She’d told Lang that she hadn’t seen or heard from her son since a week before the killings. And Lang couldn’t help but believe her. He’d detected no nervousness. No deceit. Just resignation.
He finished off the microwaved hamburger he had picked up at a gas station. It was dry and tasteless, but it would have to do. He washed it down with another sip of coffee, then regarded the vitamins he’d promised Victoria he would take.
He glanced at his watch. It was getting late, and soon Nicky would be in bed. If he was going to call Victoria, he’d need to do it now. He sorted through the supplements and quickly downed them all because he knew Victoria would ask, and he didn’t like to lie to her. Then he grabbed his phone and hit speed dial. Victoria answered on the first ring.
Sure enough, the first thing she asked was if he was taking his supplements. He assured her he was taking care of himself. She asked if there was any headway on the case, and he updated her on the little he knew. Then she asked the question he knew had been lingering in her mind the entire conversation.
“And Janie? Have you talked with her?”
“Victoria,” he warned.
Silence.
As much as his daughter was pushing it, he couldn’t let things with Janie progress. Not until he got his shit together. Of course, he cared about her. Hell, he maybe even loved her. Okay, not maybe. He did love her. What man wouldn’t? Janie was not only attractive, smart, funny, and kind; she was also a self-made success. She’d built and sold a wellness blog for eight figures and never had to work again. So how the hell could he satisfy her? A washed-up former detective who relied on a small pension and supplementary cold cases to get by? Next to Janie, he hardly felt like a man sometimes.
He’d tried to explain that once to Victoria, but she hadn’t agreed with him, which wasn’t anything new. She thought Janie would love him regardless. Victoria was still young and idealistic.
“Pop?”
“I’m still here. But the topic of Janie is currently off-limits. Got it?”
He heard her sigh.
Ten minutes later, he hung up. His eyes went to the photograph of Boyd he’d pinned on the wall. Boyd had been very surprised to see him last week, and he’d definitely been nervous. Lang wondered if he was hiding something. But if so, what? He remembered Boyd from the day after the killings. He’d brought him to the station for questioning and found his alibi to be solid. He had been working at an all-night pizza shop when the slayings occurred, and he’d had a manager and surveillance video to vouch for him. Lang had wanted to spend more time with Boyd to learn more about Ethan, but his plans were interrupted by his car accident.
He needed to find out if Boyd was holding something back. He’d make an unannounced visit in Marblehead tomorrow morning. See if he could stumble upon something while he had the element of surprise on his side.
Listening to the steady dripping of the bathroom faucet, Lang lay on the floor and did the back stretches his physical therapist had recommended. He then went to the mini fridge and grabbed a beer and resumed his position on the side of the bed. He picked up a large manila folder stuffed with random notes and reports from Detective Duplechaine.
Duplechaine, unfortunately, had been incredibly disorganized and had written countless notes on scraps of paper he’d failed to have transcribed. Most were stuffed into big plastic baggies. Lang had already gone through the baggies once, but it was time to go through them again.
About twenty minutes later, he pulled out a stapled report, and a small Post-it note tumbled to the floor. He picked it up and read the words that had been scribbled on it in red marker next to a phone number:
Katherine—F/U immediately.
Katherine?
Who was Katherine?
The name didn’t ring a bell. Frowning, Lang stood up and walked to the wall to see if anything jogged his memory, but he couldn’t find anyone named Katherine.
Was she a friend of the girls? Of Ethan?
A witness?
There had been no reports filed about interviews with a Katherine. He’d gone through the file several times and was almost sure of it.
Then he had a thought. He searched through the papers scattered on the bed until he found the manila envelope he was looking for. Flipping through it, he found it—a list of Chelsea’s foster-family members.
Lang read down the list.
Katherine Jones. She had been the daughter of John and Delores Jones. One of Chelsea’s foster families.
Lang felt a twinge in his gut.
He grabbed his phone and dialed Katherine’s number.
CHAPTER 18
IT WAS 9:00 p.m., and Chelsea was parked in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Marblehead, four blocks from Lisa Lawson’s house. She needed answers. If Boyd wouldn’t give them to her, she’d have to get them herself.
The neighborhood was full of huge homes with expansive, well-manicured lawns, and just about every one of them was decorated for Halloween.
Lisa Lawson’s house was a gorgeous two-story colonial with a horseshoe driveway made of brick and river rock. It angled off to a large four-car garage. It was one of the few houses that wasn’t decorated for the ridiculous holiday. It also looked far too large for just one person.
It had taken all of five minutes to do an Internet search to find Lisa’s home address. And Chelsea knew she had the right address when she spotted Boyd’s Audi sedan in the driveway, along with another vehicle. An Audi SUV.
Tears immediately sprang to her eyes when she saw the two vehicles in the driveway, because it meant they were likely both home . . . together.
He had lied, hadn’t he?
She climbed out of her car, pulled the hood of her coat so her face was mostly hidden, and walked toward the house. Her heart thundering in her chest, she debated knocking on the door. Asking Lisa . . . or Boyd . . . or both of them what was going on. It was time she found out. And once she did, she would go back to the way things were before. Go back to taking good care of herself. Go back to her old routines, the ones that had been working for her.
Something or someone else would happen for her when the time was right. Something just as good—no, better than Boyd.
If only she believed that.
She thought again about how she’d been struggling before Boyd had reappeared. How she’d felt as though she was just existing, and how depressing and hopeless that had felt. She forced the thought away.
The neighborhood was quiet at the late hour. Streetlights cast a soft glow over the meticulous front lawns. Porch lights highlighted beautiful brickwork on the faces of all the houses. She watched plumes of smoke curl out of chimneys, and she breathed it in through her nose. Even the air smelled better here than in the city. More expensive. The wood smoke a little sweeter.
Lights shone inside several of the homes, but she didn’t see any of their inhabitants. She imagined this neighborhood didn’t get a lot of people walking through at night. What would they think if they saw her? Would they call the police? She looked around, trying hard not to appear as though she was doing so, but saw no one looking out of the windows.
Her insides were jittery as she neared the house. The large front yard was landscaped with lush shrubbery, and golden mums lined the walk leading up to the front door. English ivy tumbled from ceramic planters on either side of the home’s massive twin maple doors.
She walked past the house, crossed the street, and passed by yet again, trying not to be obvious but knowing she was probably violating a million stalking good practices. She should have thought of a plan of action before getting out of the car.
She passed the house one more time, craning her neck to get a look at the side windows. One on the first floor was lit. As she looked, she caught movement inside. A blur of beige or yellow.
Her pulse thudded in her throat.
Had it been Lisa?
Boyd?
She needed to get closer.
She walked to the end of the block and circle
d back once again, this time walking on the same side of the street as Lisa’s house.
Then she had an idea. It was a stupid idea, and she knew it.
Bad, bad.
So, so bad.
A brisk wind blew crisp leaves around her as she approached the house. She scanned the street one last time. Looked for anyone watching out windows. But as before, she saw no one. Okay, so she was going to go for it. She was going to look into Lisa’s window.
This is insane. You’re insane.
Even as she heard the words in her head, she felt herself step from the hard sidewalk to the soft earth of Lisa’s lawn.
Adrenaline flooded her body.
Just one peek. Just one. Just to see. Then I’m out of here.
Just one quick peek, then she’d drive back to Boston. After all, she was already here, and it had been a long drive.
Her boots sank a little deeper into the moist, cool earth as she got closer to the window.
This is a whole different league than Facebook stalking.
Seriously, you don’t do stuff like this. Crazy people do stuff like this. Peeping Toms and worse. This is such a violation of her privacy. His privacy. Their privacy.
Their.
She hated that there was a word that meant both Boyd and Lisa.
This is so against the law.
Panic zigzagging through her, she whirled around, headed back toward the sidewalk, back to her car. But after a few short steps, she spun around again, her breathing short and shallow.
Christ, what the hell am I thinking? Doing?
Shaking with both terror and excitement, she finally reached the window. Stepping over a couple of mums, she flattened her back against the house.
If anyone saw her, she could quickly cut past the side of the garage and into the neighbor’s yard. The streetlight cast wide shadows in that yard, and she could stay hidden most of the way back to her car.
Feeling a little safer with a plan, she focused on catching her breath. When she finally turned and stepped in front of the window, she found herself instantly staring directly into the living room.
Lisa was sitting on a brown-leather couch. She was wearing a black silk robe, and her blonde hair was piled loosely on top of her head. The light from the lamp next to her cast a warm glow over the side of her face, making her look almost angelic.
Chelsea’s eyes took in the room. The decor was right out of a Pottery Barn catalog. The dark-leather couch and matching chairs formed a semicircle around a large wooden coffee table. Mud-colored pillows and matching throws accented the decor. The room was beautiful and well put together.
She watched the fire dance in the redbrick fireplace, its flickering light highlighting the expensive-looking, impressionistic artwork that hung on the walls. On the mantel were several framed photos.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of the horrible contrast. This stunning, classy woman minding her own business and relaxing inside her upscale home. Looking like she completely belonged there in that magnificent house with her probably magnificent life. Then she, Chelsea, wearing all black, her discount-store boots covered in mud, lurking in the shadows, trespassing on this woman’s property. Shame flooded her, and she could barely breathe.
But she didn’t leave. She couldn’t pull her eyes from the scene before her. Not yet. She needed to see Boyd. She needed to see them together. How they acted together. Then she’d go.
She searched the room for any signs that Boyd might still live there, but she didn’t see any. Just his car parked in the driveway.
Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe there was another reason for his car being in the driveway. Maybe he was dropping off the finalized divorce papers. Or it was a work-related visit.
Chelsea studied Lisa a little more. She had hoped Lisa wouldn’t be as beautiful as her photos online. And that maybe, just maybe, there was something wrong with her. Some hideous deformity. But looking at Lisa now, through the glass, she could tell even from this distance that the woman was beautiful. Chelsea touched the ghastly scar on her cheek, more aware of it than ever.
When she saw Boyd saunter into the room wearing a T-shirt and sweats, she let out a small gasp. He walked toward Lisa, said something. Lisa frowned and said something back. Then he leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek. Chelsea’s world narrowed.
Oh, my God.
Her legs went rubbery.
Now she had proof. He had lied to her.
She’d been a fool to trust him.
Why had she been so damn gullible?
Her face burned. She was so done with him. She would drive back to Boston, and she wouldn’t think about him ever again. He was a pig, an asshole. She never, ever should have—
Boyd’s gaze swung to the window, and his eyes seemed to land on hers.
Chelsea ducked.
Oh, God.
Had he seen her?
She knelt next to the window frozen, unable to move.
Shit! Oh, my God!
Despite the cold, sweat popped out of her temples.
Oh, shit . . . please! You didn’t see me.
She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. Panic had its teeth in her.
She shouldn’t have done this. She knew better. What was wrong with her? She squatted, talking to herself and waiting for what seemed like several minutes.
Okay, so maybe he couldn’t see past the glass, she tried to tell herself. With a light on inside, he would have just seen the reflection of the living room.
She honestly had no idea if that was how it worked. If her logic made any sense. She waited for a couple of minutes, arguing with herself again, and when she didn’t hear anything, she began to calm down a little.
Your imagination was just playing tricks on you, like it always does. He didn’t see you. If he had, you would have known it by now.
Her frantic heartbeat slowing, she summoned the courage to stand. To look back in the window one more time. Then she’d head back to her car.
She stood. When she looked back through the window, Lisa was sitting exactly where she had been before, apparently undisturbed, but there was no sign of Boyd.
That was a good sign, right? After all, it had been a couple of minutes. If he’d seen her, he would have already come outside. Now she’d leave and never do anything this stupid again. She would stop stalking him . . . them.
Here.
Online.
Everywhere.
She’d delete his number from her phone. She would cut him out of her life completely, and—
A twig to her right snapped.
She froze, blood roaring in her ears.
She heard an angry whisper: “Chelsea?”
CHAPTER 19
THE NEXT EVENING Chelsea lay in bed, her chest aching. Her bedroom felt so cold.
She’d been lying in bed for several hours, but she had barely closed her eyes. Her mind was racing, and she couldn’t think clearly.
How come happiness is so fleeting, yet sorrow is not? she wondered, wiping her tears away with the heel of her hand. Was that everyone’s experience, or just hers?
Listening to the wet whisper of cars passing on the rain-slicked road below her apartment, she thought of the handgun. It was just mere inches away, tucked into the top drawer of her nightstand. Then she sat up, lit her bedside candle, and poured herself some wine, again nearing the bottom of a bottle. She took a sip and watched shadows dance across the wall.
Harry uncurled his lithe body and stretched. Then he walked over to her and nuzzled her neck, pressing his cold, moist nose against her face. He purred in her ear, trying to comfort her. She stroked him, then lay back down and turned on her side.
When Boyd had approached her in his yard the previous night, his eyes had glittered in the glow of a distant street lamp, and his tone had been sharp. He’d curled his fingers around her forearm and tugged her into the darkness.
“What are you doing?” he had whispered. His tone had been urgent, angry, and
terrified.
She had been so taken by surprise, she’d just looked at the ground, her heart pounding in her chest, wishing for nothing else but to fall into a deep black hole and never, ever be seen again. To rewind time and rethink her stupid decision. To—
She’d looked him in the eye and seen the anger there. Maybe even a glimpse of disgust. “You told me you’ve been separated a year now. That your divorce was almost final.”
“It was. I mean . . .” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Please. Just go. Now.”
His words, the tone he’d used, the grip he’d had on her arm had sliced deep. She had bolted across his yard until her foot caught on something. She stumbled, fell chest down on the muddy grass. But he didn’t come after her to help.
Maybe he hadn’t seen her fall, had already gone back inside the house. And if he had seen, could she blame him?
No. Because no matter if he’d lied or hadn’t lied, who did things like this?
Certainly not her.
Her mind hadn’t been firing on all cylinders.
She blinked now in her room, her eyes finding the pile of muddy clothes on the floor. Falling in his yard had only added insult to injury, and she’d driven home, filthy, humiliated, and angry with herself for being so stupid. Why would he lie to her like that? And what else had he lied about?
A fly buzzed past her ear, probably attracted to some uneaten food on the nightstand. She swatted at it, unable to remember how long the food had been sitting there.
She looked up at the ceiling fan and listened to it roar with every revolution. Then she reached over to her nightstand and felt for the razor blade. She unwrapped it and pressed her finger against its sharp edge. She watched a bead of blood surface from beneath her skin. Although she couldn’t fathom sticking her head in an oven like Sylvia Plath had done, she could certainly slice her wrists. She’d already done it once. And next time, she would get the job done right.
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