Who was the note meant for? One of the victims? The police?
Was it a personal message to one of the two dead girls?
Was it a personal message to Chelsea?
Were the killings retribution for something?
In his first two days on the case, he’d looked for any other crimes that year or the two years preceding it that seemed to be related. He didn’t find any. But that didn’t mean there hadn’t been one.
He picked up his phone, dragged his thumb across the screen, and called the Boston PD to see if the handwriting or fingerprint analyses had come back yet.
Garcia wasn’t in, so he left a message.
He cracked his knuckles, then taped the photograph of the message left in the bathroom on the wall next to a photograph of the note Chelsea had received a few days ago. He stood back and studied both. Although there were slight variations, the handwriting was very similar.
But why would Ethan return after five years? What would he gain by toying with Chelsea and sending her an ominous note?
Was he worried she’d recovered memories from that night? And why now?
Did he perhaps get off on striking fear into her?
In people in general?
Or could it be just another part of the psychoses that had led him to kill in the first place?
He sat down and scribbled these questions in his notebook, then stood again and taped a large poster-size piece of paper to the wall. He wrote in big letters across the top: Evidence.
He glanced at the evidence report and wrote out a fresh list:
Fingerprints throughout house.
Small traces of Ethan’s DNA on Christine’s body.
Ethan’s fingerprints on the knife block that housed the suspected weapon. Missing knife.
Ethan’s disappearance, along with his car, wallet, and government-issued identification.
Lang hung another sheet of paper next to the evidence list. He drew a large question mark at the top of it, then started drafting a list below it:
Weapon never found.
No sign of Ethan since killings.
No activity of any kind after the killings: credit cards, phone calls.
He studied the list for several minutes. Most killers inadvertently revealed themselves within the first forty-eight hours, when they were still high on adrenaline and not thinking straight. They might make a call, use a credit card to buy gas to get out of town, or do a hundred other things that would leave a trace. Ethan had done none of those things. He’d left no paper trail. Not even one photograph from a toll-road surveillance camera.
This behavior, to Lang, suggested that the killings might not have been crimes of passion or impulse but premeditated.
And with a very focused and disciplined planner.
But why?
What could the motive have been?
Lang wrote the word: Motive.
Chelsea’s last memory, of growing tired and everything fading to black, had led Lang to initially believe the girls had been given Rohypnol, the best known of the so-called date-rape drugs. But toxicology reports for Rohypnol and other commonly used sex-assault drugs, like ketamine or GHB, all came back negative. That had been just one of the many dead ends in the investigation.
He pulled out photos of the victims’ bodies. Studied them yet again. Tacked them up on the wall. Then he made a checklist of what he needed to do next.
He would speak with Ethan’s mother, Michelle Klebold, again. Ethan’s father, Charles, a successful investment banker in Manhattan, had died of a stroke a year after the killings. Charles had been shocked when Lang had first shown up at their house, asking about Ethan’s whereabouts. A later report, from Duplechaine, showed that Charles had become borderline hostile when Duplechaine questioned him about the possibility that Charles and Michelle could have helped Ethan flee the country. Michelle Klebold’s behavior had been consistent throughout the investigation. She’d been morose and almost despondent, claiming to be worried about Ethan’s whereabouts and welfare. She’d quickly become a recluse, not wanting to show her face anywhere.
Lang forced another sip of coffee, then winced. His back was flaring up again, but he didn’t want to take his pain pills.
Not tonight.
He took them only when totally necessary. They made him too drowsy and his mind fuzzy, and he needed to stay sharp. He still had a lot of work to do before morning. It was going to be a long night.
He got up and went to the kitchenette, where he had unloaded the vitamins and protein powder Victoria had made him promise to take. He’d also promised Victoria he’d eat vegetables and drink plenty of water. And that he would call every night.
He opened the fridge and took out a carrot, peeled it with a knife over the sink, tossed it on a plate, and drizzled hot-wing sauce next to it. That would take care of his vegetable requirement.
Then he unscrewed the lid to the protein powder and pulled out one of the joints he’d rolled earlier—a pain medicine he had found to be as effective as many of the prescription pills his doctor had given him. He grabbed a lighter from a cabinet and then went outside. The night sky was gloomy. Another storm was rolling in. Boston had been getting hit with back-to-back storms over the last several months, while Springfield had remained dry. In fact, it was quickly turning into Springfield’s driest year on record.
He rolled his thumb across the lighter’s wheel, and the flame popped to life. He lit the joint, then snapped the lighter closed and took a long hit.
Although completely worn-out and in pain, he was happy that he was able to pick up this case. Had his supervisor known the true extent of his injuries, he never would have rehired him. Thankfully, upon early discussions about coming back to work on cold cases, Lang had found a physician who’d given him a much cleaner bill of health than his body could actually support. He couldn’t allow his accident, his injuries, to hold him back anymore. He knew he could do the job. He would just have to pace himself.
The joint burning between his thumb and index finger, he took another hit and let his mind wander back to those few days he’d worked the case. He again remembered finding Chelsea Dutton. It was a scene that would be imprinted on his brain forever. He also recalled his visits to the parents of the deceased girls. Those were always the worst part of his job. The sky had still been gray a little after eight that morning when he’d knocked on the front door of Amy Harris’s parents’ house. Her mother had been in flannel pajamas when she’d answered the door, her auburn hair disheveled from sleep. Mr. Harris had walked up behind his wife, and they had hesitantly invited him in, obviously fearing the worst. Lang broke the news the best way he knew how, told them that their daughter had been found dead. Mr. Harris had turned white as a sheet. Mrs. Harris had promptly slapped Lang hard across the face, then fell to her knees on their hardwood floor and wailed at the top of her lungs. After all this time, their pain still lived inside him. He’d wanted for so long for them and the others involved to get their justice. Now he was getting his shot.
Don’t screw it up, Lang.
He took another drag. A few minutes later, when his pain was down to a manageable level, he snuffed out the joint, opened the door to his motel room, and was greeted with a veil of heated air.
He stuck the joint back in the protein canister and was hanging the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob when his phone rang. He tossed the matches on the counter and grabbed it.
He looked at the screen. It was Victoria.
He swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hi, doll.”
“Hi, Pop. How’s the case going?”
It was great to hear her voice. He missed her and Nicky.
They spent a couple of minutes talking about the case. About Nicky and how he was tolerating the extra three hours of day care in the afternoons since Lang wasn’t there to help take care of him. Then he talked with Nicky, who asked if he’d bring him something when he got back. When Victori
a returned to the phone, Lang could tell she wanted to say something but was hesitating.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Silence.
“Victoria?”
“Are you going to be all right out there?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you’ve just been . . .”
“Been?”
“You’ve been drinking a lot lately, Pop.”
Yes, he had, but he didn’t think she’d noticed. He thought he’d hidden it better than that. Besides, it was a mistake. For months, he’d been becoming something he swore he’d never become: a cliché. The depressed cop who drank alone late at night. He hadn’t been the type who staggered to bed every night. He’d been the type who did it quietly, secretively. The kind who had learned how to function while under the influence. But obviously he hadn’t been as secretive as he’d thought. Victoria had noticed and been worried.
But he’d made some changes in the last few weeks. He’d slowed down significantly on the drinking. Had started supplementing the missed alcohol with the pot. Traded vodka for beer. Anything to avoid the pain pills most days and nights. He hated how they made him feel. Yes, he still had to take them, but usually no more than a couple of times a week.
He wouldn’t tell her any of this, though. It was something he needed to work through alone.
“Pop?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I just worry. About you, the drinking. But I also know you need this. The case, I mean. Being on the job again. I know it’s not enough for you to play Mr. Mom around the house anymore. I get it that you need more than that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still worry about you.”
“I’ll be fine, Vic.”
Silence.
Victoria hated to be dismissed. He could hear Nicky crying in the background.
“And Pop?”
“Yeah.”
“Janie told me she’s been trying to reach you, but you’re not returning her calls.”
Janie.
“You shouldn’t avoid her. She loves you. And she’s a great lady.”
Victoria didn’t get it. Of course he knew Janie was a great lady, which was exactly why he wasn’t responding. He’d told Janie that it would be best to just be casual. That he wouldn’t mind if she dated other men. It had hurt him to tell her that, but he’d needed to be fair to her.
After he hung up, he twisted open a beer, enjoying the cold maltiness on his tongue, its smoothness as it slid down his throat. But not so much the pang of guilt for having worried Victoria. She and Nicky were his heart. They were everything to him.
He went back to the bed and regarded the files before him. He was going to go through everything as many times as it took, until he got to the bottom of this.
He wasn’t going to let the killer slip through his fingers again. He was going to solve this thing. Once and for all. He wasn’t leaving Boston until he did.
CHAPTER 10
CHELSEA’S EYES FLUTTERED open to crisp sunlight pouring into her bedroom. Her heart swelled in her chest, remembering last night. How great it had felt to be intimate with Boyd, both physically and emotionally. She rolled over to face him.
And found his side of the bed empty.
She blinked, feeling a stab of disappointment. Had he left during the night without saying goodbye?
She sat up and instantly felt the dull throb of a headache. She rubbed the back of her head, regretting the amount of wine she’d drunk last night.
Then she saw something on her nightstand.
A note.
She grabbed it and lay back against her pillow. She unfolded it and blinked a few times until the letters came into focus.
Chelsea, I have an early-morning meeting at one of my shops, but you looked so incredibly peaceful, I couldn’t bear to wake you. YOU are amazing in every way. I’ll text you later. Love, Boyd
Love?
A memory flashed in her head.
Last night.
He’d whispered in her ear: I think I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you.
Her heart galloped in her chest.
Had he really said that? Or had her drunken mind manufactured it?
Surely, he hadn’t . . . didn’t . . .
Maybe she’d just dreamed it. After all, it would be very odd for him to say something like that when they’d been intimate for such a short time.
Her face stung from where the sharp stubble on his face had scraped her skin. As she slid out of bed, she felt a rawness between her thighs from—
Her smile widened as she remembered.
It had been a great night.
Better than great.
She made her way into the bathroom and stood beneath the showerhead, letting the hot water rush over her body. As the pounding water slowly revived her brain, she found herself curious about Boyd’s early-morning meeting. He hadn’t mentioned it last night, not that it meant anything. There were a lot of things about her days that she never mentioned to anyone.
She turned toward the spray and let it roar down against her forehead, then the top of her scalp—and forced the thought from her mind. There was absolutely no reason to suspect Boyd of lying, so she wouldn’t. She hated that her mind always seemed to go to the worst place possible.
Focus on last night.
Not just the sex, but the connectedness.
Think positive thoughts. Not paranoid ones.
A few minutes later, she sat on the balcony, drinking coffee and watching Harry attack his scratching pad. The morning air was freezing, and it felt and smelled fresher than usual, the way it always did after a heavy rain. She listened to the tinkling of a neighbor’s wind chimes and watched passersby strolling up and down the sidewalks below . . . and tried her best not to try to spot Ethan.
She thought more about Boyd. About the fact that since reconnecting with him, she hadn’t had the nightmare even once. And she was enjoying a lightness in her chest . . . was it joy? For the first time that she could even remember. Maybe she hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. Hadn’t realized that while she was busy trying to protect herself, she’d mistakenly made her world too small.
She thought again of what Boyd (might have) whispered in her ear.
I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you.
Had he really said that? She wondered again. If so, it was much too fast. It could also indicate that he was just on the rebound.
A key turned in the door. Chelsea looked down at her watch: 8:00 a.m. Almost time for the farmers’ market. The door opened, and Elizabeth appeared. She walked in and yawned, looking frazzled and exhausted.
Her nursing shoes squeaked across the Pergo as she made her way to the balcony and plopped down on a chair. She looked at Chelsea and grinned tiredly. “What’s with the big smile on your face?”
Chelsea hesitated for a quick moment, but then she decided to tell Elizabeth everything.
CHAPTER 11
A WEEK LATER, the air outside felt heavy and charged. The streets bustled with Bostonians as Chelsea plunged her hands deep inside her pockets, her pepper spray at the ready, and walked briskly toward her car. They still hadn’t found Ethan, and she was growing impatient.
Thunderclouds crowded the sky, promising yet another storm. The wind tossed leaves and an empty potato-chip bag in her path, but she concentrated on her surroundings. It was the first time she’d ventured outside alone since finding the note, and she felt a sense of unease.
The past week, she had been back to her normal routines with everything except her morning runs, which she really missed. She’d just worked her regular hours and spent most of her evenings binge-watching television shows by herself. Elizabeth had been working overtime at the hospital and spending a lot of time with a pregnant coworker of hers, so Chelsea had been on her own.
A block from her car, she spotted a blond man wearing sunglasses who matched Ethan’s height and build. He was on the sidewalk, a
dvancing quickly toward her. She felt a surge of panic and sprinted to the other side of the street, then ducked into a bakery.
When she looked back, he was almost two blocks away, still walking quickly.
It had just been another of her false alarms.
She spent the final block of her walk trying to calm down and talk herself out of her anxiety. When she was about fifty feet from her car, her breath caught again. Something was glistening on the sidewalk next to the passenger door.
What the . . . ?
When she reached her car, a cold flush swept over her skin. A large stone, the size of a softball, was on the hood, a sheet of paper was wrapped around it, secured with a rubber band, and her windshield had been shattered. She looked around, her eyes brimming with tears.
An old couple passed by her, staring curiously at her car, then at her. The woman’s mouth moved as though she was saying something, but the blood pounding in Chelsea’s ears was so loud, she couldn’t hear her words.
Chelsea hesitantly reached for the stone. She unfastened the sheet of paper and peered at it. Vines of ice wound up her neck. Someone had written a message with red marker.
YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME DO IT AGAIN, AREN’T YOU?
AN HOUR LATER, Detectives Lang and Garcia rose from the kitchen table to leave. Garcia had bagged the stone and taken Chelsea’s statement. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than just to crawl back into bed. Finding the second note and her windshield shattered was more than she could handle right now.
“I’ll request a patrol to pass by the building once a day until we have more, but I can’t make any guarantees,” Garcia said. He was a husky man, Hispanic, much bigger than Lang, very matter-of-fact. He’d shown up in a wrinkled beige suit and Lang in street clothes and a blazer.
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” she said. She folded her arms around her waist, willing herself not to shake.
Garcia smiled and went to the door. Garcia was nice enough, but he didn’t inspire the trust that Lang did. But then again, she and Lang had a history.
“Again, be vigilant. Try to always be with someone when you go out,” Lang said. “Especially at night.”
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