Waiting (The Making of Riley Paige—Book 2)

by Blake Pierce

  “Oh, I am,” Riley said. “Thanks. This will … help a lot, I think.”

  But as they ate on in silence, Riley knew she was lying.

  Her mind started filling up with strange, ill-formed suspicions.

  Was Ryan maybe having second thoughts about their getting married after all?

  Had the miscarriage affected how he felt about her?

  Maybe he’s worried that I’ll never be able to have children, she thought.

  It seemed like a strange, paranoid idea, but Riley couldn’t shake it off.

  Maybe he’d only proposed to her in the first place because she’d been pregnant.

  Maybe he’d only been trying to do the right thing by her. And now, maybe he felt as though the pressure was off.

  It was a terrible thought—that Ryan might have felt one way about her when she’d been carrying his baby, another way now that she wasn’t.

  Maybe we should talk about this, she thought.

  But what kind of answer would he give her?

  If she mentioned her suspicion, surely he’d deny it, whether it was true or not. There was nothing to be gained by that. Worse still, it would probably lead to an argument, right here in a public place.

  And Riley was tired of arguments, and she was sure Ryan was as well.

  After they finished eating, Riley and Ryan wandered around town for much of the rest of the day. They window-shopped and joked about all the things they couldn’t afford to buy right now. They also joked about how extravagant they would be in the future when Ryan made them rich.

  Things seemed relaxed and easy between them now, but Riley couldn’t help feeling that it was mostly an illusion.

  For one thing, there were so many things she hadn’t told Ryan—especially how she’d been involved in an actual murder case.

  Maybe now was a good time to come clean about all that.

  Maybe Ryan wouldn’t be so upset about it now that she wasn’t pregnant anymore.

  But she quickly thought better of it …

  He might still blame me.

  True, he’d been right there when Dr. Pascal had assured her that stress hadn’t been a factor in Riley’s miscarriage.

  But did he really believe that?

  Did she really believe it?

  She felt as though she were holding a whole world of unspoken guilt inside.

  Some of that guilt still had to do with the pleasant, funny, stimulating time she’d spent with John Welch at King Tut’s on Thursday night.

  She wasn’t in love with John, she was sure of it.

  And she was just as sure that John wasn’t in love with her.

  But one thing was hard to deny right now …

  She’d felt more comfortable, more truly herself around John, than she did with her own fiancé.

  What did that say about her relationship with Ryan?

  It can’t be good, she admitted to herself.

  Riley realized that now, even while they seemed to be having a good time together, she had no idea where this relationship was going.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  When they got back to their apartment later that afternoon, Riley was still troubled by doubts about her future with Ryan. But she felt sure that they were both tired from all the walking they’d done.

  It’s best to just leave things alone, she thought. At least for now.

  She realized she was letting herself off the hook, too. She wasn’t any more eager to discuss future plans than she thought Ryan would be.

  Anyhow, she was right about his being tired. Ryan headed straight to the bedroom and dropped onto the bed. When she looked in on him a few moments later, he was sound asleep.

  A nap sounded like a good idea to Riley as well. But just as she was getting ready to lie down beside him, she heard her cell phone rang. It was in the living room where she had put her purse down when they came in, and she hurried back there to answer it.

  Her heart jumped when she saw who the call was from.

  “Agent Crivaro—what’s going on?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa to talk with him.

  She heard a familiar growl.

  “I wish I had news,” Crivaro said. “The team has been following up on everything clown-related throughout the whole DC area. We must have been to a hundred different places during the last two or three days. We’ve checked costume shops, magic and novelty shops, services that hire out clowns, even a couple of clown schools. I’ve learned more about clowns than I ever wanted to know, but we’ve turned up nothing. And the forensic results on the killer’s note and drawing were a bust. He’s too smart to leave fingerprints or anything like that.”

  Crivaro fell quiet for a moment.

  Then he said, “Riley, I’m afraid we’re going to lose him. I’m afraid this is the Matchbook Killer all over again.”

  His words gave Riley a sudden warm feeling.

  He called me Riley, she thought.

  He doesn’t often do that.

  He was even opening up to her about his frustrations.

  She said, “This case won’t wind up like that. It won’t go cold. I’m sure of it.”

  Another silence fell.

  Riley wished Crivaro would tell her more about how he was feeling.

  Then he said, “Riley, I’m afraid I was pretty hard on you Thursday, after that thing at the carnival. You probably didn’t deserve that. It’s just … well, I’m responsible for your safety, and you gave me a good scare.”

  “I understand,” Riley said. “It’s OK.”

  “But I almost forgot—you called in sick on Friday. I was sorry to hear that. Are you feeling better?”

  “Much better,” Riley said. “I’m ready to get back to work.”

  She heard Crivaro heave a deep sigh.

  “Naw, that’s not such a good idea. I’ve been keeping you away from away from the intern program with this case. You’ve been a big help, especially figuring out that poem, but I’m not being fair to you. I’m taking up too much of your time, so you’re not learning the stuff you’re supposed to be learning, not the regular nuts and bolts stuff. You might as well stick to the program for now. I promise to stay in touch.”

  Crivaro ended the call, and Riley just sat there, feeling flabbergasted.

  Crivaro had just talked to her in an unusually open, vulnerable way.

  He seemed to be genuinely concerned about her.

  And for that very reason, he didn’t want her on the case.

  What can I do? she wondered.

  How can I convince him that I can still be of help?

  She got up and peeked into the bedroom. Ryan was still fast asleep. A few moments ago, she’d felt ready to take a nap herself, but now …

  I couldn’t sleep if my life depended on it.

  She dug around in her purse and found her little notebook—the one she and John had used to write the poem. She read it over a few times and realized again what a shrewd, clever idea it was.

  Maybe this is more than an exercise after all.

  Maybe it’s just the thing to draw out the killer.

  Should she call John and talk it over with him?

  No, the first person she should talk to was Crivaro.

  She started to punch in Crivaro’s number on the phone, but stopped to ask herself …

  What do I think I’m doing?

  Hadn’t she heard what Crivaro had just said—that he felt that he’d been unfair to her for taking up her time, that he’d felt responsible for safety, that he wanted her away from the case for her own good?

  He’d been perfectly sincere about every word.

  There was no way on earth that Crivaro was going to agree to this idea, no matter how Riley tried to present it to him.

  And of course Riley had to consider …

  He might well be right.

  I probably should just steer clear of all this.

  But as she tried to mentally talk herself out of it, she felt frustration rising inside her.

  So much
had gone wrong in her life during the last few days.

  The worst thing by far had been the miscarriage, which had left her feeling frail, vulnerable, and helpless.

  I won’t take this anymore, she thought.

  I won’t keep on feeling helpless.

  She found a copy of today’s newspaper and opened it to the page with the poetry feature. She saw two addresses for submissions—one a physical mailing address, the other an email address. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, she flipped open Ryan’s computer and opened up his email program.

  Looking at her notebook, she typed the entire poem into the body of an email, ending with the name of the “poet” …

  Tina D. Vejas

  Then, with a single swift stroke of her finger, she hit “Send.”

  And the poem was gone.

  Riley gulped hard as a wave of panic started to rise inside of her.

  Oh my God, she thought.

  What did I just do?

  She had no doubt that the poem would catch the killer’s attention—that is, if the newspaper actually published it.

  Should she write to the editor right now, explaining that she’d submitted it by mistake and she wanted to withdraw it?

  She got up from the kitchen table and paced, trying to deal with her agitated uncertainty.

  What should I do now? she wondered.

  What should I do?

  Long minutes passed, and she couldn’t make up her mind.

  She was still pacing when she heard Ryan’s computer make a ringing sound.

  She knew that the sound meant that he’d just received an email.

  Breathless, she sat down at the computer and read the email.

  Dear Tina—

  Thank you so much for submitting your poem. We like it very much. We didn’t yet have a poem for tomorrow, so we received yours just in time for tonight’s deadline! You’ll be seeing it in the paper in the morning!

  Sincerely,

  Caitlin Gilbert, Features Editor

  Riley was almost hyperventilating now.

  Should she write to the editor and explain that this was just a mistake?

  No, she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She just couldn’t.

  If she backed out of this now, she’d never forgive herself.

  But then another problem dawned on her …

  I used Ryan’s email!

  There was no way he wouldn’t see both emails—the one she’d sent and the one she’d received.

  Without a moment’s pause, Riley deleted both of them.

  Then she sat staring at the computer screen, gasping for breath …

  What have I done?

  But she knew the answer to that question.

  She’d just requested a rendezvous with a killer.

  And she felt sure that he’d be more than eager to oblige.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Michelle Yeaton’s field of vision was filled with shining objects that were flashing and flitting and darting everywhere.

  Stars, she thought.

  But since when did stars fly around like that, appearing and disappearing in and out of the darkness?

  Was she gazing into a dark sky full of meteors in flight?

  And why did her head hurt so badly?

  Nothing made sense.

  Where was she right now?

  How had she gotten here?

  Why could she see nothing except this dark field riddled with shiny things?

  Then she heard a man’s voice speaking out of the darkness …

  “This changes things. This changes everything.”

  Realizing that her eyes were closed, Michele opened them. She was lying on a concrete floor in a dimly lit place.

  How did I get here? she asked herself again.

  Then she started to remember …

  She had just gotten out of her car in the parking garage. It was morning, and she was on her way to job at the Maxim and Abel department store, where she worked selling women’s clothes. She’d heard the padding of soft-soled footsteps running up behind her, but before she could turn to look …

  A sharp pain in the back of my head.

  The pain I feel in my head right now.

  She must have been knocked out cold and brought to this place. The blow must have caused her to see all these stars, which were visible even now that her eyes were open.

  Again, she heard the man’s voice …

  “Oh, yes. Everything’s different now. So unexpected.”

  She pulled herself up to a crouching position and looked around.

  She saw that she was in a small area surrounded by chain-link fencing in what looked like a large dark room.

  There was one spot of light, though.

  It fell on a round wooden table. Sitting on the table were a roll of duct tape, a medical syringe, a small round mirror, and what looked like a fishing tackle box. Someone was sitting at the table, a newspaper lifted to his face so that she couldn’t see him. In the dim light, his clothes looked strange and puffy.

  Her own clothes felt strange, loose, and ill-fitting, but she couldn’t focus her eyes well enough to see them.

  She moaned aloud, trying to gather her senses.

  Seeming to hear her, the man spoke from behind the newspaper …

  “Are you awake now? Good. Listen to this …”

  Then, sounding as though he was reading from the paper, he said …

  The last things that I saw that dusk,

  The waning of that day,

  Were sparkling waters, calm and still,

  And blurs of white and gray.

  It was a poem, Michelle realized.

  But why was he reading it to her?

  The man said in a cheerful voice …

  “Somebody knows! Somebody understood my riddle! Isn’t it marvelous? Such a challenge! Such a thrill!”

  He lowered the newspaper from his face and Michelle’s breath froze in her chest at what she saw.

  It was the bizarre painted face of clown.

  And he was dressed entirely in a clown costume.

  She glanced at her sleeve and saw that she was dressed in the same way.

  Her heart pounded as she remembered the news stories and rumors …

  The Clown Killer!

  It’s him!

  He’s going to kill me!

  She tried to scream, but she couldn’t even breathe.

  The clown opened the box, which was filled with what appeared to be tubes of stage makeup.

  “Well,” he said, “I was just getting ready to do your face, make it real, like mine. But …”

  He walked over to the cage and crouched down, pointing to the newspaper again.

  “I’m sure you understand … this changes everything! I mustn’t hurry now. I must be patient, take things slow. And so must you.”

  At long last, Michelle’s breath came unfrozen, and she let out a piercing shriek that exploded through her skull.

  The clown peered calmly at her through the fencing, the whites of his eyes looking weirdly yellow in contrast to the white paint on his face.

  When her shriek faded, he said …

  “You’ve got an excellent voice. Could you do that again?”

  As if to oblige his wish, Michelle screamed yet again.

  When she finished, she was panting desperately.

  Like a dog, she thought.

  “Yes, excellent,” the man said. “Again, please.”

  But Michelle was out of breath now. And besides, why was she doing exactly what he asked her to do? Wherever they were, it must be far away from other people. Surely no one could hear her scream. And of course he knew that. She was only adding to his enjoyment.

  The man chuckled a little.

  “Oh, well, maybe later. Yes, later, surely. But meanwhile …”

  He lifted the newspaper, which was folded to the page he’d found, and he read aloud again …

  “I let my lens slip from my hand

 
My shaking was to blame …”

  He chuckled with admiration. “Isn’t it marvelous? So very clever. I’m terribly pleased.”

  Michelle started sobbing and whimpering and she felt tears scald her cheeks.

  The clown tilted his head in what almost appeared to be genuine sympathy.

  “Yes, I understand how you feel. They’re going to leave you behind, aren’t they? They’re going to forget you. I know just how that feels, believe me. It’s a terrible feeling, being lost … forgotten.”

  Looking at the paper again, he added …

  “And whoever wrote this—apparently a young lady like yourself, says that her name is Tina—she knows that feeling, just like we do. I’ve got to meet her. So do you. Then… then we can get on with things. She’s strong, I sense it, and I think maybe you are too, not like the others. Maybe this time … things will be different.”

  He rose to his feet and walked back to the table and took out a canister and a packet of tissues and looked in the mirror.

  “Meanwhile,” he said, “I must put on my costume, my disguise. I must make myself look like all those others out there in the world. After all, I do have an appointment later on …”

  He sat down and put cold cream on his face and began to wipe the makeup off with a tissue and murmured …

  Tonight when sunset comes again

  I must go back and see!

  Michelle gathered up her breath and let out another long shriek.

  The man was humming now as he continued to take off his makeup.

  He didn’t seem to mind her screaming at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  As Riley walked across the footbridge that led over to Columbia Island, she muttered those words that she and John had written back at King Tut’s bar …

  Tonight when sunset comes again

  I must go back and see!

  Looking over the water, Riley could see that dusk was setting in.

  I’m really doing it, she thought with a shudder.

  And for the umpteenth time that day, she wondered if she had lost her mind.