by Sara Shepard
Seneca flinched at the mention of her mom. “Maybe. I also called the hotels he stayed at in Dexby in April. It turns out that the Restful Inn and the Dexby Water’s Edge don’t have operational cameras. The Ritz-Carlton in New York might have, but they erase their security data after a month.”
“What about a credit card?” Maddox remembered how Brett had paid for the suite at the Ritz-Carlton—and the big party that had ensued.
“All the hotels say he paid in cash.” She massaged her temples. “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack, guys. We have to think. We don’t know Brett’s real name. We don’t know how old he is, where he’s from. Can anyone remember what he looks like, exactly? It’s like the more I think about him, the blurrier he gets in my mind.”
Maddox stared at the popcorn ceiling. Weirdly, he couldn’t remember, either. Brett was one of those guys whose features were so generic he could look different from every angle. Maddox thought of his clothes—those gold sneakers and oversized sweaters at Le Dexby Patisserie, the too-small tuxedo he’d squeezed into at Kevin Larssen’s engagement party, the crisp button-down and skinny jeans at the Ritz-Carlton. His style was all over the map. “And none of us have a photo of him?” he checked. They’d had their phones out plenty when they were together in Dexby. He’d certainly snapped enough pictures of Seneca.
“Nope,” Seneca answered.
“He texted me one once.” Aerin scrolled through her phone, then frowned. “But I didn’t save it, and I got a new phone since we saw Brett….”
A blaring sound made Maddox shift his gaze to the TV that hung over the counter. A woman reporter with dark hair and crinkles around her eyes stood at the Ralph’s mart they’d just passed with two red-eyed adults. “Investigators are searching for a missing vacationer named Chelsea Marie Dawson,” the reporter said. “Miss Dawson was at a party on the night of July tenth but never came home. Witnesses at the party say they saw her leave down a secluded path through the dunes, but no one can say what happened to her after that. If you have any information, please call the number below. Mr. and Mrs. Dawson are desperate for their daughter to come home safely.”
The reporter gestured to the man and woman next to her. Chelsea’s father made a statement begging for Chelsea to come home—and offered a reward to anyone who came forward with information. Chelsea’s mother looked comatose. A few pictures of Chelsea appeared on the screen, including the sweet one from the Missing poster. A lump formed in Maddox’s throat, and he looked away.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
A guy in a Phillies ball cap stood behind the counter, bending a straw back and forth. He had angular shoulders, a five o’clock shadow, and a jutting chin. “I can’t believe it happened,” he said softly, his gaze on the screen. “She seemed so sweet.”
“Do you know her?” Seneca asked.
The guy, whose name tag read Corey, kept his eyes down. “Not really, but my manager does.” He held up a finger and scurried into the back. Moments later, a petite girl with dirty-blond hair came to the counter. “Hi, I’m Kate. Yeah, everyone’s asking about Chelsea today. I didn’t know her that well, but I was at that party the other night. The one she went missing from.”
Maddox leaned on the counter. “Did you notice anything weird about her?”
Kate spun a silver ring around her finger. “Not really. She was mostly taking selfies. She had this new selfie stick, a motorized thing with a fan.” She made a face like she thought that was kind of lame, but then quickly shifted her features back to neutral.
Maddox fiddled with his napkin. “Did you know everyone at the party, or were there a lot of vacationers?”
She shrugged. “I recognized almost everyone. It’s a condo complex connected to a private beach club, and there was a guest list. I still can’t believe this happened.”
The door chimed, and new customers stepped inside. “Corey?” Kate called toward the back room. Corey didn’t materialize. Kate rolled her eyes, then smiled apologetically at Maddox and the others. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.”
Maddox leaned across the table after she left. “We need to get our hands on that guest list. If it was invite-only, and Brett’s telling the truth on CNC about being at the party, then he’s been making friends here. Someone must know him.”
“Though by a different name, obviously.” Seneca drained the rest of her coffee.
Madison looked around the café with trepidation. “Just think. Brett might have sat at this very table.”
Seneca blotted her lips. “Let’s not waste time feeling scared. Let’s play.”
Aerin tapped her manicured nails against the tabletop. “How?”
Seneca was about to speak, but the news came back on. A big banner that read Just In flashed across the screen. “Breaking news from the Avignon police station,” the reporter said excitedly. “Sources say that the authorities have a person of interest in the Chelsea Dawson case. Mr. Jeff Cohen, Chelsea’s twenty-one-year-old ex-boyfriend, was brought into police custody for questioning earlier today. Mr. Cohen was the last person to see Miss Dawson before she vanished, and eyewitnesses attest that the couple had been arguing. No one can account for Mr. Cohen after eleven until early the next morning. We’ll have more news on this developing situation as we receive it.”
A picture of Jeff Cohen appeared. He had thick eyebrows, a square jaw, large dark-rimmed eyes, and wavy brown hair pulled into a little knot at the crown of his head. Maddox twisted his mouth. He so didn’t understand hipster hairdos.
Then he realized what this meant. He turned back to the table and, for the very first time, met Seneca’s gaze straight on. When Seneca stared back at him, he could feel the connection between them. “That’s who Brett pointed to…”
“On Case Not Closed,” Seneca finished, narrowing her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” She picked up her phone, tapped the screen, and began to type. After she was finished, she slid the phone across the table for the others to read. Case Not Closed’s website was on the screen, and Seneca had accessed the private-message part of the site and composed a message to BMoney60.
Got your letter, B. We’re here. And we’re coming for you.
THE FIRST THING Brett Grady did when he came into the room, which he’d dubbed Command Central, was make sure the blackout shades didn’t show even a millimeter of sunlight. Then he fell into a big leather chair and switched on the monitor.
The Camera A feed shimmered into view. Chelsea lay on the little couch next to the bed. She didn’t have a blindfold on anymore—she’d ripped that off shortly after he left her, and then she’d gone to work clawing at the doors and windows, desperate to get out. Defeated, she stared blankly at the ceiling. Her hair was dirty and matted. Smeared mascara caked around her eyes. The bloody scrape from her knees when she’d stumbled—Brett’s only mistake—had turned into a brownish scab.
“Hello,” he said through the microphone.
Chelsea jumped and looked around. She was wearing the same blue dress she’d had on the night of the party, two days ago.
“Why haven’t you changed clothes?” He enjoyed the way the voice-changing software made his voice deeper and more robust.
She glanced fumblingly at the ceiling, the TV, and the walls. “Wh-where are you?” Her frightened tone was very different from the one she’d used when she’d told Jeff off at the party. “Who are you?”
“I laid out clean clothes for you in the bathroom. A red dress. Didn’t you see it?”
Chelsea blinked as though he were speaking Russian. Then she started to cry. “What do you want with me? Can’t you let me go?”
“I really think you should change clothes,” Brett said evenly. “And perhaps take a shower. I’m guessing you no longer smell like Aveda Rosemary Mint.”
She gasped. Her tears stopped, and her eyes widened. Brett could see the wheels turning in her little brain: How does he know what shampoo I use? Was she putting together the pieces?
Whatever. Even i
f Chelsea did figure it out, even if she had someone to tell, even if she was able to pry open the windows and run away, it wouldn’t make any difference. She didn’t know who he really was. No one did.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She stared at the television, though he was actually watching her on a camera hidden in a chink in the bookcase. “I’m a good person. I swear it.”
Brett thought of the endless conversations they’d had as “friends.” The favors he’d done for her. The things she’d confessed. The secrets he’d kept. All her flirty empty promises, and the little lies he’d caught her in. No, bitch. You’re not a good person at all.
He turned the screen off and slumped back on the chair. He could hear her wailing through the thin wall: “My parents are probably so worried. Hello? Hello! Who are you?” He fiddled with his phone, its bright screen blinding in the absolute darkness. As he scrolled through Instagram, his mouth pinched when he saw all the comments on Chelsea’s last picture. There were vigils, too. Bring her home, the captions read, under images of lit candles and solemn faces. He smiled.
Then Brett logged on to Case Not Closed. There were a few new messages, mostly old-timers weighing in about Chelsea’s case. Then he saw Seneca’s handle, and his heart lifted. He savored the message slowly. Got your letter, B. We’re here. This was good. Very good.
The last sentence—And we’re coming for you—gave him a chuckle. That bitch had no idea who she was dealing with. Brett’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, tempted to tell Seneca exactly what he’d done to her mother, down to the last grisly detail. At the very least he could tell her he’d found a ChapStick in Collette’s jacket pocket when her body was still warm. In fact, he’d smeared a tiny bit of it in the letter he sent to Maddox. Little did Seneca know that if she sniffed the paper, a little bit of her mom would be there, still present, still potent.
No, he told himself. He had to keep his head. He had to do everything according to the plan. Make her think she had a chance. But maybe there was one small thing he could do to rattle the cage. It was such a good idea that Brett tipped his head back and let out a long, deep laugh.
If those fools didn’t know who was boss, they would soon.
“YOU’RE IN LUCK, we have two rooms left,” Bertha, the proprietor of the Conch B&B, said to Aerin and the others Monday afternoon. “Probably the last in town, am I right? One is the Love Suite. It’s got a king bed and a Jacuzzi. The other has two single beds, and it’s on the first floor, next to the kitchen.”
Bertha was tough to look at without snickering—her hair was perm-fried, and an aquamarine stripe of eye shadow stretched from her lid to her brow—so Aerin peered at the rest of the establishment instead. In the foyer stood a curio cabinet filled with a huge jumble of stuff. It reminded Aerin of one of those I Spy books, where you had to find a tiny yellow ball in a photo amid lots of junk. There was a bowl containing paper clips, dice, and golf tees; at least seven Buddha statues; a whole family of grinning porcelain apples; a bunch of candlesticks of varying sizes; a ceramic frog wearing a tall yellow crown; and a bottom shelf containing nothing but creepy baby dolls dressed in frilly pinafores. The B&B’s foyer opened into a living room done up in poppy-printed wallpaper, crushed-velvet couches, a taxidermied Siamese cat frozen mid-pounce on the hearth, and a large tank containing a striped, spiky fish Aerin was pretty sure was poisonous. A scrawny elderly man sat at the doily-covered dining table, eating a bowl of oatmeal and patting a giant Doberman. When the man noticed Aerin staring, he gave her a lecherous wink. The dog spied Aerin and the others and began to bark raucously. Aerin jumped back.
“Oh, that’s Kingston.” Bertha followed Aerin’s gaze. “Best security system in town, but he’s harmless once he gets to know you.” She shooed the dog into the kitchen and put up a doggie gate. Kingston sniffed the air suspiciously.
Maddox coughed awkwardly and looked at Seneca. “How about you girls take the Love Suite? I’m not really one for hot tubs.”
Madison scowled. “How come you get your own room and we have to squeeze into one bed?”
“Two people per room,” Seneca advised. “Madison, you stay with your brother.”
“I don’t want to stay with him! He sleeps in his boxers!”
Maddox sniffed. “So?”
Madison pointed at Seneca. “You stay with Maddox, and I’ll stay with Aerin.”
“I’ll stay with Maddox,” Aerin said impatiently—judging by the look on Seneca’s face, the idea of sharing a room with Maddox made her feel extremely awkward. She handed over enough twenty-dollar bills to cover several nights. “Can you please bring a cot to the Love Suite?” she asked.
Then Madison and Seneca headed down a long, narrow hall lined with cat paintings while Maddox and Aerin climbed creaky stairs embedded with sand to the second floor. A door at the end of the hall was painted magenta and had the word love stenciled on it in fussy calligraphy. When Aerin opened the door, the scent of roses assaulted her nostrils. In the center of the room was a large heart-shaped bed covered with a quilt bearing the design of a naked man and woman frolicking through the Garden of Eden. A collection of antique mirrors hung on the ceiling, and in the corner was a hanging contraption Aerin was pretty sure was a sex swing. Colin Rooney, who she’d hooked up with last year, begged her to try the one in his parents’ bedroom, but she’d vehemently declined.
“Ew,” she whispered, wishing she’d chosen the twin room instead.
“It’s like a Victorian porno set.” Maddox dumped his stuff on the lumpy floral settee. “You’re welcome to the bed.”
“Gee, thanks. It’s probably covered in gonorrhea.” Aerin pointed at a large box Maddox had just set down. “What’s that?”
Maddox followed her gaze. “Oh. My drone.”
She felt a spike of annoyance. “We’re not here to have fun!”
“I know, I know,” Maddox said quickly. “I thought it might come in handy.” Then he peered at Aerin guiltily. “How’ve you been, by the way? I haven’t seen you around Dexby.”
Aerin rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we travel in the same circles,” she snapped. But when she saw the wounded look on Maddox’s face, she let out a sigh. Sometimes she unthinkingly reverted into her old ways with him, treating him like he was her nanny’s quiet, slightly hostile son who sullenly slumped on her family’s living room couch. That was before his mom married Madison’s dad…and before Helena went missing. “Sorry. I’m just tense. And scared. And pissed.”
Maddox nodded. “Me too.”
Aerin stepped into the bathroom, which, to her relief, did not contain a quilted basket of condoms or a crocheted caddy of antique sex toys. A tired girl stared back from the mirror. She tried to fluff her long blond hair, but it didn’t do much good. Her skin was sunburned from her time on That’s Amore. Her neck showed a hint of a hickey. Her hands were shaking, but that was because she’d drunk too much coffee at Island Time. Of course it was.
She pulled out her phone and looked at the third text Pierce had sent since she’d arrived. Miss you, babe. When are you back? After they’d docked at Pierce’s parents’ Newport estate, Aerin had called an Uber. She’d slipped away while Pierce and his buddies were playing basketball on the sport court. By the time they came up to the kitchen for Gatorade, she was already at the train station.
She considered not replying, but she didn’t like ghosting people—she had enough ghosts in her life. Might as well get this over with. I’m not coming back, she wrote simply. Then she blocked Pierce’s number.
Sighing, Aerin flung the phone on the sink and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Brett. That letter. It kept flooding back into her mind. Hearing hints about how he’d stalked Helena brought the nightmare back in nauseating fluorescence. Had Helena and Brett had a drink at the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central? How had he talked her into that? But she knew how. Helena was nice to everyone, even losers. She’d probably found Brett sweet, like Aerin had. An easy guy to flirt with. An ego boost. Ae
rin shut her eyes, trying to obliterate the memory of Brett’s face moving closer to hers at the Ritz-Carlton party. It made her want to get into the shower and scrub her skin until it bled.
But at the same time, there was something satisfying about the sick flare of fury that had grown in her since hearing Brett’s letter. She wanted to get this bastard. He needed to pay for what he’d done to her sister. She was going to find him—or die trying.
There was a bump on the other side of the door. She peered into the bedroom; Maddox was gone. The sex swing rocked back and forth. The tassels that hung from the lampshade jingled. The door to the hallway was slightly ajar, wide enough for a body to slip inside. And around the corner, just out of view, Aerin heard rustling.
Her heart leapt to her throat. Who was in her room? She thought of Brett’s gleaming eyes, his low chuckle.
Heart thudding, she crept into the bedroom. “H-hello?”
There was a footstep, and then another. A shadow appeared on the other side of the bed. Aerin let out a yelp, feeling her knees buckle.
“Wait!” a familiar voice called. “It’s just me!”
Spots formed in front of Aerin’s eyes, but the rocketing panic eased slightly. She was so disoriented, she figured her brain was misfiring. But when she looked again, she realized she wasn’t imagining things.
It was Thomas Grove.
THOMAS WAS TALLER than Aerin remembered. As he edged around the bed toward her, she noticed how his muscles pulled against his T-shirt. There was a brightness in his eyes, too. He looked settled. Happy. He was probably living an exciting life in New York.
Without her.
“It’s really good to see you,” Thomas exhaled.
“What are you doing here?” Aerin said at the same time, darting away from him, her voice frosty. “How dare you break into my room?”
“The door was open.” Thomas glanced at it, and indeed, it was ajar. “I saw the newscast about this girl named Chelsea Dawson. She looks just like…” He took a breath. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re looking for her?”
