Girl, 11

by Amy Suiter Clarke

Elle bit down on her tongue, eyes fluttering closed. It had only been a matter of time. When she opened them again, his chin was lifted, smug with victory.

  “That’s right. I just finished listening to your most recent podcast, Eleanor,” Sam said. He looked from her to Ayaan. “You’ve got no idea who you’re really working with, do you? Elle is Nora Watson. The reason she’s so obsessed with TCK is because she was one of his victims.”

  Elle’s face stung as she stared at the table, unable to look at the commander. Ayaan said nothing.

  “Did you know about this?” Sam demanded.

  Of course she didn’t know. Of course not. Tears blurred Elle’s vision.

  “You were working with an unstable, traumatized woman who’s obsessed with catching her own kidnapper, and you didn’t even know!”

  “Hey!” Elle glared at him, ignoring the panic that rose in her gut. “I am not unstable, and I am not obsessed. The whole reason I didn’t tell anyone about who I am is because I knew that would be the first thing everyone would assume about me. I know the TCK case inside and out because of what he did to me, yes, but also because I’m a damn good investigator. Just because I have been through trauma does not mean I’m useless.”

  “Elle, you have lied to Ayaan and to me the entire time you’ve been here,” Sam said, not quite managing to cover the hurt in his voice with anger. “Can you imagine how damaging it will be when Amanda’s parents find out? They’re going to hear you admit on the podcast that the person who killed their daughter did it to target you. We will get raked over the coals and blamed for her death, and it will be because of you.”

  “Enough, Sam.”

  His eyes blazed, but he closed his mouth.

  Ayaan met her gaze, face drawn with some emotion Elle couldn’t decipher. “Maddie Black . . . I should have known. This is why the TCK case has consumed you since I’ve known you.”

  “Ayaan, I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I don’t tell anyone about what happened to me.” Heat flashed across Elle’s skin, dampness growing under her arms. She couldn’t stand the way the commander was looking at her. Like she’d been betrayed.

  “You thought I would judge you for being a victim? For wanting to find the man who destroyed your childhood?” Ayaan asked, her voice husky.

  Elle sat forward. “I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want that to be the first thing people know about me, and that’s how it was all through high school, through college. Until I married Martín and changed my name. CPS knew my history, of course, but my boss was kind enough not to tell other people on the job. It shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” The power was back in Ayaan’s voice, ringing in her small office. Both Elle and Sam were silent as she gathered herself, put her hands on the desk. When her gaze flicked back to Elle’s, her brown eyes were serious. “I warned you several times that you were overstepping your bounds on this case. I even looked the other way when I found out you misled Detective Hyde in order to keep investigating after I had told you not to. But Sam’s right: your impulsive actions over the past week have put multiple people in danger, including yourself. I think it’s best you go home.”

  Elle wanted to defend herself, but she could barely even bring herself to keep looking at the commander. This was worse than if she was angry, if she threw Elle out of her office with Sam cackling as she went. Elle had let Ayaan down. She hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her everything, and now it was too late.

  Without another word, she left the office and walked outside. The wind dried the tears in her eyes, sent a shiver to her core. She started the car, unsure what to do next.

  Ayaan said they hadn’t been able to find any trace of Natalie at Duane’s house, so he had to be keeping her someplace separate, someplace the police didn’t know about. Every second she was gone, her life was in danger. Amanda had been killed two days early, so who knew what would happen tomorrow, on the day the countdown said she was supposed to die? Duane had already broken his idol’s pattern. What was to stop him from killing Natalie early too?

  Police didn’t have any evidence to arrest Duane, but that wasn’t going to stop her from talking to him. She was going to have to get a confession.

  40

  Justice Delayed podcast

  Recorded January 20, 2020

  Unaired recording: Duane Grove interview

  Elle:

  Hello, Duane.

  Duane:

  What do you want? It’s the middle of the night, and I’ve been talking to police all fucking day.

  Elle:

  This’ll just take a few minutes. Wanna let me in?

  Duane:

  [After a pause.] Fine. Wipe your feet.

  Elle:

  I know you don’t like me. You’ve made that clear. But I’m hoping you can answer some questions about Leo.

  Duane:

  For fuck’s sake, I already told them everything I know. You recording this for the cops? Think I’m stupid enough to confess to something I didn’t do on your microphone there?

  Elle:

  Duane, I swear I’m not here to get you in trouble. I’m not trying to manipulate you. Leo called me the day he died with some information about a case I’ve been working on for over a decade. You know anything about that?

  Duane:

  [Loud sigh.] No, I don’t.

  Elle:

  I think you do.

  Duane:

  I told you, Leo was obsessed with your stupid podcast. He started seeing things that weren’t there, getting all agitated about how he thought he knew who TCK was.

  Elle:

  He told you this?

  Duane:

  Yeah, he wouldn’t shut up about it. You got him all riled up and then look what happened. The day he writes to your show, he gets popped.

  Elle:

  So, you knew that he wrote to me.

  Duane:

  Yeah, he told me he was. Said he thought he had enough evidence to actually show you.

  Elle:

  And did you know who he was collecting the evidence on?

  Duane:

  Nah, I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.

  Elle:

  Did you ever suspect it was you?

  Duane:

  [After a long pause.] You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?

  Elle:

  Thank you.

  Duane:

  You really came here all alone to accuse me of being a serial killer? You think that microphone is going to protect you?

  Elle:

  I can protect myself.

  Duane:

  Whoa, shit, what are you doing? You can’t do that. Don’t you work for the cops?

  Elle:

  Answer the question, Duane. Did you suspect that Leo thought you were the Countdown Killer?

  Duane:

  I . . . no! Fuck, don’t point that thing at me, chill out. No. I’m not the freaking Countdown Killer, okay? I was, like, fifteen when he was killing girls.

  Elle:

  That’s just the thing, Duane. We’re not so sure it’s the real Countdown Killer who kidnapped Amanda and Natalie. More than likely, it’s just a cheap copycat. A copycat who was inspired by my podcast to start emulating TCK’s methods and to target me by coming after a girl I love. Because they hate me. And I think you make a pretty good candidate for that, you know why? Because I have these. Dozens of emails from the last week, threatening my life and making it clear you know where I live. They all came from your auto shop.

  Duane:

  I . . . you think . . .

  Elle:

  Yes, I think.

  Duane:

  I didn’t—I sent those emails because I was mad at you for getting Leo killed, not because I was actually going to hurt you.

  Elle:

  Keep talking.

  Duane:

  That’s all it is, okay? Leo died because he was giving you information on TCK . . . or someone he thought was TCK, I don’t know. A
ll I know is my best friend emailed you about your stupid case, and an hour later he ended up dead. I thought you should face consequences for getting people involved in cases like this, that’s all. I just thought you shouldn’t get away with it.

  Elle:

  So, you threatened me.

  Duane:

  I never planned to do anything, I swear. I just thought maybe you’d take things more seriously, stop messing with people’s lives. Now, can you put the gun away?

  Elle:

  Okay, Duane. Say I believe you, here. I could still press charges. But I’d be willing to let this go if you can stop and think. Think really hard about everything Leo said and did in the last few days before he died. Police say that Luisa’s hair was in his apartment. They think she had something to do with his murder.

  Duane:

  No, no, that doesn’t make sense. She started seeing this new guy a few months ago, and Leo was pissed about it, but they were cool. She would never hurt him.

  Elle:

  If she was with someone new, why would she have been in his apartment?

  Duane:

  I don’t know. He didn’t seem to like her new boyfriend much, but I guess that’s no surprise. I got the feeling he thought the dude was dangerous. He was really high-strung about it, though. Like I think Leo followed him around a little, trying to catch him doing something shady so he could convince Luisa to dump the guy. I don’t know, I kind of wrote it off that he was just jealous.

  Elle:

  That sounds like something police should know about. Did you tell them?

  Duane:

  I’m not a snitch. As far as I know, Luisa and the guy were happy. Leo was just being paranoid. He thought everyone was out to get people because of podcasts like yours.

  Elle:

  Okay, Duane, fine. Do you know where Luisa is now?

  Duane:

  Her man lives somewhere in Falcon Heights. She’s probably with him.

  Elle:

  What was that?

  Duane:

  In Falcon Heights. Some dude her mom used to live across from. Luisa met him when he and her ma got in some fight. Leo already knew the guy; that’s why he got so mad about Luisa dating him. I think he met him at work or something.

  Elle:

  Work? At Mitchell University?

  Duane:

  Yeah, he was a janitor there. I guess her boyfriend was some professor. Now, will you fucking leave me alone? I could report you for threatening me, you know. Pointing a gun at someone is assault.

  Elle:

  Go ahead, Duane. I’m sure the police would love to have you visit the station again, make a statement.

  Duane:

  Fuck you. Get out of my apartment.

  Elle:

  You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.

  41

  Elle

  January 20, 2020

  When Elle got home from Duane’s, the house was eerily silent. It was after two in the morning. An officer sat in his marked car outside, watching, as Ayaan had promised. Even though she didn’t really feel that her life was in danger, she was grateful for his presence.

  As soon as she was inside, she turned up the thermostat and unwound the scarf from her neck. Unbuttoning her coat, she stared at herself in the hallway mirror. Deep shadows under her eyes gave away how little she had been sleeping.

  “You’re home.” Martín stood at the top of the stairs, wavy hair rumpled from a day of stressed-out fingers running through it.

  She grasped the banister, looking up at him. “What are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep without you home.” He walked down the stairs until he was standing just above her, his warm hand on top of hers. “What did Ayaan say?”

  Elle sighed, fighting back a wave of exhaustion. “It’s a long story. She doesn’t believe me, but I’m not so sure it’s Duane now, anyway.”

  Martín sat down on the step so they were eye to eye. He reached out and caressed her cheek, thumb brushing across the bags under her eyes. “Why do you think it’s not Duane?”

  She closed her eyes, knowing he would see the lie in them otherwise. She didn’t have the energy to explain her reasoning behind going to Duane’s apartment alone, gun or not. It would turn into an argument about her being impulsive again, which she probably deserved, but she didn’t have time. “Just a hunch. Go to bed, Martín. I promise I’ll come once I have what I need.”

  He was silent for a moment, his gaze probing her for the truth. Then he said, “If it helps, I finally got ahold of Ms. Turner this evening. Or her daughter, actually. Apparently, she was rushed to the hospital after suffering a heart attack about an hour before Natalie’s piano lesson was supposed to happen. An anonymous caller phoned 911 and gave them her address, but she was alone when the paramedics arrived.”

  Elle’s knees felt like they’d give out any second. She clutched the banister more tightly. “Will she be okay?”

  “Her daughter thinks so. She didn’t have any known heart issues, so it came as a surprise.”

  “Do you . . . do you think she was dosed with something?”

  He rubbed his chin for a moment before sliding his hand around to the back of his neck, staring at something over her shoulder.

  “You’re the one who said he might have set it up, that he would have to have known she was going to walk home alone. Well, maybe that’s how he knew. He made sure of it.” Elle rubbed her eyes.

  “Possibly.” Martín watched her movements, looking concerned. “You need sleep, amor.”

  “I’m not going to sleep tonight,” she said. “I’ve got some research to do.”

  He let out a long gust of air before clapping his hands on his knees and standing. “Okay. I know better than to argue. Just please . . . please let me know if you need help.”

  She looked up at him, hoping her smile disguised the guilt swelling inside her. There would be time to tell him everything later, after Natalie was safely home. She watched as he walked back up the stairs and disappeared down the hall.

  Armed with a fresh pot of coffee and two slices of peanut butter toast, Elle settled in her studio. She sent a text to Sam, letting him know what Duane had told her about Luisa. He might not be her biggest fan right now, but the detective still deserved to know when she had found a lead on his case.

  Then she turned on her computer. Dr. Douglas Stevens had been dating Luisa Toca. Luisa Toca had been missing since shortly before her ex-husband was murdered. He’d been killed within an hour of telling Elle that he knew who TCK was. Even though she wasn’t a cop, Elle knew what it took to put together a case for murder against a person. At best, this made Stevens a person of interest.

  Elle had already proved to Ayaan that she couldn’t be trusted. She had suggested theory after theory and been wrong every time. If she was going to present Stevens as a viable suspect, she needed an airtight case—not a series of uncanny connections. Still, something about the visit to his house that morning nagged at her—the fear in his girlfriend’s eyes, the familiar body language of a battered woman. Elle had gotten an ominous feeling the first time she’d been to his house too.

  But intuition wasn’t evidence.

  It took a few searches to find an article about Dr. Douglas Stevens that included a short biography. He grew up in southeastern Minnesota, graduated top of his class from Harvard in 1992 with a joint concentration in math and physics. He then pursued a doctorate in applied mathematics, first at Yale and then finishing at Mitchell University in Minneapolis.

  It was a strange move, going to two of the best universities in the country and then coming back to his home state to finish his degree at a midlevel university. She could only think of two reasons someone might do that: a family issue or a romance. Maybe one of his parents died or fell ill and he needed to care for them. Maybe he rekindled a relationship with his childhood sweetheart, giving up the Ivy Leagues to be with her. There were infinite possibilities, but whatever brought him back here, he
had stayed.

  Douglas Stevens did not fit the profile of a copycat. He was too old, too intelligent, too mature to be consumed with the desire for another man’s fame. That left only one option.

  The biography included a photo from a few years ago, and she stared at it for a while. She wanted so badly to remember his face, to be hit with the realization of him. But there was nothing; a chalky blur where her memory of him should be. Once again, she pulled up the sketch Danika had helped develop and held it next to his face on her screen. She squinted at it, tilted her head to the side. It could work. He wasn’t completely dissimilar to the sketch, although she would never have picked him out of a lineup based on it. But Danika was just a little girl. Elle pictured the first grader—baby hairs laid against hazelnut brown skin, tight pigtails held in place by blue and purple baubles. She had sat next to her mother, describing the man to the sketch artist with a quiet, trembling voice. How accurate could she have really been?