It Ends With Her

by Brianna Labuskes

  She closed her eyes. When the burner phone had rung, she wished she had thought twice. But she hadn’t. She hated herself. She hated that she’d ducked back into the station’s bathroom so there would be no chance for Sam to overhear her. She hated the way her pulse raced at the cacophony of wild notes and symphonies that bounced against the cold tiles.

  She didn’t say anything, just let her name hang in the air between them, the static of the silence buzzing out of the little speaker she held to her ear. She squeezed her eyes tight against it—and the thought of what she was doing.

  “I saw you today,” the voice continued. It was silky, tantalizing. The snake in the Garden of Eden. She never wanted the apple, though. She prayed she never would.

  “Why didn’t you say hi?”

  There was a quiet exhale of air that might have been a laugh. “Ah, pretty girl, it’s not our time yet,” he drawled.

  She took the bait. “When’s our time, then?”

  “You’ll know.”

  She sank to the floor and let her head fall against the exposed metal pipe of the sink. She wanted it to draw blood even though she knew it wouldn’t. “Where are you?”

  “Where would the fun be if I told you that?” The tone was flirty, as if they were lovers exchanging banter and innuendo.

  “I haven’t had fun in years,” she countered.

  The tsking sound crackled against her ear. “Now, Clarke”—he always liked to draw out her name—“what about all the games we’ve played? So many games.”

  This was part of the game, too. Every word. Every tone. Every sound. Each a strategic move.

  “I never get to win.” There was a pout in her voice that she knew he would pick up on. She squeezed her thighs together, the flesh beneath her jeans a siren’s call. If only she hadn’t promised Sam, she would find the scissors she kept in her bag for emergencies and dig the point in, drag it along so that it left torn skin in its wake.

  Instead, her fingers drifted to the crook of her elbow, her thumb pressing not so gently into the ink there.

  He laughed, a soft, elegant sound that didn’t suit him at all. “It’s not about winning, my sweet Clarke.”

  “It feels like it is.”

  “Then you’re not paying attention.” His voice turned brittle. His temper was a short-fused powder keg. One minute he was petting, charming, reassuring, and the next he plunged the knife in with almost no warning.

  “Tell me,” she said, her voice soothing. “Tell me what I should be looking for. What am I doing wrong?”

  “You know what your problem is?”

  She gnawed hard on her lip. Of course she knew what her problem was. It was that she was hiding in a bathroom talking to the bastard. Something told her that was not what he was getting at, though.

  “You always think it’s the destination that matters,” he continued.

  “Is that why you have me chasing pointless clues across the freaking country?” She didn’t even try to hide the bitterness.

  “There you go again, my love. Remember, it’s not the destination that matters.” His voice was husky and affection filled. She shivered as it crawled over the sensitive skin on her back. “It’s the journey. One of these days you’ll understand that.” With that, the phone clicked off.

  What had he just said? She turned the words over in her mind, while she pushed to her feet. He was not a careless man. Everything he uttered could be imbued with meaning.

  She avoided her eyes in the cracked mirror and slipped the phone back into the small pocket in the side of her purse.

  Not the destination. The journey.

  The door swung open and she flinched back. “What the hell, Sam?”

  “You were taking too long,” Sam said, his eyes on her face. She knew there was guilt there. It was too raw to hide. “What’s wrong?”

  “You can’t just barge into the ladies’ room,” she deflected, moving to brush past him. He caught her upper arm, his fingers wrapping around the soft flesh just below her shoulder.

  “Clarke.”

  She met his gaze. It would be suspicious not to.

  Why couldn’t she tell him? She should tell him. Something always stopped her, though. Back when she’d first found the phone, she’d had Della run every test on it she could think of, to track any incoming calls and record them in case Clarke missed an important piece of information. Nothing. That first call had come from a drop phone, picked up at any Walmart and disposed of just as easily. The phone itself had been clean. There was nothing more it could tell them. At least that’s what she let herself believe. Because she wanted to.

  They never talked about it, but Della had suspected. Sometimes Clarke would catch her eye and see recrimination there, but Della never reported it. Maybe it would have been better if she had.

  Would she always need someone to save her from herself?

  “I still think he has her,” she said now to distract Sam.

  He knew the diversion for what it was. She could see it in the way his mouth worked over words he didn’t actually say. Finally, he dropped her arm and stepped out of her way, gesturing her into the hallway.

  “Me too,” he said.

  And that’s why they worked.

  “Not sure the locals are on board anymore,” she said.

  Sam shrugged. “Not the first time.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Now?” Sam touched her elbow, guiding her toward the hallways that led to the front of the building. She saw Lucas already waiting for them there. “Now we see how torn up our grief-stricken boyfriend really is.”

  Detective Lucas Sheffield drove like Clarke would have predicted: relaxed into the seat, one hand on the wheel. He had the air conditioner on blast, and the slight sheen of perspiration that had covered her body from her short time outside in the heat turned against her. She clenched her teeth to keep from shivering and glanced over Lucas’s lanky frame.

  Staunton’s finest.

  She’d missed the mark on him, and she was willing to admit it. If only to herself. Instead of being arrogantly territorial over his case, he’d immediately jumped on board with helping them. It hadn’t been with the eagerness of the young puppy at the desk, or even the grim determination of the chief. Lucas was simply being a consummate professional, and something about it was throwing her. Small-town cops were supposed to be dicks. Especially ones who looked like Lucas, and wore dusty jeans and baseball caps.

  Clarke shifted her attention to the houses that were much more McMansion than rustic-cabin retreat.

  “The rich kids stay out here?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we get a lot on the Fourth,” Lucas said, his words clipped from a hard upstate accent.

  “And this was Bess’s running route?” Clarke kept her gaze on the narrow shoulder, and her imagination filled in the scene. Cross would have had a car, would have picked the best place to isolate Bess. Maybe he surprised her, or maybe he’d come up with some ruse to get her to stop. Either way, it would have been over in moments. He knew what he was doing.

  “The boyfriend said she was running into town.” Lucas’s voice was careful, as if he didn’t want to be tripped up making overbroad statements of fact.

  “This is the most logical route, though, right?”

  Lucas nodded. “It is, yeah. It would be hard to get into town any other way, and we know she was seen here. There was an older couple who said a woman walked past their house headed back toward the lake about an hour and a half after we know she left for her run.”

  “So he got her on the way back,” Clarke mused.

  “Seems like,” Lucas agreed.

  It didn’t take them long to pull through faux gold-plated gates that seemed to be mostly for show. They crept through the quiet streets of the small community until they found the mansion Bess had been staying in.

  The door of the rental Peterson was staying in had an eagle knocker on it that challenged the world to question its patriotism with its fierce stare and wi
ngs that were poised for flight. Or battle.

  It didn’t bode well for the guys who had rented the place.

  A tall kid with a mop of brown curls and bloodshot eyes opened the door and spared them only a cursory glance before calling out over his shoulder, “Peterson, yo-o-o-o, it’s for you.” He then proceeded to walk away, leaving them standing on the stoop.

  It was then that she got her first glimpse of the boyfriend, bedecked in American-flag board shorts and laughing over his shoulder at something a passing leggy blonde had said.

  Peterson finally turned his attention to them and immediately sobered when he caught sight of Lucas, the smile dropping from his lips, the humor seeping from his eyes. He looked concerned. If only it hadn’t taken so long for him to tear his eyes from the blonde’s ass before he realized who was at the door, she might have bought the act.

  There was no preamble. “Did you find her?”

  Lucas cleared his throat. “Not yet.” There was sympathy there that Clarke wouldn’t have been able to show. “But we have had some developments in the case and would like to ask you a few questions.”

  Peterson nodded but didn’t move, and for a second he seemed frozen. Then he shifted to let them in.

  The moment she stepped into the place, the smell of sweaty sex and stale beer sent her reeling. It was all too familiar—comforting and disgusting at once.

  Peterson led them out to the deck. The gut-punching view of the lake and of the gentle mountains behind it was a clear visual of the price difference between this cabin and the one she and Sam were staying in.

  They all settled around the glass-topped table. Clarke picked the seat that gave her the clearest view of Peterson’s face.

  “Sorry about these jerks.” Peterson preempted any questions with a nod toward a group of tanned, movie star–attractive twentysomethings playing what looked like football. “They didn’t know Bess at all.”

  Past tense. Sam’s eyes flicked slightly, so she knew he’d heard it, too. For the truly distraught loved ones, it often took years—if ever—to accept that they should be using the past tense. It had been mere days for Peterson.

  “Mr. Peterson, I’m Clarke Sinclair and I’m with the FBI,” she said, watching to see how Peterson would react to that bit of news. He was impressed and a bit taken aback.

  “Call me Jeremy, please,” he said.

  “Jeremy,” she repeated dutifully, her tone easy. “We’d like to ask a few more questions about Bess.”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning forward, ever the eager beaver to help. His jaw was clenched, his muscles bunched. He looked like he was ready to leap into action to hunt day and night for the man who had taken his girlfriend. “Anything I can do to help you guys find Bess. Anything.”

  She had a sudden flash of an old John Lithgow SNL skit flit through her mind. Acting! Genius!

  “When was the last time you saw her?” she started.

  He was prepared for the question. “That morning. She was her normal, happy self. She ate breakfast with all of us. We had pancakes, and she made some eggs, too. And then we put on The Hangover, but the girls made these white cranberry mimosas, and we all decided to head down to the lake before the movie was finished. Bess wanted to run off some of the calories, though. She was a little self-conscious about her weight, to be honest. I told her she did not need to run as much as she did, but she never listened. Hardheaded.”

  That was . . . a lot of detail. Those who were guilty often sought comfort in minutiae. It meant the story was rehearsed; it meant the person planned out what they were going to say.

  Now, they just had to figure out if it was because he was actually guilty of murdering Bess or if it was because he knew they would suspect him of it.

  Either way, he rushed to fill the silence she’d let hang. People tended to talk to fill voids. If you let them sit in their own thoughts long enough, they’d often tell you what they never meant to reveal.

  “Not that she wasn’t amazing, also,” he hastened to add. “She just definitely had a mind of her own, that’s for sure.”

  “In other ways, too?”

  He shrugged. “She was stubborn, you know?”

  Was.

  “Mmm,” she hummed, low in her throat. “Had she been enjoying the vacation?”

  “Of course. We were happy for the chance to get out of the city. She is so amazing. She makes everything fun.”

  “A stressful time for you two?” She prodded. “Back in New York, that is.”

  “At work? Sure. But when is it not?”

  “And for her?”

  “Bess is a little . . . more aimless in her career,” he said. “She does not really get stressed out.”

  Clarke nodded. She wanted to convey she understood perfectly. Bitches be flighty.

  “Were there . . . Did you fight because of it?” she asked.

  “No. God, no. I just wanted her to be her best self, you know? She’s just so amazing.”

  “And the stress from your job? Did she get upset about that?”

  Again, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it shadow passed over his face. “Bess is the best. She is always so supportive. Like I said, she does not really get stressed out.”

  For the first time, Clarke had real doubts. She was good at reading people. She’d built a career on it. She’d seen people at their worst, when they’d been told a loved one had died. Everyone reacted in their own way. Some went blank. Some crumpled. Hell, some even laughed, a physiological reaction they couldn’t contain. The common theme, though, was that it wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t controlled.

  This, on the other hand, seemed like an open-and-shut case of domestic violence escalating. His body was completely closed off, tight and defensive. His arms had come up across his chest the minute she’d asked about how Bess had been enjoying the vacation. He was avoiding using contractions and self-validating his own lies by repeating the same wording multiple times, which were both clear signs of deception.

  And there was the blonde hair. For all the deviations that each particular case inevitably brought, the bastard never strayed from redheads.

  It was almost more to reassure herself than anything else when she pulled the well-worn piece of paper out of her purse. She hesitated. It might not prove anything either way. But, God, she didn’t want to be wrong about this.

  “Jeremy, do you recognize this man?” They hadn’t managed to get a picture of Cross. Ever. The only one they had was from when he was a young teenager, his skinny arm tossed over the shoulder of an even younger girl with a riot of red hair and a shadow in her eyes. The original girl. It haunted her, that image. Sometimes she traced the pad of her finger over the girl’s face and wished. Wished life wasn’t so cruel. Wished girls with bright red hair like the sunset could grow up in a world where boys with evil minds didn’t sap their fire. Wished the past wasn’t set in stone—that it was malleable and that she could change it.

  Wishing was for childhood, though, where that girl in the picture would forever be stuck.

  But it served its purpose, that snapshot. They’d had their digital forensics guy age Cross to what he should look like now.

  She slid a copy of the printout across the table to Jeremy. He took it, holding it up close to his face, his eyes darting. He lowered it with a frown, a deep crease just inside his right eyebrow.

  He nodded very slowly, his gaze meeting hers.

  Yes. Everything in her relaxed and slipped back into place. The world still made sense. Or as much sense as it ever did.

  Jeremy, however, knew this was not good news for Bess, and for the first time she actually believed the emotion she saw on his face.

  “I saw him the first time we went to town,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Is this the asshole who did it?”

  “Tell me about seeing him,” she said, ignoring his question.

  His gaze returned to the printout, his head swaying from side to side. He looked like he was trying to remember something.

  �
�We’d just stocked up, but Bess forgot to get something from the store,” he said. “I was waiting for her outside, and the rest of them were loading up the trucks.” He flicked a chin at the paper. “That guy came up to me and tried to bum a smoke.”

  Clarke stilled. She’d been expecting him to say he’d caught a glimpse of the dude somewhere in town. But, no, Cross had actually talked to him.

  “I said no and he left,” he said.

  “That’s it? You said no, and he didn’t say anything else?”

  Clarke saw tension around his eyes. He was lying.

  “Look, if you said something like ‘piss off’ and then your choice of slur word instead of just ‘no,’ we don’t give a shit.” She’d hit her mark there. “But if he said anything that would otherwise be helpful, and you continue to lie to us, I’ll have you charged with obstruction.” It wouldn’t stick, but she wagered he wouldn’t know that.

  A flush of red crept up his neck, a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

  “I mighta said something like that,” he finally mumbled.

  Exactly like that.

  “Did he react?”

  “He just smiled at me, real creepylike,” Jeremy said, with a shiver. “Then said something about how lucky I was to have Bess, but he didn’t say ‘Bess.’ He just said something like ‘your girl.’”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t take that kindly,” Clarke said.

  His fists clenched on the table, his knuckles white. “What was he doing looking at her? I should have killed him then and there.”

  That would have cleaned up everything quite nicely.

  “She came out just as I was about to, and when I looked back to see if he was still there, well, he’d left,” Jeremy finished. “That’s it. I swear. That’s all of it.”

  “Did Bess see him?” Sam finally chimed in.

  Jeremy thought for a moment. “No,” he drawled the word out. “She doesn’t really look at other guys when she’s with me.”

  Clarke bit down hard on the inside flesh of her cheek. She stood up instead of smashing his head into the table. “How long are you staying here?” The other men pushed to their feet as well, but he remained seated.