Let Me Go

by Chelsea Cain

  She was trembling. Her hand shot up to the spot where Archie had touched her hair and she started to claw at it, pulling the hair loose.

  “It’s okay,” Archie said. “I got it.” He could feel the wet on his fingertips, a coolness on his skin.

  She had allowed a crack in her façade and now the wall was crumbling. Her hands tightened into fists. Her face tensed with fear. The skin of her neck and chest was rough with goose bumps. It’s what happened to people after car accidents, after the adrenaline surge dropped and the body indulged in all that repressed panic.

  Archie had to refocus her, keep her calm. “I can help you,” Archie said. Leo had talked to Archie freely with Star in the room. Archie didn’t know how much she knew, but Leo clearly trusted her with his life. Whatever their relationship was, Leo relied on her. If he was in trouble, he’d go to her for help. Archie tilted his head at the bag. “Is that for Leo?”

  She nodded, swallowing hard.

  “Where is he?” Archie asked.

  “In the guesthouse,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Can you get me in there?” he asked.

  She seemed to consider it, taking several long breaths. She was gathering herself, rebuilding the emotional wall. He watched it happen. Her bearing changed. She set her shoulders back. She lifted her chin. Her expression settled into a mask of pretty/neutrality. Finally she gave him a nod. “Maybe. If they think I’m taking you there for a party.”

  “A party?”

  Her eyes were hard now, her irises reflecting the orange flame. “I’m not here as a guest,” she said. “I’m working.”

  Archie digested this. So Star did more than dance. It made sense considering their introduction. But he had hoped, for her sake, that their interaction had been an anomaly. He measured his response, searching for the right level of nonchalance. “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

  Archie heard voices approaching. Star leaned forward and swiftly pulled the shirttails from Archie’s pants and then reached up to pull his tie loose. She fumbled with it for a moment and then Archie whispered, “It’s a clip-on.”

  He thought he saw her roll her eyes. But she unclipped it and opened his shirt collar.

  The voices were closer and Archie looked over Star’s shoulder to see two of Jack Reynolds’s security detail rounding the corner. Star pressed against him, the black bag between them, touching but not touching. Whatever was inside the bag, it was soft.

  The men looked at Archie and sniggered, but kept walking, and soon disappeared around the house.

  “All clear,” Archie said.

  Star stepped back, creating space between them. “If we run into anyone else, I may kiss you, so try not to freak out or cry or anything,” she said.

  “Sure,” Archie said, wondering what it was about him that made her think he’d cry if he was kissed. She took his hand and they continued along the hedge maze away from the light of the torch and back into the darkness.

  Her hand was cold, and as it warmed in his, Archie searched for something to say. He barely knew this woman, but they had shared an intimate moment. He had seen her barely clothed. He’d been turned on by her. But then, it probably hadn’t seemed intimate to her at all. She’d just been working. She’d figured him for a prude. If only she knew. “So is Star your real name?” he asked, the question sounding stupid even as it left his mouth.

  “Star’s my stripper name,” she said. The dark side yard opened up to a brightly lit gravel driveway filled with catering vehicles. Across the driveway was a vine-covered Tudor cottage straight out of a fairy tale.

  “My real name is Destiny.”

  Archie thought he saw Star wink when she said it, but he couldn’t be sure.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The door to the guesthouse was unlocked. But Archie noticed that Star opened it slowly, peering cautiously inside before she quickly stepped over the threshold, and pulled him in behind her, past the stone gargoyles that stood sentry on either side of the front door. No one had questioned them. Two men in catering uniforms with masks around their necks were leaning against a van smoking cigarettes, but they had barely glanced up as Star and Archie had walked by. Archie didn’t spot any of Jack’s security detail stationed at the back of the house, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  “There are cameras,” Star said, closing the door. “All over the island.”

  Archie didn’t know if she knew that for a fact, or if she was just being paranoid. But if she was being paranoid, it was contagious, and he found himself scanning the corners for telltale red lights.

  Inside, the house looked bigger than it did on the outside. The Tudor architecture carried over, with dark exposed wood beams and arched doorways, and stucco walls that had been expensively and laboriously distressed for authenticity. The lights in the room were on a dimmer switch and had been dialed down to the perfectly calibrated ambient glow of a high-end restaurant—barely light enough to see your food, but not light enough to read the menu.

  There was a selection of gowns spread out in the living room, and what looked like a makeup kit on a table, as if someone had used the space as a makeshift dressing room. Archie noted a red hooded sweatshirt cast over the back of a sofa, and a pair of black sneakers kicked under a chair. Susan had a sweatshirt like that. But so did half the people on the east side.

  “Upstairs,” Star whispered.

  Archie nodded and followed her out of the living room and up a flight of carpeted stairs. Their footsteps were soundless on the carpet and the house felt still and empty. But as they headed down the second-story hall, Archie could make out the faint sound of water running. Star stopped at a closed door and put her ear to it and listened. The water sounded like it was coming from the other side. “It’s me,” Star said. She turned the doorknob and pushed the door in.

  Archie followed her inside to a large guest bedroom suite.

  The door to the private bath was open, and Leo Reynolds stood in front of the sink, with the faucet running. He was wearing a tuxedo, but the jacket and tie were gone. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, and his sleeves were rolled up. The white fabric of the shirt was soaked with blood—arterial spray, low-velocity. The water in the sink was pink. He was cleaning up.

  Leo froze when he saw Archie. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands shook. Whatever had happened, it had been bad.

  “Are you okay?” Archie asked.

  Leo exhaled roughly and stared at Archie with dismay. Then his eyes went to Star. “What have you done?” he asked. “Bringing him here?”

  “He can help,” Star said.

  “We were worried about you,” Archie said. “What’s going on? Tell me what happened.”

  “They’ll be back any minute,” Leo said. “Jesus Christ.” He looked fixedly at Archie. “We have a problem,” he said. He walked toward Archie and put his arm around Archie’s shoulder. Archie could smell the soap Leo had used, an astringent, eye-watering odor; he’d known to use something strong, something that would obliterate any trace of blood that Luminol might pick up. “Listen to me,” Leo said. “We don’t have much time. Susan is on the island.” Archie felt something deep inside him go cold. “They’re using her to control me,” Leo said. “You have to find her and get her out of here.”

  “Susan?” Archie said. His mind went back to the red hooded sweatshirt downstairs. “What?”

  Archie felt Leo’s arm tighten around his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Leo said, as he stepped behind Archie. Leo’s elbow hooked under Archie’s chin and the hand of his opposite arm palmed the back of Archie’s head. Archie tried to step away, but Leo pressed against him, his thigh secured against the back of Archie’s leg. Leo’s grip on Archie’s neck was firm and Archie struggled to get a breath. He could already feel the black fog of unconsciousness closing in on him as his brain screamed for oxygen. The carotid artery traveled up the side of the neck. When blood flow was interrupted, you had maybe a minute before you blacked out. />
  Archie clawed at Leo’s arm, but he was already losing strength.

  “I don’t know how to do this very well, so don’t fight me,” Leo whispered into Archie’s ear. “I don’t want to break your neck.”

  Archie’s hands were tingling. His lips and tongue were going numb. He felt his hands drop to his sides and his body relax as Leo lowered him to the floor. Leo’s arm was still tight around Archie’s neck, his hand still pressing hard against Archie’s skull. Archie saw his feet out in front of him, twitching on the floor, his stupid rented shoes. And he saw Star inching forward into his vision. Her hand was over her mouth. Her dress shimmered. And then she blurred, and when she came into focus again, she was gone, and Gretchen was there.

  Gretchen didn’t look like she had the last time he’d seen her, when she’d freshly escaped from the mental hospital and her hair was dark, her body still showing signs of the medication they’d pumped into her. She looked like she had before, in all her homicidal glory. Her thick blond hair fell in glossy waves to her shoulders. Her features—those famous blue eyes, her regal nose, that beauty queen smile—were almost blindingly attractive. She was just a hallucination. The mind did funny things when it thought it might be dying. But Archie was still aware enough to find it interesting that of all the people his brain decided to conjure at this moment, it chose her.

  She smiled at him and took his hand in hers and lifted it to her cheek. He felt her imaginary touch all the way to his groin.

  “There, there, darling,” she whispered. “You didn’t think I’d let you celebrate your birthday without me?”

  CHAPTER

  14

  The bedroom window is open and a cool breeze blows through, tickling Archie’s chest and arms. In the heat of sex he hadn’t noticed it, but now he is cold. He pulls the sheets up to his waist. Gretchen is lying on her side next to him, but he doesn’t cover her. Her cheeks are still flushed and she doesn’t look chilly. Also, Archie likes to see her naked.

  “What did you tell Henry?” she asks.

  She has one arm supporting her head and the other draped along her side, her elbow resting in the deep dip of her waist, her forearm curved along her hips, her hand on her bare thigh. Her hair is tousled, and her skin glows with perspiration. He can look at her body all day long—the fullness of her breasts, her smooth thighs, every angle and curve.

  “I might have mentioned that I had a counseling appointment,” Archie says. Gretchen’s relationship with the task force has made coming up with excuses easy. She had offered them her services free of charge. Archie had been one of the first to sign up for sessions. He told himself at the time that he was leading by example, but in retrospect his intentions might have been baser.

  “Do you think you’ll ever tell him?” Gretchen asks.

  She brings this up a lot. She seems to worry that Archie and Henry will go out for beers one day and Archie will spill his guts. She doesn’t understand Archie’s relationship with Henry at all. There is no way Archie will ever tell his partner anything about this. He has already let himself down. He doesn’t want to let Henry down, too. “God, no,” Archie says. “No offense.”

  Gretchen looks skeptical. “Many men brag about their conquests.”

  “I’m not proud of this,” Archie says. “It’s not something I would ever brag about. And believe me, Henry would not be impressed.”

  He’s seen the way that Henry looks at Gretchen. He knows Henry doesn’t like her.

  Gretchen sighs deeply, and looks away. The room is painted pale yellow and the light from the brass and crystal chandelier overhead gives everything a buttery glow. When she turns back to him, her eyes seem sad.

  “I’m sorry I cause you so much pain,” she says.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Archie says. Just looking at her makes his heart rate increase. The attraction he feels toward her is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. He reaches for her hips and pulls her closer to him on the bed. “I have free will,” he says. “I’m the one who’s cheating. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “I think your wife might disagree,” Gretchen says.

  “Probably,” Archie says. “But I’m the one she’d hate.”

  “For a detective, you’re not very smart about women,” Gretchen says.

  Her body is warm under his hands and he feels the physical pull he always does when they are this close.

  He has memorized her. He knows her intimately. Even after their first sexual encounter he could conjure her in his mind like a photograph. “I can’t get you out of my head,” he tells her. “I spent all day at a crime scene, and all I could think about was you.”

  She leans closer to him. “Tell me about it,” she says.

  Archie hesitates. She’ll get the file tomorrow, anyway, and it hardly seems like bedroom talk. “It’ll all be in the file,” he says.

  “I want to hear about it from you,” Gretchen says, laying her head on his chest, her cheek over his heart. Her blond hair rises and falls as he breathes.

  Archie doesn’t talk about his work with Debbie. Even when Debbie presses, he refuses to talk to her about the murders. He tells himself that she doesn’t really want to know. He doesn’t want to scare her.

  But Gretchen is a consultant on the case. She’s seen all the crime scene files. She’s read all the notes. She’s viewed all the crime scene photographs and autopsy reports. For the first time, Archie can tell someone about his day. He can unload. It makes him regret not being able to share that with his wife.

  “She was young,” he tells Gretchen quietly. “Twenty-two. Graduated from Cornish up in Seattle in the spring. Lidia Hays. The Beauty Killer murdered her at her apartment in North Portland. She lived off of Alberta, in a house that had been subdivided into four units. She didn’t lock her door. We think he entered early in the day and waited for her to come home from work. She was a server at a brewpub downtown. She got off at ten and told her coworkers that she was headed straight home. He kept her alive most of the night. She was tied spread-eagled and naked to her bed. She had duct tape over her mouth, or the neighbors would have heard her screaming.”

  “The killings aren’t usually sexual,” Gretchen says. Her hair is over one shoulder, revealing the curve of her neck.

  “It doesn’t look like she was sexually assaulted,” Archie says. “But the scene was definitely staged to make a point.” The chandelier throws a large shadow on the ceiling above the bed, like a giant spider. “Maybe she reminded him of someone,” Archie says.

  “What did she look like?” Gretchen asks.

  Archie hesitates, not sure she wants to hear the answer. “You, actually,” he says. “Blond, blue eyes. A beauty.”

  He feels Gretchen shiver.

  Archie touches the back of her neck. “Do you want me to close the window?” he asks.

  “It’s not that,” she says.

  His finger finds the small hollow at the base of her skull. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

  “I want to know,” she says firmly. “I want to try to understand the killer.”

  “The killer.” Never “him.” Never “he.” Gretchen is always gender-neutral. “You’re avoiding pronouns again,” Archie says.

  “You don’t know it’s a man,” Gretchen chides him. “That’s your assumption.”

  The spider on the ceiling seems to crawl as the crystals on the chandelier tremble gently in the breeze. “Women don’t kill like this,” he says.

  She rolls over, so the back of her head is now resting on his chest, and she looks at him. “What did he do?” she asks.

  “He poisoned her,” Archie says. “We found a half-empty bottle of drain cleaner and a spoon on the bedside table. And she was cut. All over. With a scalpel, it looks like. Superficial. Just enough to hurt and to make her bleed a little, but not enough to kill her. He must have cut her a thousand times. Working up one leg, then the other. She would have anticipated each incision.” That would be the worst part, know
ing it was coming, knowing it would go on and on.

  “It must have taken hours,” Gretchen says.

  Each cut had been deliberate. “There was a pattern to it,” he says. It was as if her flesh had been decorated, each incision a new detail in a grisly textile. “He carved column after column of curved slices that intersected like segments of a chain.” Archie curls his hands and hooks them together in front of Gretchen to illustrate.

  Gretchen frowns. “Like pieces of a heart?”

  “Maybe,” Archie says. “The incisions covered every inch of her, except for an area right here”—he places his palm lightly at the base of Gretchen’s throat—“about the size of my hand.” That area of the body had been clean, except for one delicate incision in the shape of a heart. He can feel the pulse of Gretchen’s carotid artery under his touch. “That’s where he carved his signature,” he says.

  Gretchen threads her fingers through his hand and lifts it from her throat.

  “She had a poster of Multnomah Falls on the wall of her bedroom,” Archie continues. “You can buy them at the gift store.” How many times had he and Debbie taken out-of-town guests to Multnomah Falls, and then the gift store at the base of the waterfall? How many of them had bought that very poster? “And a lot of books,” Archie says. “She snowboarded. That’s what her mother told me. She just moved here two months ago. Her mother said she spent all her tip money on a season pass for Mount Hood.”

  “You’ll catch the Beauty Killer,” Gretchen says. She says it with so much conviction that Archie almost laughs. But her expression is completely serious. “I know you will,” she says.

  These days, Archie isn’t so sure. He feels farther from the killer than he’s ever been, and the murders are only accelerating. Each new killing weighs heavier than the last. “Why didn’t she scream?” he asks. It has been bothering him all day. “Her upstairs neighbors were home the whole time, and didn’t hear anything. He would have had to take off the tape to feed it to her. Did he hold the blade to her throat and force her to drink the drain cleaner? Or did she do it willingly? Was she just done?”