Elizabeth didn’t say anything.
“Also, when Lang was here this morning, he asked me if I knew someone named Katherine Jones. The name didn’t ring a bell. But it’s weird, because when he said the name, I got this really funny feeling. And now I can’t get the name out of my head.”
CHAPTER 31
ELIZABETH DUCKED DOWN in the front seat of her car as Boyd’s headlights flashed as he drove past her. She’d just watched from three blocks away as he’d burst from his house and jumped into his car. He had been in a big hurry.
She’d left Chelsea sleeping at her apartment. Chelsea drank the entire bottle of wine all by herself before 2:00 p.m., then had vomited it all up—along with the enormous amount of food she’d eaten. She’d put Chelsea to bed with some Valium, then driven out to Marblehead. It was barely 4:00 p.m. now, but the sky was prematurely dark due to an approaching storm.
As Boyd’s car disappeared around a corner, she felt the fury rise inside her again. She was pissed at herself. She should never have let things go so far with Boyd. No, she never should have let it happen in the first place. She wasn’t happy that it had to come to this, but Boyd had left her no choice.
He wouldn’t leave Chelsea alone and was going to ruin everything. She had hoped her first visit with Lisa would have done the trick and kept him away. But it hadn’t. So now she was being forced to take more drastic measures. Boyd was once and for all going to stop screwing with Chelsea’s head.
Elizabeth drove the car to a neighboring street and parked. Then she stepped out of the car. A bitter wind roared through the trees and stung her eyes as she walked up the street toward Boyd’s house as inconspicuously as possible. She plunged her hands inside her sweatshirt pockets. She clutched a key to Boyd’s house in one hand. A knife was in her back jeans pocket.
She’d taken Boyd’s house key the last time he had stayed over at Chelsea’s apartment. He and Chelsea had been sleeping in her bed when she’d stopped by. When she’d removed it from his key ring, she wasn’t yet sure what her plan would be, but as usual, her instincts had proven right. The key was about to come in very, very handy.
She looked around one final time, then walked up the sidewalk that led to his porch. The house was dark except for a light glowing from a second-floor window that she guessed was the master bedroom. She knew for a fact that Lisa was home because she’d watched her pull a pair of curtains closed half an hour ago.
She slid the key into the lock and turned it gently until she heard a soft click. Then she pushed on the door, wincing as the hinges squealed. After opening the door a little wider, just enough to slide in, she quietly shut it behind her, then turned around and gave her eyes time to adjust to the dark.
The entryway was massive, but she wasn’t able to see much else. Just the soft light from upstairs, at the top of a wide staircase.
Blood pounded in her temples as she crept slowly, carefully up the stairs. When she reached the top landing, she surveyed her surroundings. In the dark, she could make out a long hallway with four doors. Most of the doors were at least partially open. A light was on in one of the rooms. The master bedroom.
She moved carefully toward the door. When she reached it, she leaned up against the wall and peeked through the crack. Lisa was lying across her bed, reading a magazine. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and she was dressed down in a T-shirt and yoga pants.
Elizabeth pulled the knife out of her back pocket and took a step sideways. A floorboard creaked beneath her foot.
She froze.
She heard movement from inside the room.
“Boyd? Is that you?” Lisa called.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, then exhaled even deeper.
“Boyd?” Lisa called again.
The room went silent.
Elizabeth heard the box spring squeak as Lisa climbed off the bed, then soft footsteps as Lisa padded toward her.
Sweat beaded at Elizabeth’s hairline. She tightened her grip on the knife. It was showtime.
CHAPTER 32
“WHAT THE HELL is going on?” Boyd mumbled to himself, his pulse drumming in his throat. He looked down at his phone, waiting impatiently for another text message to come through. As soon as he’d received the text message, he’d jumped in his car. Now he was sitting at a bar called Leo’s, a dive in East Boston.
“Another one?” the bartender asked. She was old and had a thick Irish brogue. He looked up at her, not comprehending what she was saying. Too many thoughts were bouncing around inside his head, swirling and kicking up dust like a tornado. He stared, unseeing, at her coarse red hair. It was threaded with gray strands and was sculpted into one of those beehive hairstyles popular decades ago. A big blue pin in the shape of a butterfly poked out of it.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked himself again.
“Another whiskey?” she repeated, more loudly.
“Oh. Yeah, sure.”
She topped off his glass.
Leo’s was dark and mostly empty. Other than the Tom Jones song playing quietly on the jukebox a few feet away, the place was quiet.
Serious drinkers only.
Boyd’s hand shook as he raised the glass to his mouth.
He had been busy, arguing with Lisa, as usual, when the text came in. He hadn’t recognized the number, so he’d ignored it at first. But when Lisa started in on him about how she didn’t believe a word he said and knew that he’d been cheating on her and that he needed to get his shit out of the house immediately, then went on a long, tiring diatribe about how worthless he was, the phone served as an excellent distraction.
He certainly never expected the text to say what it did. Seeing the name on the screen jarred him and transported him right back into the past.
We need to talk. Drive to Boston and find a bar. Once you’re there, text me your location. If you tell anyone about this, get the police involved, or do anything else stupid, Chelsea’s blood will be on your hands. I mean it. —E
Lisa had still been ranting as he’d jumped up, grabbed his wallet and keys, and left the house.
It had been two and a half hours since the text had come in. He’d texted Ethan back twice, telling him he was at Leo’s. But he hadn’t gotten a response yet.
Where had Ethan been hiding all these years? Was Chelsea in danger? Was he in danger? What did Ethan want from him? Where was he?
Boyd had started to call the police twice, but both times he’d stopped one digit short, remembering Ethan’s words: Chelsea’s blood will be on your hands.
What the hell?
Was Ethan watching him now?
Boyd scanned the bar. There were only two other patrons. An old man staring deeply into his nearly empty glass, looking as though he’d rather be six feet under than where he was, and a woman in an oversize fur coat who was quietly nursing a beer.
Boyd promised himself that if he got out of this in one piece, he’d go home, pack a suitcase, and just leave. He’d let Lisa have everything and just start fresh. He didn’t care if he had to bartend for a while, wait tables. He’d do whatever it took. He’d move somewhere else. Change his ways. Become honest for once. He’d learned his lesson the hard way.
He stared down at his phone.
Why hadn’t Ethan texted back yet?
He sat impatiently nursing his drink, waiting for another text.
CHAPTER 33
TWO TWENTY-FIVE-FOOT-TALL SPOTLIGHTS illuminated the pond like a football field as a police diver signaled to the tow-truck driver. The truck clanked and grinded as its pulley slowly turned.
Lang stood on the water’s edge along with about a dozen police officers, mechanics, and four men in hazmat suits. They all watched as the vehicle was slowly dragged out of the pond.
Lang’s heart pounded as he recognized the car as a silver Lexus. The same make, model, and color as Ethan’s car.
Holy shit.
As the car neared the shoreline, Lang could make out something, or someone, in the passenger se
at. He stood back as the men in the hazmat suits went to the vehicle. It would be a while until there was a positive ID, but Lang already knew who was in the car.
Ethan.
After all this time, they’d finally found him.
Did Katherine know about this? Was this why she’d lied about visiting Chelsea after the killings?
Lang waited patiently as the forensics unit gathered evidence and carefully removed the decomposed body. He studied the remains. The body was slimy and almost completely void of flesh. Green-brown algae had grown over much of it. Other than the basic shape, there was nothing human left of it at all.
One of the men in a hazmat suit approached Lang.
“Victim is unidentifiable. No wallet or identification. Papers in the glove box are all but destroyed. We’re going to do a full sweep of the rest of the pond to see if we can find anything else.”
Lang nodded, then tried Katherine’s number again. Again, he was put through to voice mail.
An hour later, the remains were being transported to the chief medical examiner’s office. Detective Miller from the Springfield PD walked up to Lang. “Katherine Jones was picked up in Boston about thirty minutes ago.”
“Boston? Where?” Lang asked.
“Office building downtown. Her vehicle was spotted in a parking lot. They have her en route to District D-4 for questioning. Warrant also came in to search the property.”
“Thanks.”
Lang watched as the supervising officer barked orders to start searching the premises.
He rubbed his chin. Katherine was in custody in Boston, so that was where he needed to be.
CHAPTER 34
LANG LIMPED INTO the Boston station, his back and knee on fire with every step. The station was musty and old, with fluorescent lights that cast a blue-gray pallor over everything. Uniformed police officers walked in and out of the bustling station, some of them escorting gang members, prostitutes, and drunks—two of them loudly proclaiming their innocence.
Lang pushed past them all until he reached the reception desk. The officer sitting behind it looked at Lang with a detached, world-weary gaze.
“Can I help you?”
Lang flashed his badge and explained who he was, then asked where Katherine Jones was being held. The officer gazed curiously at Lang and picked up a phone. He spoke in hushed tones, and almost as soon as he hung up, Detective Garcia emerged from one of the doors at the far end of the room.
“Lang,” he called. “Damn, how did you make it here so fast?”
“Getting used to the drive.”
“Damn, man.”
Lang ignored him. “Let’s go talk to Jones.”
“Can’t. She’s lawyered up.”
Shit.
He had hoped to speak to her before she sought counsel. Now everything would be filtered and measured.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Garcia said. “Her alibi is airtight.”
“No alibi is airtight,” he said. But it was just a reflex. He knew she wasn’t a suspect. But he also knew she’d been withholding information.
“Her alibi is,” Garcia continued. “She was in Germany at the time of the homicides. Air force. It all checked out.”
Lang remembered. But he still wanted to speak with her.
“Did anyone else have access to the property when she was stationed in Germany? A relative? Friend?” he asked Garcia.
Garcia shook his head. “We didn’t get that far. But look, her lawyer just wants a half hour with her. And that expires in”—he glanced at his watch—“about fifteen minutes.”
Lang processed Garcia’s words, realizing that would give him enough time to try calling Chelsea’s doctor again. He also needed to call Chelsea to double-check Elizabeth Jessup’s phone number. The one she’d given him was obviously wrong. “Okay. I’m going to step outside to make a quick call. I’ll meet you back here.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, Lang started for the heavy double doors that led out of the station.
“Lang!” Garcia called. He snapped his fingers. “You also asked about Elizabeth Jessup.”
Lang spun around a little too fast, sending a bolt of pain shooting up his back. He clenched his jaw.
“You sure you got the name right?” Garcia asked. “I couldn’t find anything on her. I even checked with Springfield Medical, and human resources says there’s no record of anyone ever working there by that name.”
A chill crept up Lang’s spine.
Something wasn’t right.
“Want me to run a full background check?” Garcia asked.
“Yes, please,” he said, adrenaline flooding his veins. He turned, heading back toward the station’s entrance. “I’ll be back. I need to run real quick and check something out.”
“How long?” Garcia asked.
“Thirty minutes. An hour, maybe.”
“It can’t wait?”
“No.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold Miss Jones.”
Lang limped toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 35
Meet me at Chelsea’s apartment in thirty minutes. Don’t be late, and don’t be stupid. If you tell anyone or bring anyone, it’s going to get messy.
Boyd read the text several times, goose bumps breaking out on his arms. His heart was racing so fast, he could hardly breathe.
What the hell was going on?
What did Ethan want from him?
And why him?
“Want another?” the bartender asked.
“No.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and threw it on the bar. He took a deep breath, downed the rest of his drink, and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 36
ELIZABETH WAITED IMPATIENTLY in Chelsea’s kitchen, trying to stifle a yawn. She’d just checked on Chelsea in her bedroom. She was in a deep sleep, courtesy of the special cocktail of pills she’d given her. Now, with most of the lights off, she stood by the kitchen counter and waited.
What she was about to do would be risky and had to be handled delicately. She’d taken the necessary precautions in case things didn’t go as planned. She’d found a secure place and had stashed a change of clothes, a fake ID, and other important papers with the money she’d collected from Chelsea’s fireproof safe. It would be enough to keep them going for more than a few months if that was what it came down to.
But she hoped it wouldn’t.
She didn’t like that she had to do this. It was dangerous, especially with Lang breathing down everyone’s necks. In the past, she’d gotten lucky, but she also knew that luck had a tendency to run out.
Shit!
Her job would be so much easier if Chelsea would have just listened to her and hadn’t gotten back in touch with fucking Boyd. She’d had a feeling this would happen.
All these years, she’d worked hard to keep Chelsea from spiraling, from feeling most of the pain she otherwise would have had to feel.
But now Chelsea was making it so difficult.
A knock on the apartment door jolted her from her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, and curled her fingers around the gun’s grip. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she watched the doorknob turn.
The door swung open, and Boyd appeared in the doorway.
“Hello? Why’s it so dark—”
“Close the door,” she commanded.
He peered in her direction and turned on the light.
Seeing the gun, he froze and lifted his hands in front of him. Even from a distance, she could smell liquor on his breath.
What a loser. Even drinking at a time like this.
“What the hell?” he asked, clearly startled. “What are you—”
“The door,” she snapped, her pulse throbbing in her ears. “I said to close it!”
He did as she asked. His eyes scanned the living room, over her shoulder, deeper into the kitchen behind her.
“Why do you have a gun? Where’s Ethan?”
“Sorry
. He had other plans.”
He stared at her. “I’m confused.”
“No shocker there.”
Boyd looked even more confused. “But I—”
“Come on. There must be a brain somewhere in that pretty head of yours. Think about it. Would you have come if I had texted you?”
“What the . . . ?” He frowned and looked at her for a long moment. “You texted me? But I don’t even—”
“I needed to get you out of your house.”
He took a step toward her.
She tightened her grip on the gun and raised it so that it was aimed at his face.
He took a step backward. Toward the bedroom. “Why are you doing this?”
“I didn’t want it to come to this, but you kept coming back.”
“What are you talking about? You texted me to come here. You just said so yourself.”
She motioned to the couch, where she’d placed the knife.
His eyes followed hers and widened.
“What the hell?”
“You haven’t asked me why I wanted you out of your house.”
Boyd was silent. A litany of emotions played on his face. He was even slower than she’d thought.
“Ask me!” she hissed.
“Why . . . why did you want me out of my house?”
“Because I had business to tend to. With your wife.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed. “My wife?”
She watched his eyes slip over the knife again, then quickly return to her. His face darkened. “What did you do?” he asked, his words coming out carefully. “What did you do?” he asked again, even more slowly, as though she were a toddler. As though she was the one who didn’t get it.
“I slit her throat.”
Boyd stared at her. He smiled nervously. “No. There’s no way.” But then the smile melted, and she watched the muscles in his jaw flex again. “This isn’t funny.”
“I wasn’t going for funny.”
“You . . . you don’t have it in you,” he stammered.
“You’d be surprised.”
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