by Nic Joseph
First, we knew that Emily had taken a cab from the side of the road and that she’d left blood all over the backseat of it. But we didn’t know how she’d gotten to that point or what had happened to her car.
Second, we knew that Ryan Griggs had made several threats against Emily and that he hadn’t returned home the night before. But he was supposedly miles away on a trip in Philadelphia. So why wasn’t he returning his wife’s phone calls?
And third, maybe the oddest part of it all, somehow, she’d gotten my name and scribbled it on a note found in her pocket. But why? Was she planning on contacting me? Or maybe the Steve Paul in California? Who was the other person whose name she’d written—Max Smith? And what did we have to do with the symbol she’d drawn?
As we walked through the hospital, I thought back to the hole that Emily had dug into her hand. For a woman who never showed any signs of being depressed, she definitely seemed to be reaching breaking point. Given the Paxtons’ interview, it seemed completely out of character, but I’d seen crazier things in my years on the job.
Overnight, Emily had been moved out of her small, curtained room in the McKinney emergency department and upstairs to a quiet unit on the third floor of the hospital. Gayla and I moved around the nurses’ station and spoke to a woman who nodded before standing to lead us back to Emily’s room.
The feel of the unit was much different from the hustle of the ER. Paper cutouts from cards drawn by the kids at the school nearby lined the walls, along with large nature scenes and other “uplifting” imagery. The nurse stopped in front of a room and knocked quietly on the door, stepping in before anyone answered.
As we walked in behind her, Gayla and I both stopped in shock at the sight of the room.
It was covered in flowers.
Not just a handful of bouquets from friends and family members—every single surface of the room was covered in flowers of all shapes and sizes.
Get well.
You are missed.
Dan Lindsey looked tired and annoyed, but he stood up as we walked into the room.
“What happened?” I asked. “Who are these from?”
“It’s gotten around the blogosphere that Emily is in the hospital,” he said. “They’ve been coming all day. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, but I wish the hospital would just stop delivering them. It’s out of control.”
“How the hell did they find out?” Gayla asked.
“It had to be someone from inside the hospital,” he said. “Someone posted it in a comment on the site. Along with our address.”
“Wow,” Gayla said. “But why?”
“People have been clamoring for Emily to reveal herself for years,” Dan said. “For most people, that was part of the fun of it. That she was this anonymous voice but a real person in their town who could talk freely about what was going on, with no fear of retribution. But there were always people, both fans and not, who felt that she was hiding behind the internet, using it as a shield to say things she shouldn’t say. Whoever leaked it must have decided that it was time for Emily’s true identity to be known.”
“I see they’ve increased the security presence on this floor,” I said. “That’s because they want to make sure that nobody sneaks in and takes a selfie with the famous blogger?”
“No, I wish,” Dan said. “I wish it were just that. It’s because of these.”
He took a deep breath and walked over to the other side of Emily’s bed. He lifted a small trash can and held it up to us. It was filled, almost to the top, with cards, paper, and other gift wrapping.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“This is all the stuff that’s arrived that’s not flowers,” he said. “Far from it. Take a look.”
He held out the basket, and I picked up a card off the top. Opening it, I felt my stomach sink as I saw the words scribbled inside. In messy handwriting, someone had written quite eloquently:
Finally, the bitch gets what she deserves.
I picked up another card and turned it over in my hands. It was a simple postcard, with no return address. I turned it over and read the text on the other side.
Emily of Carmen Street ruined my life and my marriage. She published an article about one small incident in my restaurant where a handful of people got ill (and in reality, it wasn’t my fault, but a supplier’s, but that’s a different story). The week after her article ran, we had our lowest profit margins in our history. It was a downward spiral after that. We couldn’t keep the business afloat. My wife left me. To the person that did this to her—thank you!
I held the card up to Dan Lindsey. “Is this true?” I asked.
He was staring at me, but he looked distracted, and he blinked a few times before responding. “I don’t—” he started. “I guess the truth of the matter is I don’t really know. Emily and I don’t talk about her work that much. That was our agreement.”
“But did she write a story about a restaurant that closed down soon afterward?”
He shrugged slightly. “She wrote a lot of things she probably shouldn’t have,” he said softly, and I got the sense that he was avoiding telling us something. “I tried to tell her that she needed to be safer, that she had to be careful. She just wouldn’t listen.”
His last words were punctuated with anger, and he stared at the ground. It was a different side of him, and I took a step closer.
“Mr. Lindsey, you sound as if you’re talking about something in particular. Are you sure you don’t know anything else about where your wife was this weekend?”
He whipped his head up, and his expression changed immediately, the anger that was there just moments earlier disappearing. “No, sorry, I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. If I did, I would tell you.”
There were several more messages of hate, filled with expressions of joy that she was in the hospital. The words all varied, but the message was the same: that Emily had it coming given the types of things she wrote about in her blog.
Stuffed into the bottom of the trash can was a heap of dead flowers. I pulled them out and held them up to Dan Lindsey.
“Were these…”
“Yeah, they arrived like that,” he said.
“How do you even buy dead flowers?”
“I wondered the same thing,” he said. “I found a few sites online.”
“You’re kidding,” Gayla said.
“I wish I were.”
“If someone will buy it, someone will make it,” I said.
“Some of it is ridiculous, but some of it is pretty serious,” Dan said. “There are death threats in there,” he said. “It’s unbelievable how many people took the time to send things like this.” He put the trash can back down and sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I know it’s safer here, I guess, but she needs to be home. In her own bed. We need to be home.”
I frowned.
Something didn’t add up, and it took me a moment to realize what it was.
“In her bed?” I asked. “Mr. Lindsey, forgive me, but when we stopped by your house yesterday, I saw that there was an alarm clock beneath the couch in your office. And a toothbrush in the second bathroom. Were you and your wife sleeping apart?”
Dan Lindsey froze.
“No, we were not,” he said tersely. “That clock is there because every now and then, I have to get up early for a job, and I’ll sleep in the office so I don’t have to wake Emily up. Why would you ask me that?”
Before I could respond, Emily shifted in the bed, and we all turned to look. Her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted more soundly to sleep. She looked peaceful, a sharp contrast to the last time we’d seen her, fidgeting, the ink covering her skin. It was gone now, and I wondered how she’d handled the nurses washing it from her skin. I shuddered at the thought and tried to keep my mind focused on the present and what was really happening in the room. I couldn’
t afford to have another episode right now, not in front of Dan Lindsey, and especially not in front of Gayla. I turned back to Dan, and he was still frowning, waiting for me to respond.
“It’s my job to ask those questions,” I said.
He grunted and looked away.
Gayla and I exchanged a glance, and she cut in. “How long has she been sleeping?”
“A few hours,” Dan said. “She’ll wake up soon. They gave her something to get her to rest. She was awake all through the night.”
“Has she said anything?”
He shook his head. “Not a peep. I just wish they’d let us go home,” he said again. “They have guards all around the hospital, which is ridiculous. I mean, I get it since…” He gestured to the trash can. “I get it. But it’s not like anyone is actually going to try to hurt her. It’s all show.”
“You do realize that there’s a good chance someone did try to hurt Emily,” I said. “Which is why she’s here.”
“No, I get that,” Dan said. “It’s just that I think there’s more to why they have all the guards out there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They’re trying to make it seem like it’s just about the threats. Like it’s for her protection. But you all have also made it clear that she’s the one under investigation. Or maybe me, given the questions you have to ask to do your job, Detective. You think one of us did something bad. The guards are there to keep us from leaving as much as they’re there to keep any threats out, right?”
“No, Mr. Lindsey,” I said. “They can’t keep her here unless there’s a serious threat to her health. In the condition that she’s in, it’s best for her to stay here.”
“You sound just like them,” he said. “And I’m getting tired of everyone acting like I’m an idiot. The reason you want her to stay is because of the knife. But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re sure you have no idea where that knife could have come from?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you all that. It’s not ours.”
“The blood belonged to someone,” I said. “You do know that. It had to come from someone. We tested it. It wasn’t Emily’s but definitely all human. So we just want to find out what happened.”
“I want the same thing,” he said. “But I also want to take her home. I don’t see why that’s so hard for everyone to understand. My wife shouldn’t be here, among all this.”
“But you do realize that your address has been published online. The hospital may be the safest place for her right now,” Gayla said.
“Yeah, sure,” Dan muttered, but it was clear that he hadn’t internalized a single word she just said. “Look, just let me know when we can go, okay?”
Chapter Thirteen
Mary, the department therapist, and I met every Monday afternoon at three.
As I walked into her office that day, I checked my watch. I was desperate to get back to the case, but these meetings were a necessary evil. I had to convince her that I was in tip-top shape, so she could, in turn, convince my supervisors.
“She’s ready for you,” her assistant said.
I thanked her before walking back down the narrow hallway to Mary’s office. I could usually get in and out within forty-five minutes, depending on how much Mary wanted to probe. I felt a familiar sense of frustration rush over me—there was too much to do, too much at stake for me to stop and have a chat.
But there was no point in dwelling on it.
In and out.
“Hi, Steven,” Mary said as I walked into her office. She worked in a two-story building about ten minutes away from the station. Her office was sterile and cold, with only a desk and a couple of metal chairs in it.
I sat down across from her and leaned forward, placing my hands on the desk. “Hey,” I said back. “What a morning.”
“Yeah?” she asked with a half smile, and I could tell she was trying to read me right off the bat. “How so?”
“Just a lot going on with this case,” I said. “When I leave here, I’ll go right back to the scene.”
Mary smiled and also leaned forward in her chair, placing her hands on the desk just like mine. “Is that your way of telling me that you can’t wait to get out of here?”
“No, I was just…telling you what I have planned for the rest of the day,” I said.
She shook her head. “Well, let’s just go ahead and get it all out there, so you can get back to what you need to do,” she said. “Fair enough?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said.
“So how have you been?” she asked me, her hands now clasped in front of her on her desk.
When they first told me I was going to have to start seeing the department therapist, I’d pictured a long lounge chair, as she sat next to me in an armless chair. I was pleased that she always remained behind her desk and that the sessions felt more like business meetings than they did meetings with a shrink.
“Fine,” I said. “Look, I know that Gayla called you.”
She nodded. “I asked her to.”
“I know, but do you think that’s the best idea? Given how closely we work together?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a good idea because of how closely you work together.”
“But it’s affecting our relationship.”
“It shouldn’t,” she said. “She’s just worried about you and wants to do what she can to help. It only affects your relationship if you have something to hide.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said, and she sat back in her chair. “Sorry. But it feels like she’s spying on me,” I said. “She’s my partner. I should be able to trust her.”
“I’ve never asked Gayla to tell me anything about your personal life, and I think we both know that she wouldn’t cross that boundary. But for me to determine if you’re…in the right mental state for this work, right now, I need all the information I can get.” She paused. “Look, why don’t you tell me what happened at the Lindsey house. Just be honest. It’s not a guarantee either way that…”
“That what?” I asked. “That you’re going to recommend me for a suspension?”
“That’s not what I was going to say. It’s not a guarantee of anything, okay?” she said. “Just tell me.”
I sighed. “I just started overheating, and I needed to step outside for some fresh air.”
“You weren’t having a blackout?” she asked.
I tensed. That damned word.
“No.”
“Do you need to step out for fresh air often?”
“No, just here and there,” I said. “And it’s never happened under pressure. So I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
“Gayla said that you wouldn’t stop staring at the couch. Like you saw something there.”
“Of course I did,” I said, and I swallowed, because the image of the couch started to return, and I felt the familiar tingle beneath my skin. I sat up straight and gently rubbed my arm, making sure my bandages stayed in place beneath my sleeve. “I saw a couch covered in blood. Everything I do doesn’t have to be overanalyzed,” I said.
“That’s exactly the point,” she said. “Don’t you get that? We’re overanalyzing things right now, and we need to know that, even with that, you’re okay.” Mary scooted her chair closer to her desk and leaned forward, peering at me. “Let’s talk about something else. How are your parents?”
“They’re fine,” I said. “Not much to report. They spend most of their time in the garden. Mike has been having some back problems, but he’s going to get it checked out next week. Nothing too serious.”
She nodded, and if she knew that I was being dismissive, she didn’t say anything. “And Kit? Any progress with him or your ex-wife?”
I shrugged. “Not really,” I said. She didn’t say anything, an
d I knew she was doing the thing where she went all silent to get me to say something. I tried to resist and finally shrugged again. “Seriously, there’s not much to tell. I haven’t even talked to Kit since last week. Lara is…”
“She’s what?”
But I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Lara is avoiding me, even though she said she wouldn’t.
Lara is sleeping with the potato-shaped man she left me for, and he’s probably telling her not to let me see Kit.
Lara is not there to help me through the nightmares, and they’re getting worse.
“Can we change the subject?” I asked.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Do you want to talk about your probation period instead? You only have six weeks left. You can handle that, right?”
“I can handle it, and it’s actually five weeks and four days,” I said. “But to answer your first question, no, I don’t want to talk about that instead.”
• • •
On my way to the station, I decided to make a detour and stop by the site where Cruise said he’d picked up Emily.
I got off the highway and drove in the direction of the spot that Dori had texted me.
It took another fifteen minutes for me to reach the search area, and when I did, I pulled off on the side of the road. I didn’t see any members of the search crew out there; they’d likely be back in a few hours. I got out of the car and shut the door, looking around for any signs that they’d found something—a strip of yellow tape, a cone, anything.
What were you doing out here, Emily?
Why were you out here alone?
How’d you get here, and where’s your car?
I tried to imagine what was going on in her head as she walked along the side of the road, covered in blood. She’d been lucky that Cruise was driving by. If he hadn’t, it would have taken her a couple of hours to get anywhere that she could be helped. And then what?
Where was she coming from, and where was she going? And what did the symbol that she’d drawn mean?
I walked farther into the woods, looking around for any signs or clues that would explain what had happened. It would take days to search the area, if not weeks. The dense forest all looked the same, and there seemed to be layers upon layers where even the smallest clue could hide.
