“She wouldn’t have left a note sitting at the crime scene.”
“Not unless she’d left it earlier, then came to confront Patricia when she didn’t respond, then forgot to remove it after killing her.”
“This is all conjecture! And what proof do you have that anything even escalated between them?”
“How about this?” Sloan pulls out a sheet of paper tucked away between the pages in her notebook. “Can you explain why phone records show the two of you calling each other shortly before Dr. Lockwood was killed?”
“Wait a minute,” Erin interrupts. “Can I please see that?”
Sloan slides the record across the table.
Erin inspects it and says, “Got a time of death for me?”
“Estimated between the hours of four and seven.”
“One of these calls was made at 7:37 p.m., which would be after the murder. How can you be sure my client was speaking on the phone to Patricia Lockwood before she was attacked?”
“That’s why they call it an estimated time of death.”
“Thirty-seven minutes seems like quite a stretch past your already estimated time, don’t you think?”
“And look a little closer at both phone records. Patricia didn’t answer that call, so there’s nothing to show she was alive at the time.
Erin shakes her head and scoffs, refusing Sloan’s eye contact.
“So,” Sloan continues, “we have a rather angry-sounding note to the victim from Ms. Harper, sealed within the scene where Patricia Lockwood was found murdered. We’ve also got a witness who saw you go back to the scene of the crime the following morning. And you know what they say about that.”
“A witness who happened to be you, no doubt,” Riley snaps at her. “Oh, but you haven’t been following my ass, so never mind.”
“That one wasn’t me.”
“Of course not. And I supposed that witness didn’t stick around long enough to see me put my note under the door after Patricia’s murder.”
“Nope.”
“This is ridiculous!” Erin intervenes. “You’ve been throwing bullshit against the wall to see if it sticks! This isn’t about guilt—it’s about a vendetta that goes back to the mistrial. Unless you’re planning to make an arrest, we’re done here. Call me when you’ve got some solid facts.”
Sloan effortlessly pitches Erin the kind of grin one might offer a small child who’s asked where the Easter Bunny comes from. She slaps her notepad closed, stands up, and says, “I was finished anyway.”
Erin waits until they’re outside and far enough away from the building to tell Riley, “We’ve got serious problems here.”
80
Wendy’s body has been removed from Riley’s apartment.
Erin calls a cleanup crew to wash down and decontaminate the place, but since it’s getting late, they won’t be able to start until tomorrow.
It doesn’t matter. All the soap and water in the world can never wash away the pain in her heart, or the horrid, bloody images from her mind. Aileen’s probably in the process of kicking Riley out, anyway.
Erin has offered to let Riley stay at her place for the evening until the apartment is finished. Although Riley is staunchly against reentering those turbulent waters, she has no other choice.
She decides to turn in early. She longs for time and peace to begin grieving her loss. Wendy was her only true friend, the one person who believed in her unconditionally, who understood her pain on a profoundly personal level. Just when she’d shown her friend there could indeed be safety and order outside the apartment, Rose stepped in and, in the most brutal way imaginable, stole that faith away.
She rolls onto one side, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to control stubborn tears intent on seeping through. She didn’t think her life could be any worse, and yet here she is, trapped in a world of hurt that keeps hurting harder. Suspected of two murders, and in one of them, as before, with no memory of the incident and nobody to believe her.
Two timid knocks hit the door. Riley doesn’t respond. A few seconds later, it opens an inch or two, and Erin asks, “Okay if I come in?”
Riley sits up. She pulls both knees toward her, wraps her arms around them.
Erin lowers herself to the bed’s edge. For a long while, neither says anything, Erin facing away from her sister and staring at a wall, Riley intently focused on the covers while repeatedly twisting them between her fingers.
“You know—” Erin stops to clear her throat, then tries again. “There’s this old adage that says, ‘The lesson will be repeated until it is learned.’”
Riley draws the blanket closer, stares at it, and continues twisting.
“I think that’s us,” Erin goes on. “We keep missing the lesson. It’s like we’re a broken record that won’t stop playing a one-note song.”
“We used to have it,” Riley says. “The right song.”
“But then life got messy.”
“So what do you think the lesson might be? What aren’t we seeing?”
Erin leans slightly forward, looks at the floor. “Maybe that when the relationship goes sideways, instead of coming together, we break apart, both scrambling to try to fix the situation instead of ourselves, both forgetting what we mean to each other.”
“What if that’s who we are now? Who we’ve become. Maybe we’re different people, too different to ever come together again.”
“I refuse to believe that, Riley. Because no matter how much we disagree, how much anger, how much utter frustration we feel toward each other—and no matter how hard tragedy tries to drive a wedge between us—there’s one thing I know is true.”
The two women look at each other.
“We’ve got fierce love between us.” Erin’s eyes well up with tears. “You know that, Riley, you have to. It’s not gone.” She breaks from their gaze. She looks down at her empty hands, shakes her head. Then, in barely a whisper, “I . . . I can’t be wrong . . . I just can’t be.”
“You’re not.”
Erin looks up at her.
“You’re not wrong. We’ve just lost our way and can’t find the road back.”
“I loved her, too,” Erin says, voice catching on each word.
“Love.”
Erin shakes her head with confusion.
“You can still love her,” Riley says. “She’s not gone. Only her body is.”
“Right. Of course. But aren’t I allowed to miss her, too? Don’t I get to make mistakes?”
“Sure.”
“Then let me in. Let me finally grieve her death with you instead of us doing it separately at the same time.”
Riley doesn’t reply.
Erin watches her.
And waits for yet another answer that never comes.
81
It’s morning.
And the rain is coming back.
Dark clouds like soiled cotton balls govern the skies, while tiny drops of rain spit against the windows of Erin’s house. The pavement is spotty. Wind gusts pick up speed.
Figures.
But the gloom doesn’t only live outside—it lives inside Riley, consuming her.
Erin’s blow-dryer starts up in the other room.
Riley snaps to. Hoping to avoid another awkward moment between them, she pads toward the front door on a trail of eggshells. In her car, she takes the Road to Absolutely Nowhere. The apartment will be clean later today, but safe is a whole other concern. She told Sloan that Rose could be on her way out of town, but that was just an attempt to urge the detective into action. Hurricane Rose is coming, still on a course of destruction, and whipping a path straight toward Riley.
So she drives with vigilance, keeping one eye trained on the road, the other on her rearview mirror. Comfort food is about the closest she’ll get to any comfort, so she stops at a greasy-spoon diner. Looking over the menu, she cringes at photos celebrating all the disgusting pancake dishes, each stack with a different topping sloppily thrown on and bleeding down the sides.
/>
Post-traumatic pancake stress.
She opts for the scrambled eggs.
The waitress delivers Riley’s meal, but she spends a good part of the time staring out her window on the lookout for Rose. Though she makes a valiant effort to eat, she knows that’s not going to happen. Not today. It isn’t that the breakfast is so bad—it’s that her nerves are on a fast climb. She drops her fork and gives up. No relief to be found here; in fact, she feels worse.
When the bill arrives, she digs through her purse but then stops, surprised to see her phone screen lit up with a voice-mail message and a string of missed calls. Then she remembers: desperately in need of sleep last night, she put the phone on “Do not disturb” in case Rose decided to call and brag about her latest victory . . . or worse. For a moment, she hesitates before opening her messages.
The calls are from Saint Francis Hospital.
She puts the phone to her ear, listens to the message.
“Ms. Harper, please call the hospital immediately.”
She does.
Erin has been rushed to the trauma unit.
82
The storm flexes its muscles.
On her way to the hospital, Riley pushes safety aside by speeding up through the onslaught of gusty rain. With each hurried turn, giant puddles erupt, belting the windshield with water on a slick road that feels paved with banana peels.
What if Erin’s car crashed in this awful weather, and what if her life is in jeopardy?
What if I never have the chance to reconcile with her?
And what if Riley wasn’t Rose’s next intended victim, after all, if she still had one more to knock down? The person who means the most to Riley.
Chased by flying sparks of red-hot anger, Riley swerves into the parking lot and leaps from her car and into the downpour, hotfooting it toward the entrance, perspiration in each tightly fisted hand.
Inside, she takes long strides down the hospital corridor, quick, short breaths punctuating her steps. Nearing the trauma unit, she rounds a corner, spots a nurse, then grabs her by the arm. The woman guides her to the nurse’s station to check on Erin’s information. Less than two minutes later, a doctor stands before Riley, who falters beneath his reflective gaze for a moment.
And Riley knows whatever’s coming can’t be good.
“Someone tried to slit her throat,” the doctor says.
That statement bounces through Riley’s mind, bounces hard, screams at her. Then the room swims around her, and the walls close in.
Is she . . . ?” Riley tries to push the rest of her sentence out through thick and narrow pipes but can’t.
“She lost some blood, and—”
“IS SHE ALIVE?”
“Yes. Bruised up, and there’s going to be a scar across her neck, but she’s stable.”
Riley locks both hands behind her head and releases the breath she’s been hanging on to. With reassurance that Erin will be okay, the peripheral questions begin to surface, so she asks, “How did it happen?”
“You’ll need to speak with the police, but from what I know, someone attacked her inside the parking structure at work.”
Just didn’t know you had one. A sister.
Rose knew damned well that Erin was Riley’s sister—she had to. The question was an act to appear innocent and unaware while still playing the role of Samantha.
She’s a lawyer.
What kind?
Defense.
Ahhh. So she’s a tough one, right?
What’s her last name?
An attempt to probe for Erin’s current information. Riley should have seen this coming, should have protected her sister.
“I need to see her,” she insists.
“Of course,” the doctor says. “She’s up on the fourth floor.”
Riley walks into the room and finds Erin staring at a wall. A white blood-spotted bandage circles her neck, and her elbows, knees, and face are marred by scratchy bruises.
This is my fault. My sister was nearly killed, and it’s because of me.
When she looks at Riley, her expression is hollow, a not-so-gentle reminder that nothing has changed between them since their uncomfortable conversation last night. Riley pushes her discomfort aside. Erin is safe, and that’s all that matters. With halting steps, she approaches.
Erin averts her interest toward the foot of her bed.
Riley tries to pretend it doesn’t feel as if her sister has jabbed a knife in her side. “Erin,” she says, recognizing how tortured she sounds, “look at me. Please . . . look at me.”
Erin does. But very slowly.
Riley sits at the edge of the bed. She doesn’t speak. Erin shows no visible reaction but maintains her gaze on Riley. It’s a start.
“Were you able to see who did this?”
Erin shakes her head.
No proof that Rose was the assailant, but it would be one hell of a coincidence if she weren’t.
“I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s so . . . This is . . .” Riley drops her head. She can’t cry. She cannot. She looks up at her sister. “You’re right. I haven’t been truthful, but it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It was something else, and I’m going to tell you. I promise, I will. Not yet. But soon. And when I do, this will all make sense—perfect sense—and you’ll understand. You’ll understand all of it.”
“I don’t know if I can believe you anymore,” Erin says with a voice enfeebled by her neck injury. “I’m tired, Riley. Tired of waiting to understand what never ends up making sense. Of trying to figure out why we don’t make sense. I . . .” Her speech falls into a barely audible whisper. “I’m dead tired.”
“So you’re just going to give up on me?”
Erin breathes in deeply but offers no answer.
And something inside Riley breaks apart, then shatters. Maybe it’s her heart. Maybe it’s her will.
Maybe it’s her whole world.
She tries to speak but can’t.
So she walks away.
83
Erin insists on going home the next day—the hospital warns against it, but she won’t back down, so they relent, but only with a promise she’ll take time off from work and immediately follow up with her primary physician.
But there’s not a doctor on this earth who can fix Riley’s problems.
It’s your turn to be crucified, my love.
Rose’s latest threat still echoes through Riley’s mind, louder than ever.
Out of sight is nowhere near out of mind where Rose is concerned. She’s gone back into stealth mode, is probably preparing to stage her next attack, and if history repeats itself, Riley stands a good chance of unwittingly landing right back in the woman’s dangerous and deranged hands.
Riley’s work isn’t done yet, either.
Get out. Stay strong. Trust your truth.
Infuriation replaces fear, determination shatters trepidation. She made her share of mistakes after leaving Glendale; the biggest one was letting Rose gain control of their relationship. But this is the part where Riley takes back the power.
You don’t mess with family.
She folds Clarissa’s shirt to put it away for the day, movements quick, exacting, and decisive. “Rose messed with you, baby. Now she’s tried to do the same to Erin. But this is where it ends. It will be her last mistake. This time, I’m writing the story.”
She digs out her green-handled butcher knife from the planter, cleans it off, then holds up the razor-sharp blade to study it.
It’s time.
Time to step into action.
Kill her dead.
Goal set. Plan in place. Her logic is simple: one of the best ways to lure an enemy is to become the bait. There’s one victim left on Rose’s list, and Riley knows she’s it. The woman will show up here—it’s not a matter of if, just when—but Riley is ready. All it will take is some waiting and patience.
She checks the clock. She takes down the mirror in her living room, hangs it on the oppo
site wall.
The storm beats its chest, hurling down an onslaught of weightier showers. A flash of lightning explodes through the sky, followed by strident thunder.
She shores up her grip on the knife: Rose isn’t coming over for a chat—she’s coming to kill, and this time Riley will happily exchange roles, switching from prey to predator. She unlocks her door, then hides in her darkened kitchen and sits tight.
A few hours later, through her relocated mirror, Riley watches the front door handle rotate silently. Then the door cracks open. Then Rose’s face appears in the gap. Like a hungry hunter searching for her kill, she peers through, eyes sliding from side to side. She sneaks into the apartment with a canvas sack slung over her shoulder and a hammer protruding from it. When Riley hears the jingle of metal spikes, her heart punches hard and fast.
Rose turns her body to gently close the door. That’s Riley’s green light. She charges forward, the knife in her good hand, and with the other slings a hold around Rose’s neck and starts ratcheting up the pressure. Rose coughs, gags, and struggles to break free while Riley push-walks her deeper into the apartment.
But Rose retaliates with unexpected, roaring power. She reaches over her shoulder and digs her nails into Riley’s cheek. Riley brings the knife around, but Rose’s arm flies up, knocking the weapon out of Riley’s grip—it sails through the air, then clanks to a hard landing on the kitchen tile several feet away. Rose is about to break free from the arm hold when Riley jacks a foot into the back of her calf. Rose’s knee buckles and caves.
Rose chatters with pain. Riley scrambles forward to retrieve her knife, but the other woman quickly recovers and cannonballs a knee into Riley’s lumbar. Pain blasts up Riley’s spine as her body surges forward and she makes a facedown landing hard on the floor. Her lip is busted—she tastes blood—but that’s nothing compared to Rose’s crushing weight when it barrels down onto Riley’s back, chasing the wind from her lungs.
Harnessing everything she’s got, Riley labors to flip onto her back, but Rose maintains the upper hand and holds her firm to the floor. Riley jerks her head to one side and finds the knife; it’s a few feet out of range. Before she can stretch to reclaim it, Rose hitches both hands around Riley’s neck and squeezes. Keeping her completely immobilized and glued to the floor, Rose throws her whole body into the action, repeatedly and rhythmically grunting while she steps up the compressions. Riley fights for each languishing breath. The room whirls into a dizzying spin, and her eyes feel as if they’re going to explode in their sockets. This could be the end if she doesn’t act fast.
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 24