Fear starts in as my entire body goes numb.
Two choices. I have two choices:
1. Run, praying he doesn’t shoot me in the back.
2. Sit down, play his game, and either convince him this isn’t the right way to handle whatever he’s dealing with or kill him before he kills me.
I hear my cell phone upstairs again. The house phone hasn’t stopped ringing.
I sit down on the far sofa. He’s sitting in the leather chair with the tall back.
“Why’d you leave?” He sets the gun on the ottoman next to him, putting his hands against his thighs, and rocks.
“I had to.”
“You didn’t tell me. Or Randall. Or anyone. You just left.”
“Where’s Randall?”
The house phone rings again. Then, my cell phone rings again.
“Goddamn it! Can you make the ringing stop?” He pushes his hands to his head for mercy.
“Why are they ringing, Clay?”
He stands and begins to pace the living room, the gun still on the ottoman. Clay’s hands are at his waist. He stares at my bare walls. “You should really think of painting in here.” Clay is a completely different person than he was five seconds ago.
The phones go off again.
His aggravation returns again, his face growing increasingly angry. Frustrated.
“Clay, why are my phones ringing?”
He stops and drops his hands, and he goes to a childlike state. “Alex, I did something really bad.”
Chills move throughout my entire body. Fear can be paralyzing.
“Actually, I did two really bad things.” He picks up his gun.
The phones ignite again. And so does his gun. Clay takes one shot and fires it through the roof.
I jump internally at the fire. The noise never finishes settling in my bones before I speak, “C-clay, I can make the ringing stop.”
He stops pacing now, clearly agitated. “You can?” It’s as if he doesn’t know that the noise that won’t stop is coming from the phones.
I nod.
“Please. Please do. Then, come back because we need to have a long talk. I need to tell you what I did.”
“Sure, sure. We’ll do that.” My legs are barely moving beneath me as I try to walk quietly to the stairs without freaking out.
Am I breathing? Am I holding my breath? I’m not sure. I can’t seem to take two steps at a time like I normally do even though I wish I could get upstairs faster.
There’s an eerie silence that falls in the house. Like something really bad is about to happen, but I don’t stop. I grab my phone on my nightstand where I left it, and with shaking hands, I grab the gun in my nightstand.
Quickly, I throw on a pair of jeans and strain to listen, but it’s just my breathing that fills the silence. Leaving my top on, I throw on a sweatshirt and shove the gun in the back of my pants, making sure it’s loaded before I do. Larry is out of sight, which means he’s probably found a new spot, a safer one, to sleep.
I want to call 911, but when I look at my phone screen, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. Kyle’s phone number obliterates my call log.
Kyle.
Kyle.
Kyle.
My heart drops and pounces across the floor. I can’t think about this now. I can’t. I dial 911 but don’t hit the Call button. If something happens to me, nobody will know that Clay did it. He could get away with it. What if he hid bodies? What if he killed someone? Is Clay capable of that?
I know he’s in some sort of state right now and that he might not notice I’m not back yet, but it won’t be long.
Maybe I can get him to calm down.
I make my way back downstairs, and Clay’s sitting in the same chair, staring at the coffee table.
The phones have stopped ringing.
“Thank you,” he says. He’s in a much calmer state.
I try to act calm as I take my seat. “So, you said you did some bad things, Clay?” The tone in my voice scares me.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“What did you do?” I feel the steel of the gun in my back.
“It started with your novels.”
“Which one?”
“Kill the fucking ego act, bitch. I’m not one of your groupies, all right?” The gun is casually in his hand now.
“Clay, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut the fuck up and let me talk.” After a moment, a slow smile begins to form on his lips. “Did you think it was fate?”
I’m confused. “What?”
He smiles bigger now. “The postcards. Did you think it was fate?”
Oh my God. Chills break over my entire body. The postcards.
“It was a good trick, right? Getting you to Granite Harbor? Eli. The whole bit.” Clay beams proudly.
My mind flashes to the postcards. They were postmarked in Brooklyn. Our flight, I asked Clay and Randall where they were headed from.
Brooklyn.
Clay’s face contorts to anger. “He never told you about me because I’m gay. He left my mom when I was eight years old. That fucking asshole!” he screams and begins pacing again.
“Who? Who are you talking about, Clay?”
“Philip Fisher, bitch! Don’t you get it?” He takes the barrel of the gun and taps his head. “My dad left us—left us—left his own child to take up relations with a whore. Blamed it on his sick father.”
Anger fires through me. I stand, knowing the steel is at quick reach if I need to take drastic measures. “My mother is not a whore.”
“I’m sorry,” he says in a childlike state again. “I’m sorry.”
“What did you do, Clay?” I ask firmly. I swallow the bile building in my throat, my mind spinning to catch up.
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.” He points the gun at the chair I was sitting in. “In order to ruin your life like my dad did mine, I needed to get to know you. I needed to know your quirks, what you did on a daily basis. How you handled yourself. I needed to know these things.” He pauses, as if caught up in a memory, and he begins to rock. “My mother tried to wash the gay out of me. She did rituals. Took me to some shady places at a young age, Alex, just so she could prove I was straight. Made me do unsavory things with people I didn’t know.” Clay slowly laughs, as if trying to push away his hidden traumas, bury them beneath the evil. “She was fucking crazy.” He rubs the back of his neck.
My heart breaks.
“But you … you had this great life in California with my dad. My dad, not yours.” Tears start to stream from his eyes.
I repeat, “What did you do, Clay? What bad things did you do?”
His eyes grow dark, heavy, scary even. “I’ve read your books, Alex. They’re shitty, just so you know. Your heroines are always getting what they want in the end. Bitches. Always these happy fucking endings. Not this time.” He pauses. “I took Lila. She reminded me of you. So, I practiced on her. Took things from her, from her body. I wanted to make sure that, when I got to you, I would be an expert with a carving knife.”
I can’t breathe.
“I took animals and practiced on them. But then, Eli started investigating these unusual animal deaths—oh, wait. I mean, murders. Funny how that works. I thought he fit the bill. The sickening men that you write about in your books with muscles and shit. Disgusting, by the way. Not all tough men have muscles. Anyway, you don’t want to know how long I’ve been stalking you. And poor Kyle. Such a sad thing.”
“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. You don’t get to say that!”
Please, God, don’t let him say what I think he’s going to say.
“Look, I had to get Kyle out of the picture, Alex.” He pauses and smiles. “Plot twist.”
My heart is no longer beating, or I can’t feel it. My fingers are numb, my body weak. I want nothing fucking more than to pull the gun out of my back and shoot this asshole. But I can’t. I can’t. I need to know.
I go to speak, but nothing comes out.
“After I started the fire at Brenda’s house that killed Kyle, knowing it would obliterate your heart, it just wasn’t enough. I still felt this itch that needed scratching. So, I came to Belle’s Hollow and began making friends at California Fire Tech. Was able to pull reports, Kyle’s signature, so I could learn to perfect his writing.”
“You fucking asshole,” I whisper under my breath.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“How fucking dare you.”
“Can I finish?” Clay stops talking and stares. “I knew, in order to get you to Granite Harbor, I had to lure you in somehow, and voilà! Kyle’s handwriting on the postcards. And you should have seen the look on your face when Eli walked in that morning.” He winks. “I texted him to ask him to come try the cinnamon rolls. I knew you’d make the connection.” His face changes, looking sullen.
I’m silent for a long time. Helplessness penetrates my organs, and I feel it overcome me.
He knew Kyle would run in the house to save Brenda and her daughter. Knew what kind of man he was. My heart falls into a million little pieces. With this act, I know for certain that Lila is no longer alive. Knowing Kyle’s body is at rest gives the strife in my heart some freedom, but the Richardsons need closure, too.
“Where’s Lila’s body?”
Clay rolls his eyes and crosses his legs, leaning back in the chair, casual.
“Where-where’s her body?” I build strength.
Clay laughs a gut laugh and then stops. “Off the Appalachian Trail, about two hundred yards. You won’t find her.” He pauses. “Do you think you’re getting out of here alive, Alex? I fucking think not. Now, the plan is, I’m going to send your body parts to your parents in the mail because I think my dad deserves for his heart to be broken, don’t you?”
No.
Fucking. No.
“Clay, he has Alzheimer’s. He won’t know what’s going on.” And I say this to protect them, not me.
Please, God, keep them safe.
I have to fight for my life because I won’t allow him to do this to my parents. No fucking way. My stomach tightens and my mouth grows watery.
“What about Randall?” I whisper.
“Yeah, about him. Sad face.” He changes to a sullen look again in a childlike state. “I had to kill him, too. He caught me. That little booger. He followed me one night to visit Lila. When you left Granite Harbor, my plan failed. Really, I was going to kidnap you because you’re the one responsible for all this. If you had not taken my dad, if my dad hadn’t met your mom, he would have come back.”
I stare at him, terrified to move. I swallow sandpaper and hear my heartbeat pulsate in my ears and I move slightly to adjust myself on the couch.
“Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?”
My phone must have called when I moved.
Fight or flight.
I pull my phone from my back pocket.
I look at Clay, whose eyes have changed from anger to something more sinister, eviler, more awful.
Betrayal.
Hatred.
Scarier than I’ve ever seen. But I have to fight to save my life.
“My name is Alexandra Fisher. I live at 27834 Redwood Trail in Belle’s Hollow. Come quick. And, if anything happens to me, Clay did it.”
“Fucking bitch!” he screams and lunges at me.
I meet him midair.
A gun fires.
I land against him as we fall to the floor. I’m not sure if I’m shot, but I still have strength. Not knowing where his gun is, I knee him in the balls. He grunts, and his face contorts, but his hands slide around my neck and squeeze.
Clay pushes off the floor and throws my body under him, like I’m a rag doll.
He’s too strong.
My vision is starting to turn to black as his hands tighten around my neck. My hands go numb, but they still move on the floor, searching for my gun.
Steel. It’s warm from being in my pants. My hands shaking, my fingers stretch and contort to get my hand around the butt.
Things are fading quickly. Too quickly. I can’t breathe.
Please, someone help me.
Kyle is overhead.
Am I seeing things? Has Kyle come to bring me home? Oh, my Kyle.
Kyle is yelling over the top of Randall, whose face is red, sweaty, angry.
Kyle, what are you saying to me?
I can’t read your lips.
Starts with an F.
I hear the word loud and clear.
FIGHT!
I feel the steel again, grab the gun, and open my eyes and see Clay, still squeezing. Still red. Still angry.
I pull the hammer back with my right hand and fire the gun.
Twenty-Five
Eli
January 16, 2018
“Fuck.” I’ve never gotten sick on the job. There have been times in my career where I’ve wanted to, but this time, I feel instantly sick, and wretchedness builds in my throat. It’s early in the morning.
Lydia’s the one who called it in. She’s sitting in a chair next to the cold case, clearly distraught.
“Are you all right?”
She quickly nods, though I know she’s not.
“He’s behind the counter,” she whispers.
When Lydia called 911, immediately, they requested backup because of the scene. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens like this in Granite Harbor. I take this shit personal.
The EMTs take Lydia outside as James Lent, the patrol officer, throws up in a trash can after mentally taking down the gruesome scene. He’s gray.
“James, go outside, all right? Get some air.” I’m still ticked off at him for taking Alex to the airport.
Ryan is behind me, Ethan and Aaron trailing behind him.
“They called all units in the area,” Ryan says breathlessly from behind me and then, “Oh, fuck. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Randall, innocent Randall, is sprawled out on the floor, dark red blood stuck to the floor, thicker areas still wet to the touch, his face barely recognizable.
Ryan walks outside.
We’d already known who did this. Clay isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. He left a trace of hair on a scene when we finally recovered Lila’s body on the Appalachian Trail. A hiker had come across her body. Whether the evidence will hold up in court with this scene, we’ve got to find something that will stick.
State Police went to Clay and Randall’s house to make the arrest, but nobody was home. Their next stop was the bakery, but last night, no one was there.
This makes my stomach grow sick again. Could we have saved Randall?
Among the awfulness, I see Randall’s hand holding something white.
“What’s that?” I ask Aaron.
He leans forward, not wanting to step into the crime scene too much, for fear of a botched investigation. “Looks like a piece of paper?”
Ethan is already taking pictures with his phone, just in case. “I’ll give these to the investigator once he shows the hell up.” He snaps them as if he’s seen this before. Or maybe he’s grown more accustomed to this type of gruesomeness than most. Being a combat veteran, he’s seen a lot of really bad shit before.
The State Police Crime Lab arrives on the scene as well as two State Police detectives, the Sheriff’s Department, and two FBI agents in a matter of seconds behind us.
We back away from the scene but not before I ask one of the detectives to look at the piece of paper in Randall’s hand.
He agrees.
Before we’re outside, I call Alex’s cell phone because I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Hey, can you do a search for Alex’s home phone number?” I ask Ryan.
“On it.”
Lydia’s sitting in one of the patrol cars, talking with one of the detectives. “Did you say you needed Alex’s home phone?” she says, shielding her eyes from the bright sun that January brings.
I stop. “You have it?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah. You don’t?”
“No, I never got it.”
She scrolls through her phone, her hands still shaking. “Is she in trouble? Here. What’s your number?”
“I hope not.” I try to push away this nightmare that is becoming a reality.
I give it to Lydia, and she sends the contact info to me.
“Thank you.”
I try several times to call Alex’s home phone. “Come on, Alex. Pick up,” I say as I get in my truck.
Fuck! My heart begins to pound. Why isn’t she picking up?
I try again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
I slam my hand on the steering wheel just as one of the investigators calls to me from the front door of the bakery.
“Hey, Young, you’re going to want to see this.”
I jump out of my truck and jog over to where he’s standing. The white piece of paper is already packaged for evidence, but I can clearly read the words sprawled out in black ink.
ALEX MADE ME DO IT.
“You need to scour this scene. Don’t leave anything unturned. You’re looking for the same killer who killed Lila Richardson. His name’s Clay Mahoney. He was Randall’s partner. You need me for anything?”
He shakes his head.
“Good, because I need to catch a flight to California.”
I make calls to the Belle’s Hollow PD Chief and make them aware of the situation. I tell them that they need to get to Alex’s house, stat, or they’ll have my ass to deal with when I get there.
“Warden Young, the threat has been neutralized.”
“What?” My heart stops and then starts again. My stomach sinks.
“Based on what we’ve surmised from the crime scene, Clay’s dead.”
My stomach grows uneasy.
I suck in air. “But how?”
“In self-defense, the victim was able to keep her life.”
“She killed him?”
“Yes.”
My head falls against my headrest. How can I be elated and sad, all at the same time? I’m three thousand miles away from who I love most. She’s probably traumatized again, and I’m probably the last person she wants to talk to.
I take an overwhelmingly big breath, so fucking grateful she did what she had to do. “Where is she?”
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