. If this is what she did, no wonder she was able to mimic me so well. She knew our history, she’d watched Ezra and I back in high school, and if she’s been stalking me…”
“She’s a professional at this,” Davis says.
“Can you find any other evidence that she did this kind of stuff professionally?” I ask.
He goes back to the computer, scrolling through hits. “Nothing that’s jumping out.”
I go back to my own search, clicking here and there.
Until a link on the second page jumps out at me.
It’s a graduation list from the University of Washington, from the architectural department.
Charity Cooper.
“Holy crap,” I breathe. I zoom in on her picture, taken with a graduation cap. “Here’s a picture of her, from...a year ago. Davis, she even went and got the same degree as me.”
He rolls over in his chair and leans in to see.
Her brows are still the same unruly shape, darker and thicker than mine. Her jaw is still her own. But her cheekbones are certainly changed from what they once more. They look like mine.
And her hair is now dyed blonde, though poorly.
“That is so disturbing,” Davis breathes, looking up at me, looking for the similarities. “It’s like she was transitioning. How…how much money must she have sunk into surgeries to change her looks?”
“A fortune,” I say, noting that her nose already looks like mine in this picture, too. “Because she had to change everything. Her nose, her brow, her jaw
, I mean…even her ears.”
“How many years has she been working on this?” Davis asks in horrified wonder.
“She was thorough,” I say, checking once more that I’m looking at the right department. Architectural design. “She went to my same college. Got my same degree. She was covering bases in case questions came up.”
“What a psycho,” Davis mutters, going back to his computer.
Together, we keep scrolling, searching for info on a woman who knows how to cover her tracks.
Dim gray light comes in between the white curtains. As one eye opens and then the other, I faintly hear the sound of rain.
I roll over, folding the comfortable comforter away from me, piling it in the middle of the bed.
I don’t remember coming to bed last night. Davis and I had worked late into the night, going through every single hit that came up, finding absolutely nothing more.
As I look to the door and find it slightly cracked, I have to wonder if Davis brought me in here last night.
With a smile on my lips, I roll out of bed and go get dressed. I pull on jeans and a simple t-shirt. Considering the rain, I pull my hair up into a big bun at the crown of my head.
Stepping out into the hall, I listen to a quiet house. Silently, I tiptoe down the hall, finding Davis’ door cracked open. I peek inside.
He’s lying in his bed, sound asleep.
Smiling, I head back down the hall to the kitchen. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I begin making breakfast.
I can’t decide between bacon and yogurt and granola and eggs and orange juice, so I just make it all.
I hum to myself as I cook the bacon, frying the eggs.
I really do love Davis’ house. It’s strange how comfortable I feel here, considering this isn’t my space. I know I won’t be staying, and the circumstances that lead to me being here are so extreme.