She'll Never Know

by Hunter Morgan

  "Not hardly. See you at seven. Bring wine." She hung up on him, realizing she was still a little hung up on him.

  * * *

  "Ty, this is silly." Jillian followed him through his parents' dark laundry room. The dryer was tumbling and the warm room smelled of detergent, fabric softener, and dog food. "Why don't we just walk in the front door? You say 'Hi, Mom, hi, Dad, I'm taking my friend the older woman up to my room.'? Then we go upstairs to the computer."

  "Because Mom will start giving Dad the look she gives him, she'll start to hyperventilate and need a vodka on the rocks to settle down, and Dad will be in the doghouse for a week for letting me take women to my room. And just for the record—" He glanced over his shoulder at her in the shadowed hallway. "You'd probably be classified as my bed-buddy, not my friend."

  She could hear the TV blaring in the front of the house. "Your what?" she whispered.

  He chuckled. "I'm saying we're not really boyfriend and girlfriend."

  "I'm a little old for that."

  "Exactly. And we really are friends. But we do"—he raised and lowered his eyebrows comically—"You know. So—"

  "So I'm your bed-buddy," she repeated, not sure if she was horrified or amused.

  He grinned and beckoned with his finger. "Come on, the back staircase is here. Mom and Dad have the TV up so loud, they'll never hear us. We could probably"—again, the eyebrow waggle—"in my room and they'd never hear us."

  "Fat chance of that." She gave him a playful push forward. "Come on, let's go if we're going. I feel like I'm sneaking into a frat house after hours."

  He started up the narrow back staircase. "You did that?"

  She thought for a moment. "Actually, I think I did."

  "Cool." Ty jogged up the stairs, suntanned arms pumping.

  In the long, carpeted upstairs hallway, they bumped into his cousin Kristen, wrapped in a green towel, another towel tied in a turban around her head. She was just coming out of the bathroom.

  "Hey," Ty said, opening a door to what was apparently his bedroom.

  Kristen lifted her hand in greeting. "Hey." She smiled at Jillian. "Hi there."

  "Hi. "Jillian followed Ty into his bedroom, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. "She's not going to—"

  "Say anything to Mom? Nah. I've got almost as much on Kristen as I do on my sister." He sat down at a desk and flipped open a laptop. "Computer's my dad's," he explained as it booted up, various Microsoft screens flitting by. "I left mine at a buddy's house with all my other stuff. Seemed silly to haul it all here, then back to PA in a few weeks."

  Ty's casual explanation was a stark reminder to Jillian that he would be leaving soon. He would be returning to his graduate program at Penn State and she would be on her own again. She needed to let the skeezy realtor guy know if she was staying in Albany Beach at the cottage or moving on. She didn't know yet; maybe she and Ty would find something on the Internet tonight that would help her make that decision.

  "There are all these lists of missing people. Networks set up to find them. But I haven't found any central location to look at names, so this may take a while. I mean like days. Weeks," Ty explained. "You know, it's amazing to me how many people in this country are missing. Not just kids. Adults. Some are dead, I guess. Some maybe in circumstances like yours. But did you know there's a trend of adults just getting up, walking away from their lives, and starting new ones?" He punched a couple of keys on the laptop and it squealed as it made the Internet connection. "I was reading about it this morning before I went to work. They leave jobs, wives, husbands, kids."

  Jillian shook her head, checking out his room. It was interesting, definitely masculine with dark walls and bookcases lined with books. The faded posters were of surfers and musicians, left up from his high school days, she supposed. "I can't imagine leaving your life behind like that," she mused aloud.

  "I don't know. I mean, I would never do it, but you can see a forty-something guy just sick of his life walking away from it all. Imagine a nagging wife, snotty, ungrateful kids, going-nowhere job."

  She dropped onto his rumpled, denim duvet-covered bed. It smelled like him. "I suppose a woman could feel the same way. Unsupportive husband. Trying to work full-time, but still expected to keep the house clean, make gourmet meals—"Jillian halted in mid-sentence, that weird feeling she had remembered something coming over her again.

  Ty glanced over his shoulder.

  She met his gaze. "Nah, I didn't shoot myself so I could get away from anything. But," she said thoughtfully, "there's something about what I just said that means something."

  He waited for a moment and when she didn't elaborate, he returned his attention to the computer screen. "I saved a couple of sites that looked interesting. Come sit here and tell if any of these names or places sound familiar. They've actually got photos of some people." He patted his knee.

  Jillian rose from the bed and dragged a chair over to the desk to sit beside Ty. She lifted her gaze to the computer screen, not entirely sure she was ready for this. What if she recognized her own name? What if she didn't?

  "I thought it would make sense to start from where you were found and then fan out. The sites seemed to be organized by the state the missing person was last seen in." He clicked on North America and scrolled down past names, physical descriptions, sometimes photos. The heading for the state of Virginia floated by. "This site doesn't organize people by year, but I thought we'd just skim through the pages looking for this year, and if nothing comes up, we look back further."

  "I think it's pretty safe to assume I disappeared about the time I was shot. I arrived at the hospital in Portsmouth on May eleventh."

  "I get it. I'm just saying, we need to stay open about the particulars. It's always possible you've been missing for a while." He kept scrolling downward.

  "How?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Kidnapped, held prisoner, maybe?"

  She frowned, images of the naked man in her bed flashing in her mind. The sound of her own drunken laughter. She had definitely been there of her own free will. "I don't think I was held captive," she said dryly.

  "Here goes."

  Jillian held her breath for a moment and then exhaled slowly.

  At first, the names and places Ty scrolled through were just a blur, but as her eyes focused, they began to register. Only the women's names caught her attention; she just let the men's names pass. Marie Adams, Bristol, 1998. Desiree Smith, Danville, 1977. Patricia Eckard, Charlottesville, 2001. "So many," she whispered.

  "Listen to this one. Anna Preston, last seen in Richmond, January 21, 2004," he read aloud. "Age twenty-seven. Red hair, green eyes. Went out to buy a pack of cigarettes and never returned. Her husband and daughter miss her. Someone must know something. Someone must have seen her." The listing gave a contact name and e-mail address.

  Jillian shook her head. "It's not me. Too young. Doctors said I've never given birth."

  "I know. It just seems so sad." He scrolled downward and more names, a few faces passed on the screen.

  An elderly woman named Mae, who wandered from her granddaughter's house. A forty-one-year-old housewife who worked her shift at a paper cup plant, left to go home to put her daughter on the school bus and never made it home. The photo of a twenty-year-old girl, blond, smiling, dressing in a soccer uniform, holding a big trophy.

  It was heartbreaking.

  "Anything look familiar?" Ty asked after a few minutes. He had paused at several names of missing women in their thirties; none had disappeared in May of that year.

  "No." She was still at the screen but no longer seeing the names or faces that scrolled by. She put her arm around Ty. "Listen, this is really nice of you to do, but talk about a needle in a haystack. How—"

  "I know, Jilly. It's probably a wild shot, but maybe you're here somewhere and I just have to find you." His voice held enthusiasm for the impossible task that only a twenty-three-year-old could possess. "I've got another five or six websi
tes bookmarked. And some states have hotlines you can call."

  "Ty, you don't want to spend your last two weeks at home sitting in front of this computer looking through hundreds, thousands, of names. I might not even recognize my name if I see it." She squeezed his shoulder and got up from the chair. "You mind if I call it a night?"

  "No, not at all. You don't need to be here for me to do this. I just thought you might want to see what I found." He looked away from the computer screen. "You want me to go home with you?"

  She had driven herself and then parked half a block and walked up to the house. "I'll be fine."

  "Want me to walk you down?" His attention was on the computer screen again. He had gone to another website and had popped a CD into the CD player. Some hip band she didn't recognize.

  "Nah." She rested her hand on the doorknob. "I'll just put on my cloaking device and slip out of the house, undetected by man or dog. Good night."

  He didn't look up from the screen. "'Night. I'll let you know if I find anything."

  Jillian slipped out the door, closing it behind her and headed down the dark hall. Halfway to the staircase, she heard a bedroom door open and for a moment, she froze. Then she realized it was the same door Kristen had disappeared into a little while ago. Kristen appeared, dressed in short shorts and a cute gauze top, purse slung over her shoulder.

  Kristen smiled when she saw Jillian. Like Ty, she had that kind of all-America good looks; straight blond hair, perfect teeth, slim, athletic body.

  "Going out?" Jillian asked.

  She nodded. "Some friends. I'm not really into drinking, but I like to dance. Fake ID," she whispered, sheepishly.

  "You know that nut case is killing blondes with blue eyes. You need to be careful, "Jillian warned.

  "Sure. I always am. You want me to go ahead?" She swept her long hair off her shoulder. "Run lookout for you?"

  "That would be great."

  The two women made it safely out the back of the house and then walked together through the backyard and out front to the sidewalk.

  "I'm just parked down there, "Jillian said, pointing.

  "See you." Kristen walked toward a car in the driveway.

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker watched the two women appear from the side of the house, blond heads close together, whispering as if they were sisters... or maybe sorority sisters. He had never known any sorority sisters, but he had seen enough made-for-TV movies to recognize the friendly familiarity.

  They were pretty, the both of them. Smart. He liked them both, although Jillian was a little reserved for his taste. He guessed she would warm up a bit, once they had a chance to really sit and talk in the barn where he would have her undivided attention.

  He watched as the two women parted company on the sidewalk, Kristen climbing into her car in the driveway, Jillian heading down the street where she had parked her car earlier. The Bloodsucker had watched Jillian and Ty cut through the backyard and then, he guessed, they went into the house. He wasn't sure what was going on there. He knew the rumors. He had seen them together, but he sensed they weren't really a couple. Not in love or anything. He would have to ask her.

  He glanced in his side-view mirror as Jillian passed his car, but on the far side of the street. She checked over her shoulder as if she feared someone was watching her. How did she know? He tensed, perspiration gathering on his upper lip. Who was she looking for? Him?

  He slid down at little in the seat of his car, forcing himself to relax. Anxiety could be controlled; it was all about heart rate and the adrenaline that drove it. Anxiety had no place in what he did. He had to stay calm. Calm and composed. His anxiety, of course, was simply a reaction in his brain to what he was doing. This was dangerous sitting here like this, even in the cover of darkness. What if someone saw him, casually asked him what he was doing here this time of night?

  The Bloodsucker heard the engine of the Honda start in the Addisons' driveway, and his attention returned to the college student.

  Kristen wanted to be a nurse like her Aunt Alice. Such a noble profession. And she would be good at it. So compassionate, so tender. She always had a moment to spare for anyone; it was an admirable trait in someone so young.

  The car's headlights flashed on, and Kristen gunned the engine of the little car. She was in a hurry to get somewhere. Meeting friends at a bar, maybe? He knew she used a fake ID to get into the bars in town where the bouncers didn't know her. He had seen her use it. Someone probably needed to speak to the young woman about the dangers of underage drinking. Besides the reprisals by the law, all sorts of terrible things could happen to a pretty girl under the influence of alcohol. Men could take advantage of her... worse.

  The two-door Honda seemed to shudder as she threw the gear shift from reverse into drive, and the Bloodsucker glanced in the side-view mirror once more at Jillian. Lovely, mysterious Jillian. She was the talk of the town. Word had gotten around about her amnesia. One gossip had said someone had tried to murder Jillian by slitting her throat with a knife. He didn't think that was true, though. He'd seen no scar on her slender neck, not the kind such an attack would have produced.

  Jillian was now in her car; her face under the street-lamp looked harsh. She was upset about something. Nervous. He watched with fascination as she looked over her shoulder, down the dark street. Once again, he got the feeling it was him she was looking for. It was that instinct many women seemed to have, and it fascinated him. It could be so reliable, yet most women ignored it.

  * * *

  Jillian started down the sidewalk, heard Kristen start her car and then back out of the driveway. Uncomfortable, she glanced up and down the street. Suddenly she felt as if someone was watching her. But who? From where?

  Her gaze darted from the street to the house and back to the street, where their cars were parked on each side. She quickened her pace.

  In the middle of the street, Kristen shifted her car into drive and whizzed past, waving as she went by. Jillian reached her car, climbed in, and locked the doors. She checked the rearview mirror and again the street. She saw no one. Heard a dog bark in the distance and saw Kristen pull away from the stop sign at the end of the street.

  Her imagination? Or was someone watching her again?

  * * *

  Kristen shot by in her little car, and the Bloodsucker started his engine. He was letting his mind wander, and that wasn't how he operated. He had a plan, and plans were meant to be followed.

  His heart fluttered in his chest. But he was so tempted...

  Was it really necessary to keep the women in order in the line? Did he dare switch one for the other? Simply speed up the plan for B, while temporarily postponing the plan for A?

  He shifted his car into gear, not turning on his headlights. He would wait until he was down half a block or so and then turn them on, looking surprised as though he had forgotten, in case anyone was watching.

  The women were headed in opposite directions from each other. Wouldn't it be fun if they were both going in the same direction? Then he could follow both. Delay his decision another moment or so.

  But the Bloodsucker was only daydreaming. He already knew whose blood would be next. He could smell its essence. Taste the saltiness. Feel its all-encompassing warmth. Its power.

  Chapter 11

  "Great meal."

  Kurt handed Claire the plate he had just scraped and rinsed off, so that she could put it in the dishwasher. Which she found interesting, since she never recalled him ever rinsing a plate in his kitchen or hers in the two years they had dated.

  "You want some dessert?" she asked.

  They had enjoyed a leisurely meal outside on the redwood deck; Ashley had even joined them and had actually been pleasant. After dinner she had retreated to her room, and now Claire and Kurt were dawdling in the kitchen, delaying what he was there for.

  "My mom sent a couple of pieces of her homemade key lime pie home with Ashley tonight," Claire said. "She specifically stated it was for
you."

  Claire had let it slip to her mother that Kurt was coming over, and even when she tried to backtrack and warn her it was for work, Janine hadn't been interested in the details. She loved Kurt, more than Claire had ever loved him, for sure. Janine had wanted her daughter to marry him; the fact that he didn't want to was a detail she ignored.

  "Key lime pie?" Kurt perked up. "Janine sent me key lime pie? God, I love that woman."

  "Dowry, I think. You take me off her hands, and she'll provide you with a lifetime supply of key lime pie," Claire joked caustically as she closed up the dishwasher and hit the rinse and wash button.

  "Claire..." Kurt brushed her jawline with his fingertips. "Don't you think we should—"

  She ducked away and walked toward the better lit dining room. "We should what? Talk about it? About us?" She shook her head. "I don't think so. Water under the bridge. Way under the bridge."

  She slid into one of the rustic birch wood chairs she loved. The handmade table and chairs shipped from Montana had been a gift to herself when she broke up with Kurt, knowing the relationship would never go anywhere beyond the bedroom. When she divorced her husband, Tim, she'd bought a new combination clock radio and sound machine.

  Claire wondered if there was some significance to the amount of the expenditure. Had Tim, the father of her only child, really meant so little to her? More disturbing, had Kurt meant that much?

  "First I need you to take a look at the crime scene photos. Then pie. I know you've seen a few of these," Claire said, dealing out the glossy eight-by-tens as if they were cards. "But I want you to look at them side by side. Give me your first impression. Instant cop gut intuition."

  He walked up to the dining room table, standing back a little. "White, male."

  "Duh. Killers rarely go outside their ethnicity."

  "He's educated, college maybe."

  "Definitely smart. But you're still not wowing me. White collar or blue?"

  "Probably white. Some sort of professional, maybe." He touched the photo of Anne sprawled beside the Dumpster behind the country club kitchen.