by Chelsea Cain
Susan met Gretchen’s stare. “Humor me.”
Gretchen raised her eyebrows gamely.
Susan pressed RECORD. She could sense Gretchen absorbing her. She felt like a mistress suddenly confronted with her lover’s glamorous wife. It was a role to which Susan was well suited, an irony that did not escape her. She glanced at Archie for some indication of what to do next, how to behave. He sat leaning back in his chair, hands threaded on his lap, not taking his eyes off Gretchen. There was a level of comfort between them. As if they had known each other their whole lives. Debbie was right: It was creepy.
“She likes you,” Gretchen said teasingly to Archie.
Archie pulled a brass pillbox out of his pocket and set it on the table in front of him. “She’s a reporter,” he said, rotating the small box in a clockwise motion on the tabletop. “She’s friendly with her subjects so they tell her things. It’s her job.”
“Do you tell her things?”
“Yes,” he said, looking at the box.
“But not everything.”
He glanced up at Gretchen meaningfully. “Of course not.”
Gretchen seemed satisfied by this, and she settled her attention on Susan. “What are your questions?”
Susan was startled. “My questions?”
Gretchen gestured to the digital recorder. She wore the manacles like they were bracelets, lovely and expensive baubles to be admired and envied. “That’s why you’ve come here, right? With your little gadget and furrowed brow? To interview me? You can’t write a story about Archie Sheridan without talking to me. I made him who he is today. Without me, he wouldn’t have had a career.”
“I like to think I would have found some other megalomaniacal homicidal psychopath,” Archie said with a sigh.
Gretchen ignored him. “Go ahead,” she said to Susan. “Ask me anything.”
Susan’s mind went blank. She had gone over this in her head dozens of times, what she would ask Gretchen Lowell if she had a chance. But she had never believed that she would have the opportunity. Get a grip, she chided herself. Come up with a question. Anything. Ask the first thing that comes into your head. “Why did you kidnap Archie Sheridan?” she said.
Gretchen’s skin glowed. Susan wondered if they allowed exfoliants in prisons. Maybe she was hoarding strawberries from the cafeteria and making her own masks. Gretchen leaned forward over the small table. “I wanted to kill him,” she said with glee. “I wanted to torture him in the most interesting, painful manner imaginable until he begged me to slit his throat.”
Susan had to swallow before she could speak. “Did he?”
Gretchen looked adoringly at Archie. “Do you want to take that one, darling?”
“I did,” Archie said without missing a beat. He placed the pillbox in his open palm on the table and looked at it.
“But you didn’t kill him,” Susan said to Gretchen.
Gretchen shrugged and widened her eyes. “Change of plans.”
“Why him?”
“I was bored. And he seemed to take such a genuine interest in my work. I thought it would be nice for him to get to see it up close. Now can I ask you a question?”
Susan shifted in her seat, struggling for an adequate response. Gretchen didn’t wait for one. The question was directed at Susan, but Gretchen’s attention was fixed on Archie. Archie was looking at the pillbox.
“You’ve met Debbie? How is she?” Her voice was tender, as if she were asking after an old friend.
Oh, Debbie! She’s great! Just moved to Des Moines. Married, couple of kids. Sends her love.
Susan glanced over at Archie. He wasn’t looking at the box anymore; he was looking at Gretchen. But other than his eyes, he hadn’t moved a muscle. The brass pillbox glistened in his palm. The sudden tension between them made Susan’s stomach feel rigid.
“I don’t think that I should answer that,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she had intended. She felt like a teenager. Like she was fourteen again. The feeling made her uncomfortably warm.
“There’s a cemetery,” Gretchen announced. “Off a state highway in Nebraska. We buried Gloria on top of one of the graves. Want to know where it is?”
No one moved for a minute. And then Archie finally looked at Susan. His eyes were glassy. Now I see why you’re high, thought Susan.
“It’s fine,” Archie said. “Really. She likes to revel in what a thorough mess she’s made of my life. We talk about it all the time. You’d think she’d get tired of it after a while.” He set the box back down on the table. He did it gently, like it was bruised. “But it never ceases to entertain her.”
Susan wasn’t sure what fucked-up game the two of them were playing, but she was hoping that Archie had it more under control than it seemed. She shrugged her assent. It was his call. She would play along. “Debbie hates you,” she told Gretchen. “She hates you for murdering the man she knew as her husband.” She glanced at Archie. No reaction. “She thinks he’s dead. And that Archie is someone else now.”
Gretchen looked pleased, her eyes bright, her cheekbones pronounced. “But she still loves him?”
Susan bit her lip. “Yes.”
“And he still loves her. But he can’t be with her. And he can’t be with his two adorable children. Know why?”
“Because of you,” Susan guessed.
“Because of me. And that’s why you’ll never be with him, either, pigeon. Because I’ve ruined him for other women.”
“You’ve ruined me for other human beings, Gretchen,” Archie said wearily. He slid the box off the table and put it back in his pocket, then scooted his chair back from the table and stood.
“Where are you going?” Gretchen asked, her voice betraying her sudden anxiety. Susan watched as her entire posture changed. Her face hardened. Were those crow’s-feet? Gretchen leaned forward toward Archie as if attempting to close the space between them.
“I’m taking a break,” Archie answered, his fingertips still on the table. “I’m not sure that we’re being very productive today.” He looked down at Susan. “Come on,” he said. He took a step back and Gretchen reached up, hands still shackled, and seized his hand.
“The name on the grave is Emma Watson,” she said quickly. “The cemetery is on SR One Hundred, in a little town called Hamilton, eighteen miles west of Lincoln.”
Archie didn’t move. He just stood, staring at his hand in hers. Not pulling away. Like someone gripping a live electrical wire. Susan had no idea what to do. She looked around frantically at the observation window and, as if on cue, Henry Sobol burst into the room. He was at the table in three steps, and he reached a large hand around Gretchen Lowell’s wrist and squeezed it until she winced in pain and let Archie’s hand fall free.
“That’s against the rules,” Henry said between clenched teeth. His face was red and his pulse surged under the thick skin of his neck. “You touch him again and I swear to fuck that I’ll end this bullshit. Bodies or not. Got it?” Gretchen didn’t recoil, didn’t say a word, just looked at him, lips wet with saliva, nostrils flaring, eyes daring him to take a swing at her. Suddenly, she didn’t look beautiful at all.
“It’s fine,” Archie said. His voice was even, perfectly modulated, but Susan noticed that his hands were trembling. “I’m fine.”
Henry looked at Archie, holding his gaze for a moment, and then turned his shaved head back toward Gretchen. He still had his meaty fist around her slender wrist, and for a moment Susan thought he might just snap it in two. Without letting his grip waver an iota, he turned to Archie. “We’ve got the Nebraska state police on their way to that cemetery. We should know something in the next hour.” Then he opened his hand, dropped Gretchen’s wrist, and, without giving her a second glance, turned and walked out the door.
Gretchen smoothed her blond hair with her manacled hands. “I don’t think your friend likes me,” she said to Archie.
Archie sank back into his chair. “You did send him my spleen.”
“A
nd he won’t let me forget it.” She turned back to Susan, all poise and tranquillity, as if the entire encounter had not happened. “You were saying?”
Susan was still reeling. Would it be a show of weakness to vomit? “What?”
“You were asking me questions, pigeon. For your story.”
And that’s when Susan knew what to ask. “What’s your favorite movie?” she said. Take that. Come up with a snappy answer to that. Try to find a twisted answer to that. Susan settled back smugly.
Gretchen’s answer was instantaneous. “Band of Outsiders. Godard.”
Well. That was unexpected. Susan looked at Archie searchingly, not even trying to mask the confusion that was surely screwed up on her face. “That’s Detective Sheridan’s favorite movie,” she said.
“You can call him Archie,” Gretchen said lightly. “I’ve seen him naked.”
“Have you two talked about Godard?” Susan asked Archie.
“No,” he said. And there was the pillbox again.
Gretchen smiled, all innocence. “Isn’t that a funny coincidence? Do you have any other questions?”
Susan examined Gretchen. She had heard stories that Gretchen had killed something like two hundred people. She had never believed it. Until now. “The After School Strangler. Any ideas of what kind of person we’re looking for?”
Gretchen laughed. It was a throaty laugh, like Bette Davis, like sex and lung cancer. She’d probably spent years practicing it. It was worth that kind of effort. “Want me to get inside his head for you? Sorry, Clarice. Can’t help you.”
“You’re both murderers,” Susan offered sweetly.
Gretchen shook her head. “We’re different.”
“You are?”
“Tell her, Archie.”
Archie voice sounded unnaturally slow. “He doesn’t like the killing part. Gretchen does.”
Cold smile. “See? Apples and oranges.”
“You didn’t kill Detective Sheridan,” Susan pointed out.
“Yes I did.” Gretchen’s smile widened around her perfect teeth. It was the most chilling smile Susan had ever seen. She suddenly felt an infinite tenderness for Archie, and even as she did, she regretted it, because she knew that Gretchen could see it in her eyes.
“Has he rejected you yet, pigeon?” Gretchen asked, bemused. “It will be hard for you. You don’t get rejected often, do you? You’re not used to that. You think sex is your power. But it isn’t.”
“Gretchen,” Archie cautioned.
“Do you know what’s more intimate than sex?” Gretchen asked. She shot a wicked smile at Archie. “Violence.”
Susan felt all of the saliva in her throat evaporate. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re attracted to older men. Authority figures. Men with more power than you have. Married. Why is that, pigeon, hmm?” Gretchen tilted her head, and Susan could see a thought skate across her eyes and then settle. Gretchen smiled. “How old were you when your father died?”
Susan felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Had she flinched? She squeezed her thumbs as hard as she could under the table until the pain dried up the tears she feared would well at any moment. When the moment passed, she stood up—and leaned over the table, her knuckles pressed against its cold aluminum surface. “Fuck you,” she said to Gretchen. “Fuck you, you fucking psycho killer.”
But Gretchen merely smiled. “All that bubbling postpubescent rage. Whom did you end up fucking? Your English teacher?” She arched an eyebrow. “Drama teacher?”
Susan couldn’t breathe. She felt a tear slide down one cheek and she was furious at herself for it. “How—” she began. She put a hand over her mouth to try to stop herself from speaking, but it was too late.
Archie turned slowly and looked up at Susan, his eyes wide, forehead lined. “The drama teacher at Cleveland? Reston?”
“No,” Susan stammered.
Gretchen shook her head at Archie. “Textbook denial.”
“Susan,” Archie said, his voice stern, authoritative. “If you had a sexual relationship with Paul Reston when you were a teenager, you need to tell me right now.”
Gretchen’s blue eyes narrowed victoriously. Game. Set. Match.
Susan laughed, a horrible distraught half chuckle, and then the floodgates opened. Hot tears on her cheeks, humiliated, she backed away, hunched, gulping for air. She fumbled for the door buzzer, and when the door jerked open, fled into the corridor.
CHAPTER 32
Susan stumbled a few steps down the hall, hugging her arms, before her bones seemed to give out and she fell against the wall. Archie was behind her in a moment, his hand on her shoulder. It was a comforting touch, nothing sexual about it. Susan wasn’t used to that. She turned away, pressing her forehead against the cinder-block wall so that he couldn’t see her blotchy face, the tears, her smeared lipstick. Archie moved around in front of her, never taking his hand off her shoulder, and then leaned against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, and waited. The sound of a door, then footsteps, and Henry was in the hallway, too, a guard, the lawyer. God, they had all seen everything. Susan wanted to die.
“Why don’t you give us a minute?” Archie said to them all, and they all slid back behind the observation room door, except for the guard, who glanced around awkwardly and then slipped into the interview room, where Gretchen Lowell still sat. When they were alone in the hall, Archie asked, “When did it start?”
The cinder-block wall was painted with glossy gray paint. It reminded Susan of an overcast winter sky, when the clouds appear solid, a canopy of ash. “When I was a sophomore. I ended it when I went to college.” She mustered up her dignity, drawing herself to her full height, lifting her chin. “I was precocious. It was consensual.”
“Technically, no, it wasn’t,” he said. She could see the color in his face change as he tried to suppress his frustration, his fists tightening in his pants pockets. “You should have said something. Did it occur to you that the victims were all fifteen-year-old girls? All raped.”
Susan shrank into herself. “He didn’t rape me,” she said. She felt defensive, ridiculous. “And I was going to tell you. But it didn’t seem relevant. You would have harassed him. He would have lost his job. Besides, you said he had an alibi.”
“Statutory rape is a crime. If the statute of limitations weren’t up, I’d go and arrest him right now. Did anyone know? Your parents?”
Susan laughed sadly. “Bliss? She didn’t know anything.” She twisted her mouth up. “She probably would have been supportive. She always hated setting boundaries.”
Archie gave Susan a dubious look.
And suddenly, with a little shock, Susan knew that she was wrong. “No,” Susan admitted. “She would have hated it. She would have made sure he went to jail.” She turned away. “But she didn’t know. Because I didn’t tell her.” She pressed her knuckles against the cinder block until she felt the rough cement break the skin. “I think I was mad at her for not figuring it out.”
“Were there any other girls?”
Susan couldn’t even look at him. “Not that I know of.”
“I can’t just forget we had this conversation, Susan. I have to report it. I will do everything I can to get him fired.”
“It was ten years ago,” Susan pleaded. “I seduced him. My father had just died and I needed comfort. Paul was my favorite teacher. It wasn’t his fault.” She looked away. “I was hardly a virgin.”
“He was an adult,” Archie said. “He should have known better.”
Susan began the work of cleaning herself up, wiping the tears off her face, tucking her tangle of pink hair behind her ears. “If you report it, I’ll deny it. And so will Paul.” She bit her lip so hard it felt like it might split. “I just wanted to explain.”
“Explain what?”
Susan looked away, fingers splayed as she tried to find the right words. Her knuckles were pink from where she had dug them into the wall. “Why I am the way I am. All thos
e things Gretchen Lowell said in there. They’re true.”
Archie looked her in the eye under his heavy brows. “Gretchen says a lot of things in the hopes that one or two of them will stick and make you suffer. Believe me, I know this. Don’t give her that power. And don’t give Reston that power, either. He’s a creep. Adult men should not sleep with teenagers. Period. The ones who do have some serious issues.” He leaned close to her, so close that for a moment she had an impulse to press her forehead into his neck. “And those issues belong to them, not you.”
“It’s ancient history,” Susan said.
Archie gently took each of her wrists and lifted her hands away to reveal her tear-stained face. “I have to go back in there now, and it’s going to be a little while. Why don’t you wait out here.”
Susan’s face fell. “Can’t I wait in the observation room?”
Archie lifted his hand and wiped a tear that still hung on her cheek. “When I go back in there, Gretchen is going to give me her confession,” he said. “Every detail of how she tortured and killed Gloria Juarez.” His face darkened. “You don’t want to have to hear that if you don’t have to.”
He gave Susan a last pat on the shoulder and started walking back toward the room where Gretchen sat waiting for him. Susan watched him as he walked, one arm extended, the fingertips of his hand dancing along the cinder-block wall.
She wondered if he was this high all the time, or just on Sundays. She decided this wasn’t the time to ask.
The guard left as soon as Archie entered the room. Gretchen sat just as she had, in repose, her manacled hands folded on one knee, seemingly undisturbed and unimpressed by Susan’s outburst. Susan’s sleek silver digital recorder still sat in the center of the table where she had left it, still recording. Archie pulled the metal chair out again and sat in it and faced Gretchen. Then, avoiding eye contact with Gretchen, he reached out, turned the recorder off, and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He could still feel Susan’s tears on his hand.