Disturbed

by Jennifer Jaynes

  “That must be frustrating.”

  “Yeah. It’s really confusing.”

  “What kinds of things have you been able to remember?”

  She shrugged. “A lot of stuff from my past. Like people’s faces mostly. Places that I think I might have lived. Nothing that makes a lot of sense, though, really.”

  “Are you in touch with any of your foster families? Friends from before the killings?”

  “No, not really. I did visit this one family a few years ago. The Duvalls. I lived with them for about six months, right before my semester at Springfield. But I mostly know that because I have a copy of my DCF file.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you were able to reconnect.”

  She shrugged. “Well, it didn’t go so great.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She explained that after she’d reached out to them, they’d invited her to dinner at their house in Longmeadow, just south of Springfield, but it had been awkward. “They were nice, but they seemed very distracted while I was there. They had their hands full with two young foster kids who kept interrupting, like kids do, I guess. But even if they hadn’t, it wasn’t like we had much to talk about.”

  A jagged streak of lightning sliced through the dark sky outside; then thunder boomed, rattling the windowpanes. He watched Chelsea flinch. The cat stood up and stretched, then jumped down from her lap and sniffed Lang’s legs.

  Chelsea repositioned herself, tucked her feet beneath her body. “I know from my file that I wasn’t the best-behaved kid when I lived with them, so maybe it was that. Or maybe they were weirded out by my scars. Or the murders.” She shrugged. “Maybe they were afraid my bad luck would rub off on them? Yeah . . . who knows? But they seemed relieved when I said I had to go. So I didn’t call them again. And I didn’t hear from them, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well. It is what it is, I suppose.”

  “Have you been in touch with any of the other families who fostered you?”

  “No. After that night, I decided to put all that on hold. At least, for now.”

  He nodded his understanding. He knew from her DCF file that she’d had a terrible childhood. It was probably not a bad thing that she couldn’t remember all of it. He’d hoped, though, that she had reconnected with a few people. That she had a support system and was no longer so alone.

  The cat jumped into Lang’s lap and meowed. “And the night of the attacks? Any new memories at all?” he asked, scratching the cat behind the ears.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”

  Thunder rumbled again, but this time she didn’t flinch. “Did you see the note?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I stopped to see Garcia before I came here.”

  “What do you think? It’s Ethan, right?”

  “It’s very possible, but I’m afraid it’s too early to say for sure. Boston PD sent the note off to match the handwriting and check fingerprints.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing’s come back yet. It’ll probably take a couple of days.”

  “But I thought no one else knew about the message left in the bathroom. Wasn’t it confidential?”

  “You’re right. But unfortunately, information like that has a way of leaking, especially over time, so we want to rule out other possibilities.”

  “So I shouldn’t tell anyone?”

  “I’d strongly advise you not to.”

  “Okay.” She frowned, as though confused. “So, did you drive up here just to see the note?”

  “I wanted to see the note, yes. But I’m also reinvestigating your roommates’ deaths.”

  Chelsea’s eyes brightened. “Really? You’re reopening the case?”

  “Well, it was never closed. It just went cold. But yes, I’m here to go through everything again with fresh eyes. Starting at ground zero.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, and she wiped at her nose. “I’m . . . so happy to hear that. I really need you to find him.”

  “Well, I’m going to do everything in my power to try. I’m going back to square one. And that includes reinterviewing everyone, so I’d love to get another statement from you telling me everything you remember. Think you could go over that night for me again?”

  “Absolutely.”

  For the next few minutes, Chelsea recounted everything she remembered as the cat dozed on Lang’s lap. He wrote furiously as she told him about the party and the people who had been there. Unfortunately, as she had warned him, these details seemed to amount to no more than she’d been able to give them years ago.

  When she was finished, he asked, “Did Detective Duplechaine tell you that Ethan’s DNA was found on Christine’s body?”

  Chelsea’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “His semen was found. Apparently the two had intercourse that night.”

  Her brows knitted together. “Oh, wow. That’s . . .” She trailed off as though she was processing the information, then shook her head. “No, he didn’t say anything about that . . . but I guess I’m not that surprised. He was like that. A pretty big player.”

  “Do you know if they had any history together? Him and Christine?”

  “No. I don’t think so. As far as I know, I introduced them that night.”

  He took down the notes.

  “So, how’s the rest of your health?” he asked.

  “My body still aches sometimes, and I have some nerve damage in my left arm, my hand,” she said, stretching out her hand, opening and closing it. “Nothing crazy, though. Thankfully, I’m right-handed, and my liver healed just fine. I could definitely be worse.”

  A memory of Christine Douglas’s and Amy Harris’s bodies flashed into his mind.

  Yes, she could, he thought.

  Much worse.

  “Has Ethan ever reached out to you? Since that night?”

  Chelsea stopped drinking her cocoa, midsip. “Except the note? No.”

  Lang asked a few more questions, then stood and handed Chelsea his card. “Like I said, I’m going to be here in Boston for a little while, looking into things. Until we know more, just be vigilant. Keep your doors locked, and don’t go anywhere alone after dark until we get to the bottom of this, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you get nervous being here alone, maybe you can stay with a friend. Or have someone stay here with you.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And if you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Okay.” She seemed like she wanted to say something but was hesitating.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Yeah. Do you remember Boyd Lawson? Ethan’s roommate?”

  “Of course.”

  “I ran into him a few days ago. It was the first time I’ve seen him since that night.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CHELSEA LAY ON the couch and thought about Detective Lang’s visit the other night. Although she would have thought seeing him again would have been upsetting, it had been surprisingly cathartic. Maybe it was because Lang held a sense of familiarity for her—something she hadn’t known she’d been longing for. It was the same thing that had made her approach Boyd.

  Plus, she trusted Lang, which was saying a lot for her. Maybe it was the way he listened. Like, really listened, without discounting anything. His sharp, watchful eyes steady and unwavering, as though he was interested in everything she said. But, of course, he was. He had a case to investigate.

  When she’d first opened the door for him, she’d been surprised by how intense her reaction to him had been. It had been difficult not to reach out and hug him. The more she thought about it, the more her reaction made sense. He had saved her life. If he and the other police officer hadn’t arrived when they had, she would have bled out and died.

  Rolling off the couch, she went to the bathroom to take a shower. Boyd was coming over tonight. When she’d texted him about the note, he’
d seemed concerned, but all he knew was that someone left a strange note. He didn’t understand the full gravity of it all. That it was connected to the attack.

  She ran the shower and undressed. As she washed, she pushed all thoughts of the note to the back of her mind and let herself wonder how the night would play out. If she’d continue to enjoy Boyd’s company as much as before. If he’d continue to enjoy hers.

  After her shower, she wiped steam from the bathroom mirror and studied her face. The scar on her cheek looked as intense as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes she couldn’t remember seeing for a long time. Maybe ever.

  Two hours later, Boyd arrived with Chinese takeout. When he showed up at the door, he looked concerned. “You doing okay?” he asked, setting down the bags. He folded her into a hug.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her stomach doing a flip-flop. She inhaled his scent. Tonight he smelled soapy, minty.

  He pulled away to look at her. “You sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m good.”

  “Still creeped out?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah. A little bit.”

  “And you’re being careful?”

  She was touched that he was concerned. “Yep.”

  “Good.” He smiled. He turned and grabbed two bottles of wine from one of the bags and held them up. “I wasn’t sure if these would be okay. If not, I can always take them back to my car.”

  “No. It’s great,” she said, showing him in. “You’ve successfully corrupted me.”

  He laughed as he sauntered to the kitchen. “Well, far be it from me to ignore a chance to corrupt a beautiful woman.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. The guy seemed to be the complete package: attractive, intelligent, charming, funny, successful. How could she have not noticed him as much in college? She bet his soon-to-be-ex wife really missed him. How could she not?

  They unpacked the food together, and he uncorked a bottle of wine.

  “So, where’s the note?” he asked, filling their wineglasses.

  “I don’t have it. The police took it.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, handing her a glass of wine.

  He went to the living room and set down his plate. “You made me,” he said, repeating the message that had been written on the note. “What the hell does that even mean? You made me what?”

  She shrugged. “I wish I knew.” Being in the same room with Boyd again, watching him try to decode the note, the little suspicion she’d had of him dissolved. It was clear that he was genuinely confused. Either that, or he was one hell of a liar.

  Again, she wanted to tell him that the same message had been written on the mirror the night of the murders, but she couldn’t.

  “You made me,” he muttered again, staring at the coffee table, still mulling it over.

  She realized that she wanted to talk about anything but that message. Or that night. “Hey, do you mind if we talk about something else for a little while?”

  He looked up at her. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. I’m sorry,” he said and stabbed a broccoli floret with his fork.

  “You don’t have to apologize. It’s just . . . sometimes it gets to be too much, and I need to think about other things. Normal things. Not about murder, nightmares, creepy notes.”

  “I get it. I should have been more sensitive.”

  “You are very sensitive. Seriously, I can’t tell you how good it’s been to be able to talk about all of this stuff with someone who really gets it.”

  He spooned lo mein noodles on their plates. “You know what you need right now? A good distraction. And, fortunately for you, I am very good at providing that very thing.”

  She felt herself relax a little. “Yeah? Corruption. Distraction. Those are some admirable traits.”

  “Yep, I’m pretty much an all-around asshole.”

  She doubted that. She looked into his kind eyes, and her heart fluttered.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what? Being an asshole?”

  “No. For understanding. And for being here.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

  They enjoyed dinner and the first bottle of wine, then uncorked the second and listened to music. They didn’t talk as much as they had over dinner, but there was something very comfortable about their silence. Chelsea found herself feeling more at ease with him than she could ever remember having felt with anyone, even her best friend.

  That was not to say she didn’t enjoy her time with Elizabeth. Elizabeth was amazing, but she was so together despite the difficulties she’d had in her own life, which sometimes made Chelsea feel a little intimidated. With Boyd, she felt like she was on a more even playing field. Also, when she was with him, she felt oddly free of the black cloud that had hovered over her since the attacks, painting the world darker than it probably should be.

  After a little while, Boyd reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth. He softly, slowly kissed her scars, making every nerve ending in her body tingle.

  “You don’t think they’re ugly?”

  “What? Your scars?”

  She nodded.

  “God. Of course not.”

  She studied him.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “I always thought you were beautiful. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “You’re even more beautiful now.”

  She cocked her head. “How’s that?”

  “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  No, she didn’t.

  “Chelsea, you survived something awful. Something that would have killed most people. If not physically, then mentally. And you not only survived; you’re doing incredible. You have a good job, a great apartment. You have a fantastic head on your shoulders, despite everything that’s happened. You’re kind, not cynical. It’s all a testament to how strong you are. How could anyone not admire you and think you’re absolutely incredible?”

  She studied his eyes, again searching for a red flag, any red flag that would tell her he was lying.

  His cheek jumping.

  Insincerity in his eyes.

  But she saw nothing but warmth.

  He traced the scar that ran from her nose to her ear with his index finger, and she shivered. Then he leaned over and softly pressed his lips against hers. She kissed him back, tasting wine on his tongue. He pulled her closer to him, and his kisses became harder. She felt a sexual hunger she couldn’t remember feeling before. The more they kissed, the stronger it became.

  “Do you want to go to your bedroom?” he asked, his voice breathy.

  They were moving fast, too fast. But she didn’t want to stop. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You sure?” he breathed. “Because we can, you know, stop.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  He hastily scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. He set her down on the bed and slipped her shirt off, then unclasped her bra. He trailed his fingers slowly up her ribs, his fingers on her skin hot and electric. She moaned as he molded one of her breasts with his hand and took the other one into his warm mouth. She fumbled to unbutton his jeans and lower his zipper and listened to his breathing grow louder.

  From there, everything became a blur of lips, hands, and skin. Their bodies one, the outside world melted away. All her worries had been silenced.

  When they were done, he wrapped an arm around her and nuzzled her neck. “My God. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, Chelsea,” he whispered. “No idea.”

  CHAPTER 9

  LANG HAD TAKEN up temporary residence at a motel in Southie. He sat on a chair next to one of the two full-size beds, sipping a stale coffee he’d bought at the convenience store around the corner. Scattered across the bed were various files, photographs, and police reports.

  He thought of what Chelsea had said about just happening to run into Boyd Lawson at t
he farmers’ market. He remembered Lawson well. When he’d interviewed him after the killings, the kid had been a drug user—prescription pain pills, mostly—and he’d been tight-lipped. Possibly because he knew something that he wasn’t sharing? Or maybe he was nervous he’d get implicated and they’d find out more about his drug use? Lang hadn’t been in charge of the investigation long enough to find out.

  He wondered now about their chance run-in with each other. Had it really been by accident? And just what did reconnecting mean? Was it just a friendship? Or something more? He found himself personally hoping it was simply a friendship. He’d developed a soft spot for Chelsea over the years and knew she could do much better.

  The wood-paneled walls and heavy maroon drapes kept out all ambient light, so it seemed much later than it was, which made him feel sleepier than usual. He had replaced the generic artwork that adorned two of the room’s walls with crime photos and news articles. The soft glow from the lamps mounted above the room’s two nightstand tables gave him barely adequate reading light. But it was all he needed.

  Garcia’s call had sparked something in him. Over the years, the Springfield Coed Killings had bothered him. Now he had a chance to approach the case with a new vigor, affording him a sense of purpose he hadn’t enjoyed in years, ever since the accident that had truncated his career. He wished he could confer with Detective Duplechaine, because his case files were extraordinarily messy. But Duplechaine had died of a heart attack while on the job a year earlier, so that wasn’t a possibility.

  Although it was likely that Ethan had been the one who had left the note on Chelsea’s car, Lang decided that while Garcia and his team put out their APB—interviewing neighbors and local workers to see if they’d seen anyone in the area fitting Ethan’s description—Lang would work the Springfield killings from ground zero to make sure they hadn’t missed anything important.

  He sipped his coffee as he shuffled through the crime photos and again found the note written on the mirror that night:

  YOU MADE ME

  The message had been etched in his brain long ago, along with all the questions that came with it.