by Sara Shepard
“SHIT.” SENECA STARED at the text. “We should have seen this coming.”
Maddox swallowed shakily. “Gabriel bugged his condo. That’s probably why he offered for us to hang out there all day. He wanted to know what we were talking about and how close we were to figuring out who he is. He probably heard us talking about Corey.”
“Do you think this is what Jeff figured out?” Aerin whispered.
“Probably,” Seneca said. She felt so frustrated. How was it possible they’d been in Brett’s home…and she’d missed it? And if Jeff had figured out the truth, why hadn’t he just texted his suspicions? Why was he waiting to see her face-to-face?
Unless he wasn’t sure he was right. Gabriel was a friend, after all. And he’d said he was standing behind Jeff’s innocence.
Aerin paced around, deep in thought. “So Gabriel—Brett—planted those rumors about Corey in the same way he planted rumors about Jeff on Case Not Closed,” Aerin added. “Anything to direct our attention away from his identity.”
Madison hugged a pillow tightly. “But people know Gabriel. We know Gabriel. Does this even make sense?”
“We don’t really know him,” Maddox scoffed. “We met him for a few minutes, and then he left. I didn’t get a vibe he was Brett, but he had on sunglasses, and he had different hair, and his voice was so surfer dude…not like Brett at all.”
“Thomas and I saw him at the party, but it was from far away,” Aerin said. “He was dressed up. And Brett was all in black. Why would Gabriel go to all the trouble to change if he was already fooling us?”
Seneca’s eyes lit up, the answer suddenly so obvious. “Unless he wanted you to see him, Aerin. He knew you’d focus on a guy in black. He knew you’d follow him when he ran out. It’s obvious—he wanted you to find Jeff. He led you there. It was part of his surprise.”
Aerin ran her hand over her chin. “Brett did take off kind of suddenly,” she said in a shaky voice. “And he went straight to that vacant lot.”
Seneca stood again. The sludgy, dirty feeling from having encountered Brett had faded, and now she felt refueled and buzzing. “Okay. If I were to do a timeline, I’d say Brett knew he was going to kill Jeff way ahead of time—that’s why he sent us that killer surprise message. He must have figured out a way to get Jeff to come. And who knows? My message about the Fitbit might have helped, too.” She felt guilty suddenly, like she’d been unwittingly pulled into Brett’s murder plot. “At the party, Brett put in an appearance as ‘Gabriel,’ the host. But when he realized Jeff was on his way—which I’m not sure how he figured out, except maybe he was tracking Jeff’s phone, somehow?”
“That’s possible,” Thomas interrupted. “There are apps that spy on phones.”
“Right.” Seneca nodded. “Anyway, after Brett realized Jeff was coming, he ducked out of the party and met him at the condo’s entrance. Took Jeff to the terrace. Found a shadowy spot and pushed him into the vacant lot. Then he changed into his black hoodie and reappeared at the party as this anonymous creeper, waiting for one of us to spot him.”
Everyone paused for a beat, taking this in. Thomas reluctantly nodded. “Whoa,” Madison said, looking stunned.
Maddox cleared his throat. “And doesn’t ‘Gabriel’ work at a realty place? Bertha told us she has a regular renter—that old guy, Harvey. Perhaps his company manages renters at this B and B, too. Maybe that’s how the dog knows him.”
“Also, living at that condo gives him easy access to the scene of the crime,” Seneca added. “He knew of a private path and parking lot where he could grab Chelsea. He probably knew of a spot where he could plant a getaway car. He also knew of a secluded terrace where he could kill Jeff. It all fits.”
Thomas paced the room. “So what do we do now?”
“Let’s check out the condos,” Maddox said. “The cops are crawling all over the place there, but we might get lucky. Brett might have left us a clue.”
Seneca nodded, crackling with adrenaline. “Bring it on.”
THE SUN WAS just coming up as the group pulled up to the condos. Some of the building was swathed with police tape because of Jeff’s attack. Quite a few cops stood out front, hands in pockets or tucked around coffee cups, their postures slumped and weary. Seneca and the others discussed a strategy about getting into the condos without a keycard, but it ended up not being an issue—one of the gates stood wide open. Maddox slipped through. “I guess they forgot to close this after the party last night?”
“Or else Brett is laying a trap for us,” Madison said warily.
Seneca’s stomach flipped. Could that be true? What if Brett anticipated their arrival? But then she straightened. No. The cops were here.
They passed the pool area, which was still messy with overstuffed trash cans, beer bottles, and colorful napkins strewn like confetti over the deck from the party. The deflated bounce house lay on its side. At the stairs that led to Gabriel’s condo they paused. “Look, it’s likely that Brett’s gone,” Seneca whispered. “He’s too smart to hang around the scene of the crime with all these cops. But maybe we can get into his place. Dig up some clues to where he went.”
Aerin bit on a thumbnail. The last thing she wanted was to be inside the place where Brett slept again. One time was enough.
A crack sounded through the air, and everyone froze. Seneca pulled the group under the stairs. Footsteps creaked to their left, then above. Someone was walking on Gabriel’s landing.
Aerin turned to Seneca, fear in her eyes. Maddox clamped down hard on her wrist. They might be smushed into the stairwell, but their bodies cast long, overt shadows on the pavement. If Brett came down here, he would see them immediately.
When a second crack boomed, everyone tensed. Next came a loud bang. “Open up!” a voice shouted. Seneca peered up the stairs. Two figures in black stood on Gabriel’s deck. Police officers?
A cop opened Gabriel’s door, which appeared to be unlocked. “Mr. Wilton?” Both men disappeared inside the condo. “Mr. Wilton, it’s Dalton County Police. Please come out. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Seneca looked at the others in alarm. “How do the cops know it’s him?” she whispered. Everyone looked just as blindsided as she did. Maybe they were just asking Gabriel questions because it had been his party? Because he’d been Jeff’s friend?
Suddenly, a bloop sounded on her phone. It was an alert Seneca had set up for the Chelsea Dawson thread on Case Not Closed. Chelsea Dawson, Avignon, NJ, has a new post!
She clicked on it. As she read the post, she frowned. This had to be a joke. Aerin studied her. “What?”
Seneca’s eyes scanned the message. “‘Always said I was a master,’” she read aloud, her voice faltering. “‘Turns out Chelsea’s cell provider’s records aren’t too secure, and I found out she’s got two phone lines, not one. I don’t think friends and family knew of the second line, though. Did a little digging into that second phone: lots of pics. Sexy ones that were way too explicit for Instagram—maybe she was hoping to upload them somewhere more hard-core that Mom and Dad wouldn’t know about. And she talks to only one person on this phone: someone named Gabriel. Anyone know who he is? Looks like her last text to him was moments after she fought with her boyfriend at the party. But she blows him off. I smell a motive!’”
Maddox looked stunned. “Who posted that?”
Seneca’s lip twitched. A hot, slimy feeling crept over her bones. “BMoney60.”
Aerin burst out laughing. “Yeah right.”
“It’s true.”
The freaked-out smile faded from Madison’s face. She peered up at Gabriel’s condo, then back at them. “Wh-why would Brett set up himself?”
“Is there a chance Brett isn’t Gabriel?” Maddox whispered.
Another crash sounded over their heads, and everyone jumped. The cops tramped out of the condo, guns lowered. Seneca craned her neck, desperate to see Brett, but the men were empty-handed. They looked frustrated. “There’s nothing here,” one of the
m boomed. “We have forensics coming, but I bet they won’t be able to find a single print. It looks like the whole place has been wiped clean.”
A tempestuous wind kicked up from the sea, bringing with it a blast of cold, unsettling air. Seneca suddenly understood. Brett was definitely Gabriel…but this was all part of his plan. This was all just a distraction. Brett was gone, and he’d already become someone else.
She watched as the police hurried away, then stared up at the door to the condo. It was ajar. “Come on,” she whispered, heading up the stairs.
“Why?” Maddox called after her. “Cops just said it was free of prints, and now you’ll get yours all over the place.”
“I just want to check it out. I won’t touch anything, and it’ll just take a minute.”
She slipped through the open door and into the space. The condo still smelled of sandalwood and cleanser, but as the cops pointed out, it was immaculate. The pillows were arranged just so on the couch. Everything gleamed from the refrigerator handles to the buttons on the microwave. Without touching anything, she peered into the sink and found no dishes—obviously, because that would leave DNA. She peeked into the bathroom. The mirror was spotless. The sink shone a bright white. Brett hadn’t left a toothbrush, a bar of soap, or a comb. The shower didn’t contain a single hair. The toilet looked unused. Pulling her sleeve over her hand, she tipped open the medicine cabinet, hoping to find Rohypnol or something like it—a drug that could have knocked Jeff out the first time he was Brett’s victim, the night Chelsea vanished. A single bottle of Advil stood on the top shelf. Of course Brett was too smart to leave anything incriminating behind.
She walked out of the bathroom, feeling uneasy. The others had gathered by the door, ready to bolt. Seneca wasn’t sure why she doubted the cops’ assessment of the place—she just had an odd feeling a stone had been left unturned. Suddenly, she spotted it: There, lying just inside the door, was a piece of paper. She ran and scooped it up. It was a flyer made of light, slick paper. Parts were crumpled, and the edges had greasy, food-stained fingerprints, but when she saw something in the corner, she gasped. “Holy shit,” she whispered.
Maddox crouched down and looked at it with her. “‘Sushi Monster,’” he read off the front of the flyer. “So?”
“Look.” Seneca pointed with shaking hands. In the corner, in faint pencil, were her initials: SF.
Brett knew they were going to come here. He knew they were going to figure him out. And he’d left this here…for her.
She just didn’t know why.
BRETT STOOD IN the empty room and peered out a gap in the dusty wooden blinds. The cops strolled out of the condo and climbed into their vehicles, looking dejected and puzzled. Moments later, he saw his ragtag bunch of pals slip upstairs. Brett felt a smile spread across his lips. Bingo. It was good to be back on track.
Yesterday, things had almost derailed. He knew Jeff had figured him out—through tracker software, he’d found that Jeff had checked out “Gabriel’s” social media accounts thirty-two times in the past day. He’d seen Jeff’s car passing by the condo three times between early yesterday morning and noon. When he called the realty office, his boss said that “that tall kid who’s been on the news” had been in to see him. He and Jeff weren’t that close. He wasn’t visiting for friendly reasons.
So Brett had gotten to work quickly, organizing his next steps, sending that message to Seneca about the killer surprise, convincing Jeff to come to the party after all. But he’d been so caught up in his plan that he’d made a critical error: He’d left Jeff to stew in his suspicions. Jeff could have spilled the beans to Seneca—or even the cops—before the party. Thankfully, he hadn’t…but Brett was astounded at this oversight. He was usually so calculated about every last detail. This could have been a disaster.
But he’d been spared. Everything was fine. And really, he’d only made a teeny, tiny mistake—barely a blip on the radar. He’d be more careful from now on. He was ready, and he was thrilled to ratchet up the game. Bring it on, he murmured silently to the group, watching them pause in the doorway of his condo. And then he paced through the empty house across the street, opened the front door, and locked it neatly behind him with his realty-office key. That was the nice thing about working there. He had access to all sorts of places all over town. Instant hideaways, whenever he needed them.
Later, instead of heading into Command Central, he unlocked Chelsea’s room and walked in. The air smelled fragrantly of lily of the valley. So she’d been burning the candles. Spritzing perfume.
The toilet flushed noisily. The door to the bathroom opened, and she stepped out dressed in the gold empire-waist minidress he’d left hanging for her in the open closet while she slept. Their eyes met, and she froze. Her brows pinched together, and for a moment, she smiled hopefully. But something in Brett’s face must have given him away, because she suddenly seemed to understand he wasn’t her knight in shining armor. The corners of her mouth went slack.
She turned an odd shade of yellow. “Gabriel?”
“It’s nice to see you,” Brett said, taking a step toward her.
Chelsea cowered back, hands curled at her chest. “D-don’t come any closer.”
Brett pointed. “I really like that dress. The color looks great on you.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“And you’ve fixed your hair. It looks so nice, don’t you think?”
Chelsea’s bottom lip trembled. When Brett took her arm, she let out a pained whimper. Her forearm felt boneless. “I thought you might like to see what’s going on in the world.” He led her over to the chair closest to the TV. “Here. Sit.”
Chelsea sat slowly, cautiously, seemingly understanding that he wasn’t to be disobeyed. She was spasming with fear, her knees jumping, her fingers twitching. Brett hovered over her, breathing in the herbal scent of her shampoo. He turned on the TV. “You’re everywhere now. You’re such a star.” On CNN, her picture popped on the screen. Her parents appeared next, looking haggard, like they hadn’t slept in years. Chelsea let out a choked wail and covered her eyes.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she whispered behind her hands. “Wh-why would you do this to me? I thought we were friends.”
Friends. That word was like a branding iron on his skin. Friends confided in each other. Friends didn’t lead each other on. Friends weren’t users.
Brett clucked his tongue. “Has it really been that bad? You’ve had food. Shelter. Makeup. I’ve noticed you admiring your new clothes in the mirror. I bet you really want to take a selfie.”
Then he slipped the phone out of his pocket. Chelsea’s eyes widened at its shiny pink case. Brett bet she was trying to figure out which phone it was—the one everyone knew about, or the one only he did. He remembered the day he’d bought the second device for her. Guys get jealous, he’d said. If Jeff finds out we’re friends, if he knows we talk so much, he won’t be happy. This’ll be our secret. Trust me on this one.
“I saved it for you,” he cooed.
“C-can I see that?” Chelsea reached for it. “Can I tell my parents I’m okay?”
He held the phone aloft. “Out of the question. But I’ll take a picture of you.” He held it to her face, super close, and on cue, she gave a small, weak smile. He looked at the screen. “Not your prettiest. Let’s try again.”
Chelsea swallowed back tears and dutifully smiled. Brett nodded—much better. Then, after a moment, she seemed to gather her courage again. Her eyes darted over his features. Slowly, she licked her trembling lips. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything to make you happy. I know you think I’m hot. Well, here’s your chance. We can be a couple in real life. We’ll tell everyone. Would that make you happy?”
Brett snorted. Didn’t she realize that was exactly why he’d chosen to punish her? Because she thought everyone loved her. Because she thought her beauty could afford her—and forgive her of—anything and everything. It was despicable.
&n
bsp; He uncurled her fingers from his skin. “It’s too late for that.”
Chelsea’s face crumpled. Then something caught her attention on TV, just past him in her line of sight. Jeff Cohen’s face swam into view. Suspect dead, read the caption.
Chelsea’s mouth dropped open. “Jeff’s…dead?”
Brett turned away. He rankled at the pain in Chelsea’s voice. “Why do you still care about him?”
Something new appeared on the screen. Second Suspect in Dawson Kidnapping Case AWOL. In the photo, Brett’s hair was longer than he liked. His beard was almost unbearable to look at, almost comical. Thank God he was shedding the look today. Because now, like the newscaster said, everyone was looking for Gabriel Wilton.
Chelsea stared at the screen, then at him. Her eyes showed a mix of vindication and fear. “They’ve got you,” she said in a small voice.
Brett snorted. “No, they don’t.”
He stood. Chelsea was staring at him in confusion, her pretty mouth hung open. All of a sudden, it was as though she was made of something extremely delicate—flour, maybe, or sand—and if he touched her, if he flicked her just so, she’d collapse to nothing.
“There, there,” he soothed. “No need to worry. It will all be over soon.” And then he patted the girl on her head, turned on his heel, and left the room, locking it tight.
AT 10:00 A.M., Maddox and the others stood on the main drag between a pancake house and an office called Golden Shores Realty. The pancake house was a bright space, painted in cheerful shades of yellow and orange; tourists were eating stacks of waffles and fluffy, buttery omelets. But the mood was fraught—there were three cop cars on the sidewalk, and the crimes that had rocked Avignon were on everyone’s lips as they waited in line for a table. Maddox had heard the name Gabriel Wilton from at least three different groups—the news had broken that morning that Gabriel was a “person of interest” in the Chelsea kidnapping case. As the news told it, an anonymous tip on a crime website revealed evidence of a second phone line in Chelsea’s name, and after some scrambling, the cops were able to track it down and look through its records. Apparently, Gabriel and Chelsea texted nonstop, including the night of the party. His flight from his condo without warning was very incriminating.
