by Vera Kurian
She looked up thoughtfully at Andre. “Did you know my father is a trading card?”
“What?”
“They make these cards with different killers on them, like playing cards. People collect them.” Then she looked back down at her feet and said no more. Andre still felt the rebuke, even though it couldn’t possibly be aimed at him. What kind of people collect such cards?
His ears were burning, and he could think of no defense. He thought of the pantheon of podcasts, TV shows, and movies about serial killers that he consumed as a form of entertainment. It was all too easy to forget that the people involved were real people and not characters. “I guess I would say there’s a line somewhere between wanting to understand something and morbid curiosity,” he said finally.
Emma looked up and directly into his eyes for the first time, and she spoke quietly. “There is no line when you’re Gregory Ripley’s daughter.”
Andre’s phone vibrated—Isaiah had texted him an eggplant emoji, which presumably meant that he was here. Relieved, he nodded an awkward goodbye to Emma, who only stared at him, and double-checked with the desk officer that he was free to leave.
He walked outside into the chilly air. It was almost three in the morning, and though there was almost no traffic at this hour, the streetlights provided enough light to easily spot Isaiah’s car parked illegally, the hazard lights on. He expected to slide into the car, which would inevitably be blasting some awful music, but Isaiah got out, and it wasn’t humor and good-natured older-brother ribbing on his face, but concern and anxiety. Then the back door opened and his parents emerged, his father somewhat stiffly because of his bad back. Andre was so exhausted—he had just almost been killed, he was only human—could he help that his eyes watered? They were coming upon him now, glad to see that he was alive, wanting hugs, wanting to know what had happened that he had ended up at the police station. Andre knew that first he would hug them. He would hug them tightly because they were his family and he loved them, and he wanted the comfort and the quiet familiarity of their home, the cup of hot chocolate his mother would make, maybe a piece of toast, before falling asleep in his childhood bed. He would hug them first, and then he would lie to them.
63
The car turned onto Rhode Island, cutting ahead of two people on scooters who barely noticed. Detective Bentley was an assertive driver. Outside, the sun was shining and people were texting as if there hadn’t almost been a mass murder last night. Detectives, apparently, didn’t drive normal police cars, but ones that were normal looking but had internal lights and sirens.
After last night’s party, they had asked me to come back in again and answer more questions. I reaffirmed my mysterious blond boy story, and stuck to everything else. I texted Andre, who said the police had also questioned him again, and that he was going to crawl into bed and hibernate for the rest of the year. I told him it was time to celebrate our newfound freedom.
“Can we put the siren on?” I asked. Bentley shot me an amused but stern look, then shook his head. “Come on, you people were two seconds away from shooting me to death!”
“Well, yeah, they saw a girl bludgeoning someone to death.”
“What are you complaining about?” I said. “I just solved two unsolved murders for you.”
“Three,” he muttered.
“Three?” I made my eyes huge. “So that was another body in the sand place? Andre and I thought maybe it was an animal.”
“Forget I said anything. You know, there’s more than a couple guys on the force who don’t exactly feel great that there’s a program with a bunch of psychopaths in the city.”
“You do realize that someone who was ostensibly as normal as you are was the one who did it?” He shrugged, admitting that I was right. “Get your priorities in order, Detective. The worst I do is kiss boys with girlfriends when we live in a city where a new indictment rolls out every week.”
“Fair enough.” Bentley arrived at GW Hospital, pulling over the car on 22nd Street to where you couldn’t park unless you were a cop, I guess. A couple of GW students peered at us as they crossed the street, heading to the Whole Foods or to classes.
“Stay out of trouble, Miss Chloe,” he said.
I looked him dead in the eye. “And what if I don’t?”
“Then definitely don’t ask for me.” We smiled goodbye at each other.
I had just figured out which elevator to take when who did I spot but Kristen Wenner looking tired and washed out, holding a bakery box from Buttercream under her arm. I jogged to make the same elevator as her. “Kristen! It’s me, Chloe, from your party.”
“Oh, hi,” she said, sounding exhausted.
“Is it true? What I heard about Charles?” I whispered. She looked confused, but then I explained, “I’m a volunteer here—we know everything.”
“It’s true,” she whispered. “Poor thing.”
“I heard that some crazy girl was stalking people?”
“In as much as Charles can say. Apparently, she was obsessed with half a dozen students on campus—they’re still investigating.”
“Charles has that star quality—I can see it.” The elevator was approaching the sixth floor. “Maybe I can pop in and say hi?” I suggested.
“Oh, do, Chloe!” Kristen said, grabbing ahold of my arm. “I was here all last night and I can only stay for a few minutes. Charles doesn’t like being alone. He’ll enjoy the company.”
Of course Charles had a private room. The TV was on silent and Charles sat up in his hospital bed, watching. His hospital gown wasn’t tied all the way so it drooped over one shoulder, showing the bandage just under his collarbone. “I brought a visitor!” Kristen said.
Charles looked at Kristen, then me, then Kristen again, a stoned smile growing over his face. He definitely did not want me fraternizing with Kristen. “Chloe, remember, from your party?” I said sweetly.
“Ohhh,” he said.
“I brought you some cookies,” Kristen said. She came over to leave them on his tray and kiss him, then she smoothed his hair. “You feeling any better?”
“Tired. I’m on so much drugs right now,” he said, sure sounding like it. Kristen stayed for a few minutes, but then apologetically bowed out, saying that I could keep him company for a little while. She left and I wandered to his bedside to take a cookie for myself. I selected the one with the most chocolate chips. “Very funny,” he said sourly, but with some humor.
“You should be nicer to people who’ve saved your life.” He edged over on the bed with some difficulty, and I climbed on to lie beside him. “I can’t believe we were so dumb,” I said. “I never even really considered Megan.”
“I was seriously considering her,” he replied. “I just thought there was more evidence for other suspects.”
“You did not!” I yelled, indignant. “You’re just saying that after the fact!”
He laughed. Charles moved the bakery box to his bedside table, and I snuggled closer to him. Under the gauze and antiseptic smell, he still smelled like Charles. “I have a present for you,” he whispered.
“For me? For saving your life?”
He reached with some difficulty toward the bedside table where a pitcher of water and some folded clothes lay. From between the clothes he withdrew an iPhone and handed it to me. The home screen was of a gymnast in midaerial. I gasped, snatching it. “How did you get this?” I cried. Shit. It needed a passcode. I tried 1234, then 0000.
“Right when the SWAT guys came, but before the EMTs got to me. I was right next to her body.”
“What a fast thinker.”
“She had to have known...about Will, right, to bring us all there?”
I didn’t answer him, trying more passcodes. On a whim, I typed out the numerical equivalent for B I L E S. Success! I immediately deleted her Instagram account, then put the phone in airplane mode and pro
mptly dropped it into his pitcher of water. I had already deleted my own account—I had done so the second I got to the police station and they let me use the bathroom.
I prodded Charles, realizing that he was dozing off. “Do you think Emma knew all along?”
“I don’t know—sometimes I wonder if she did figure out what Megan was doing, but maybe she thought she could talk Megan out of it. Maybe she still feels some kind of loyalty to her,” Charles said. “I was so sure it was Trevor.”
“It wasn’t until I realized he was recovering from some attack at the hospital that I knew it couldn’t be him. Megan was hunting him, too.”
“He’s a piece of shit. He would have happily turned over every person associated with the program just to save his own skin.”
“I know,” I said. “He’s not forgiven. Not in my book. He’s made a powerful enemy.”
“Save the scheming for another day.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I forget—I’m lying in bed with a serial killer, technically.”
I frowned. “It’s not like that.” He laughed and in apology put his good arm around me. I lifted my head up momentarily to free my hair. “Charles, you never really thought it was me, did you? That I’m capable of all those awful things?”
“Of course not,” he said mildly, but his glazed, stoned eyes were on the TV.
I took hold of his chin and turned his head so he had to look at me. “Tell me the truth, Charlie Bear!”
He smiled too widely, then tucked some hair behind my ear. “Of course I had to consider it, but I never really thought it was you,” he said, his eyes clear and directly focused on me. That’s the problem with people like us—we’re too good at lying so you never know the truth.
I sighed, tucking my head into his chest, and peered at the TV across the room while I thought about how I was going to destroy Trevor. On the news, a protest was raging somewhere in a country where I didn’t recognize the flag they were burning. Then they showed a polar ice shelf melting and falling into the sea. Charles turned his head slightly and kissed my forehead. I’ll relax today, and take the day off, I reasoned. There’s always time for new schemes tomorrow.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The fact that this book exists and the entire business end of it occurred during a global pandemic is a testament to the incredible work and support of so many parties. During one of the darkest periods I’ve ever experienced, having this book and all these people rooting for it kept me smiling and kept something forever on the horizon to look forward to. In a crazy-emotional year, where it seemed like all the best and worst things were happening at the same time, seeing other people’s happiness at this book’s success was like a light cutting through the dark.
To my agent, Rebecca Scherer, for picking my humble little manuscript out of the slush pile and having absolute faith that it could be successful. I had total trust in your judgment about how to get this sold despite COVID and you delivered (and delivered and delivered!). I’m proud to be on your shelf. Thanks to the entire team at JRA for all your support to this newbie author.
To my editor at Park Row Books, Laura Brown, for seeing and understanding this novel, asking all the right questions, and pushing it to the next level. I wish you could see fourth-grade me clacking away on a typewriter, college me thumbing through Writer’s Market, thirtysomething me receiving my 300th rejection from an agent—you’ve made my wildest writerly dreams come true. Thank you to everyone at Park Row who made this book happen: Erika Imranyi, Margaret Marbury, Rachel Bressler, Loriana Sacilotto, Randy Chan, Rachel Haller, Amy Jones, Lindsey Reed, Punam Patel, Quinn Banting, Heather Connor, and Roxanne Jones.
To Liz Foley and Daisy Watt at Harvill Secker for swooping in for the kill to champion this book and bring it to readers over the pond. Mikaela Pedlow, Anna Redman Aylward, and Sophie Painter for working so hard to make this book a success in the UK.
To all the communities and individuals that helped me grow as a writer. To my incredible group of lady writers in DC, in particular to my ride-or-die girls Melissa Silverman and Everdeen Mason—we did it! To the various workshops and their respective teachers who have supported me over the years: the Jenny McKean Moore workshop, Litcamp, the Marlboro Summer Writing Intensive, Breadloaf, VONA, Sewanee, Juniper, Colgate, assorted college writing classes where I too often wrote in present tense, and last but not least the community of writers I went to high school and workshopped with. To all the readers of all the drafts of this book, or any of my books for that matter. To Sgt. Fluffy for MPD and firearms consulting.
To all the people who published my short stories. In particular: Susan and Linda at Glimmer Train, who published my first story; Morgan Parker at Day One for publishing Twelve Years, Eight-Hundred and Seventy-Two Miles; Lantz Arroyo, Sarah Lopez, and Nick Hurd at Radix Media for publishing Guava Summer—without these significant wins as an emerging writer, I never would have had the confidence to keep going.
To all who contributed to make me who I am today—everyone from my home to my hometown to the French teacher who told me I would go on to do great things even though she did not specify what those things would be. To the public education system and government-funded doctoral program that got me smart. To the people I work with—thanks for humoring me. To DC, the city of my heart. To my readers—I hope this book brought you some joy. To my friends, every last one of you.
ISBN-13: 9780369705457
Never Saw Me Coming
Copyright © 2021 by Albi Literary Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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