Let Me Go

by Chelsea Cain

  Rachel’s apartment was the same layout as Archie’s, but less depressing. The furniture matched. The walls were painted. She had cork floors and granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. There were always fresh flowers on the glass coffee table. Halloween decorations were tucked here and there—a ceramic jack-o’-lantern on an end table, a spider constructed out of the same black tinsel and wire as the cat in the hall sat on the kitchen bar.

  “Sit down,” Rachel told him.

  Archie walked to her butter-yellow leather sofa and sat down. He watched her in the kitchen getting the ice, the daylight blazed through her factory windows and made his skin warm. He worried that if he blinked too long, he’d fall asleep.

  “I didn’t have cell reception until this morning,” Archie explained again. “And then”—he considered name-dropping the FBI, but knew he couldn’t—“I had a meeting.”

  She walked across the room to him, carrying a gel ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. Then held the gel pack out, one hand on her hip. Her brown leather belt had a shiny gold buckle shaped like a lion.

  “I’m sorry,” he added, taking the ice pack, eyes on the lion. “That you were worried. I should have prepared you more … for this.” Archie placed the ice pack against his forehead and flinched from the cold. It woke him up a little.

  “I want to talk,” Rachel said.

  Now he’d done it. He looked up at her. She had her other hand on her hip now, too.

  They were going to have a conversation, he realized. Archie didn’t know a lot about women, but he had been married and he knew when a conversation was coming, and he knew that when a woman wanted to have one, the best thing you could do was get it over with.

  “Right,” he said.

  Rachel placed her hand on the gel pack and held it against Archie’s head until he let his own hand fall away. Then she stepped around his knees. He expected her to take a seat next to him on the sofa, but instead she lowered herself onto his lap.

  Archie didn’t know how to respond. He kept his hands at his sides, unsure what level of affection he should exhibit in this situation. Rachel was sitting across his thighs, her legs stretched out on the sofa, her back resting against the sofa arm, holding the gel back against his skull. He was fully awake now.

  “Why haven’t you introduced me to your kids?” Rachel asked.

  Archie had hoped she’d start with something easier.

  She looked at him, waiting.

  Archie chose his words carefully. “I didn’t know you wanted to meet my kids,” he said.

  Rachel frowned. She tilted her head slightly. He could feel her shift against his groin. The pill bottle in his pocket pressed into his thigh. He hoped she didn’t think it was an erection.

  He cleared his throat, and tried to explain. “I don’t want to confuse them,” he said.

  Rachel sat forward, her weight off the pills, and put her free arm around his neck. “How am I confusing?” she asked.

  Archie sighed. “How do I introduce you, Rachel? As my downstairs neighbor?”

  She glanced at him hesitantly. “You could try girlfriend.”

  This was the opposite direction that Archie thought this conversation would go. His discomfort must have been obvious.

  “Okay,” Rachel said quickly. “Then tell them I’m your sweetpatootie. Or special friend. Or sex kitten. Whatever. I don’t care. Just introduce me. I don’t want to be a secret.”

  “Okay.”

  She dabbed the gel pack at his forehead. “Does Debbie know about me?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  Rachel curled happily in his lap. Archie’s body struggled between the need for sex and the need to sleep. She shifted her weight again, positioning herself in a place that made his arms tingle.

  “Would someone call me?” Rachel asked. “If you were really hurt or killed. Would anyone know to call me?”

  “Henry would,” Archie assured her. He was getting self-conscious about his arousal. The condensation from the gel pack had soaked through the dish towel and was cold and wet against his skin.

  “Can you write it down somewhere?” Rachel asked. “Can you make it official? So that if something happens, I know. I don’t want to hear about it on the news.”

  Archie hesitated. He already had an emergency contact.

  “They’d call Debbie first, wouldn’t they?” Rachel said, almost to herself. “That’s important. Because of the kids.”

  “I can see if I can add you,” Archie offered.

  “It’s okay.” Rachel rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m being paranoid. I was just overanxious last night. I had a bad feeling. Isn’t that silly? I had this feeling you were in danger. And when you didn’t return my calls, I started to get nervous. I don’t have Henry’s number. I called the nonemergency number, but they said they couldn’t tell me anything and they wouldn’t put me through to anyone who could.” She looked away, and when she looked back, her eyes were wet. She gave him a helpless shrug. “And then I realized something,” she said. Her lip trembled. “I realized that I want to be the person you spend the night with on your birthday.”

  Archie had spent last night unconscious in the mud. But he knew she meant it more metaphorically. Now she sat on his lap, eyes fixed on his. Waiting. Archie still wasn’t sure how exactly this had happened. But it appeared he had a girlfriend.

  “How about next weekend?” he said. “I have the kids next weekend. We can all do something together.”

  Rachel’s face flushed with pleasure. “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not better at this.”

  She removed the gel pack and rewrapped it in the dish towel. “Your divorce really did a number on you, didn’t it?” she said softly, as she placed the gel pack back on his forehead.

  Archie moved his hand along the length of her ponytail, the thick blond hair slick beneath his fingers. “It wasn’t Debbie.”

  “You know,” Rachel said, lifting her eyes to his, “people with girlfriends tell their girlfriends about their lives. Just FYI. It sort of comes with the package.”

  “I guess I have a lot to learn about girlfriends,” Archie said.

  “We also get a shelf in the bathroom.”

  “You already have a shelf in the bathroom,” Archie said. “I noticed that you also took over half a drawer in my dresser.”

  “Did I?” Rachel asked with a grin.

  He could feel her against him again, the heat of desire.

  “It’s getting warm,” she said.

  Archie cleared his throat.

  “The gel pack,” Rachel said. She took it from his skull, unwrapped it, and fingered the soft incandescent-blue gel trapped under the plastic. Then she put it and the dish towel behind her on the end table and returned her body to his. Archie’s forehead was numb and damp. Rachel ran her hand over his chest. He wanted her hand to go lower.

  “I know you’re taking your kids trick-or-treating tomorrow,” Rachel said, “but Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday, and I’ve been planning a special costume that I think you’ll enjoy.” She gave him a hopeful look. “Maybe we can get together after?”

  “We won’t trick-or-treat much past dark,” Archie said. But he was careful not to commit to anything specific. He knew better than that. In his line of work, things came up.

  Rachel nuzzled against his shoulder. “You look nice,” she said.

  Archie looked down at his clothes reflexively. Rachel’s cheek was pressed against Jack Reynolds’s cashmere sweater. It seemed too complicated to explain. “Thanks,” Archie said.

  Rachel raised her head and lifted her chin toward the bedroom. “Do you want to stay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Archie said immediately. He wanted to stay very badly. But he couldn’t. “But I need to sleep,” he said.

  “Good,” Rachel said with a grin.

  She climbed off his lap and stood, and Archie felt a strong, naked urge to pull her back to him.

 
; “I have to go to class,” she explained. She looked him up and down, a tiny line of concern between her eyebrows. Then she extended a hand for him to take. “I’ll walk you upstairs first.”

  “Do I really look that bad?” Archie asked.

  She turned her hand palm up and beckoned him. “Take my hand,” she instructed.

  Archie took hold of her hand and let her pull him up into a standing position. They held hands—almost like boyfriend and girlfriend—as she retrieved her shoulder bag of books, and then all the way out her door, to the elevator, and down his hall. As they neared his apartment door, Archie saw her sneak a peek at her phone, and realized that she was checking the time. He didn’t want her to be late for class.

  “I can take it from here,” Archie told her.

  She looked worriedly at his head wound. “You sure?”

  “I just have to make it to the couch,” Archie said.

  She kissed him gently on the mouth and looked at him for a long moment, like she was seeing him for the first or last time. “Sweet dreams,” she said. Then she turned and headed for the elevator. He watched her go. He liked watching her from behind, the way her ponytail swung as she walked, the way her hips moved.

  He wondered how much a cashmere sweater was, and whether Jack would miss his if Archie kept it.

  “Give me a hint,” Archie called after her. “About the costume.”

  Rachel threw him a flirty look over her shoulder. “It comes with a lap dance,” she said. She beamed at him and then, with a toss of her ponytail, continued down the hallway.

  Archie smiled to himself and pushed open his door. He could already hear Ginger on the other side, scrambling to greet him.

  Maybe he could have a normal relationship after all.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Gretchen holds back as Archie opens the door to Lidia Hays’s apartment. It has been sealed with crime scene tape and as he cuts through it the yellow plastic flutters to either side, like ribbons snipped open on a present. He uses a key to unlock the door and then pushes it open and steps back to allow Gretchen to enter. She hesitates, and he realizes that the courtesy of holding the door for a lady is probably not the best rule of thumb when entering crime scenes. She doesn’t want to go first.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Wasn’t thinking.”

  He ducks under the remaining piece of tape and enters the apartment. It has been sealed for two days and the smell of decomp still sours the air. The lights are off. Archie reaches and flicks on a light switch as Gretchen enters behind him. It is her idea to be here. She is usually content to see photographs of the scene, but she says this is part of some new approach to get closer to the murders. They have FBI profilers for that, but Archie figures at this point they need all the help they can get.

  “Crime Scene finished up yesterday,” Archie says as Gretchen walks past him. “The apartment manager still needs to get someone in here to clean. Then we’ll let the family in to collect her things.”

  The living room, where they are standing, is unremarkable. The action has happened in the bedroom. Gretchen is walking around the room, her attention drifting from item to item. A thrift store sectional takes up much of the space. Posters for bands Archie has never heard of are tacked on the walls, along with a few posters of snowboarders captured frozen upside down in midair. It is the little things that get to Archie—the cold half cup of coffee left on the coffee table the morning of the murder, the toothpaste stains on the bathroom sink, a book on the bedside table—evidence of daily life. Gretchen’s eyes keep moving, never pausing, taking everything in. She is wearing a form-fitting skirt and a blouse with a bra just dark enough that Archie can see its shadow beneath the fabric. He wonders if she’s worn that for him.

  “Where do you think the killer hid?” she asks.

  “In the bedroom closet,” Archie says. The closet door had been found ajar, and clothing had been pushed to the side and some of the shoes on the floor had been disturbed.

  Gretchen points toward the door to the bedroom and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

  “Are you sure you want to go in there?” Archie asks.

  “I’ve seen the photographs,” Gretchen says.

  “It’s not like the photographs,” Archie says.

  “I want to see it.”

  Archie shrugs.

  She hesitates before she touches the doorknob.

  “It’s okay,” Archie says. “CSU is done.”

  Gretchen pushes the door open. He can see the fear in her neck and arms, and he is impressed that she is going forward despite it. She turns back and gives him a pleading, vulnerable look, and he steps beside her, happy to be her protector. He enters the bedroom and turns on the light.

  The smell is stronger in here.

  The bed frame is dark wood, an antique by the looks of it, maybe something from the family, an heirloom to get her started out on her own. The mattress has been removed since Archie’s last visit to the apartment, but Lidia Hays had bled enough that a faint person-shaped dark red stain is visible on the box spring below. The blood spatter around the bed makes the gray carpet look like it has been scattered with rose petals.

  Archie leans against the wall just inside the bedroom door as Gretchen takes a few tentative steps toward the bed. He doesn’t talk to Debbie about his work. He lets her think it’s because reliving his day is too upsetting for him, but the truth is he is rarely upset by what he sees anymore. The crime scenes haven’t bothered him for years. But he doesn’t want Debbie to know that. He worries it will scare her. It scares him sometimes.

  “It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Gretchen asks, looking back at him.

  He is only mildly startled by the question. He is used to Gretchen’s ability to read his mind. She’s a psychologist, after all. “I’ve seen a lot of this kind of thing,” Archie says. He chooses his words carefully. “The death bothers me. But not the mess.”

  It strikes Archie how quiet the apartment is, without the presence of the crime scene techs and cops. He doesn’t hear any sounds of neighbors. There’s no traffic.

  Gretchen takes a step toward him, her back to the bed. “I didn’t see you yesterday.”

  “I couldn’t get away,” he says.

  “You work too much,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  She is facing him. They are eye-to-eye. He is just a few inches taller than she is, and when she wears heels they are the same height. She tucks her fingers between the buttons of his shirt and touches his abdomen above the waist of his pants. Her fingers move, caressing his belly, and he feels waves of heat radiate down his legs. She brings her lips to his and he accepts her mouth hungrily. He loses himself when they kiss. He has from the first time. The things he usually finds important drift to the background until only she remains.

  She pulls her mouth away and smiles. “I’ve decided that you need to let go of your inhibitions,” she says.

  “Are you calling me uptight?”

  She keeps her eyes fixed on his as she digs his shirttails out and then starts to unbutton his pants. He is already hard from the kiss and he wants to let her continue. He needs this. He’s spent the last two days interviewing Lidia Hays’s neighbors and friends, he’s watched the ME slice her open and catalog her wounds, he’s worked through the night reviewing crime scene evidence and photos. Gretchen’s eyes are still on him, those perfect blue eyes, as she unzips his pants and moves her hand inside. But a glimpse of the bloodstained bed over her shoulder pulls Archie out of the moment and he puts his hand on her wrist. “This is a crime scene,” he reminds her.

  He fumbles to zip up his pants, trying to fight his ache for her.

  Her fingers play with a button on his shirt. “You said they were finished,” she says.

  He looks at her incredulously. “I’m not worried about evidence,” he says. “A woman was murdered in this room. It’s a crime scene. It’s not right.” She drops her hands and he fin
ishes tucking in his shirt. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get home in time to see his kids before bed.

  When he looks up, Gretchen is slithering out of her skirt. It drops around her ankles and she steps out of it, one stiletto at a time. Her legs are bare and her flesh-colored underwear utilizes a minimal amount of fabric. Archie can feel sweat beading on his upper lip. She lifts the blouse over her head and lets it settle in a gauzy pile on top of the skirt. Then she reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, and lets it drop to the floor. She smiles at him as she slips out of her underwear and kicks it aside.

  She is naked. Archie hasn’t stopped her.

  His breaths come heavily. It is suddenly very warm in this room. His skull is sweating.

  Gretchen stands completely nude, the grisly tableau of the murder bed behind her.

  “I’m not afraid of this,” she says.

  Archie’s mouth feels like sandpaper. The heat in his groin is almost overwhelming.

  “It’s going to be the best sex you’ve ever had,” Gretchen tells him. “Then you can go back to work, relaxed and ready to focus.” She glances at the box spring and arches an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to lie down?”

  Archie’s eyes move down her body. “Not on the bed,” he says. “Against the wall.”

  She gives him a wicked grin and then saunters to the wall and puts her back to it. He walks over to her quickly, already unbuttoning his pants. By the time he reaches her, he has his cock in his hand.

  She glances down at him approvingly. “It looks like you’re ready to go,” she says.

  He kisses her, all the while acutely aware of the bed behind him, of the fact that he isn’t the only one with a key to the crime scene and that anyone can walk in at any time, of the smell of decomp that still permeates everything. He knows that he will still stink of it when he gets home, and that the smell will remind him now of this, of Gretchen.

  He can feel Gretchen’s breathing quicken and her nipples harden under his hands. She lifts one knee and tucks her hips forward and he slides into her, and they both groan. He can feel her clinging to him as he begins to thrust.