“Jeez, Mr. Glass, I really wish you hadn’t lied to me.” Monica’s eyes revealed hurt in them.
Still hoping he could keep the mood light, Donovan offered a smile and a play-stupid shrug. “You lied to me about your name.” The jury was still out on the grave site, the bones, and, most recently, the murder.
Shaking her head, Monica spun herself around in the stool so that she faced the stuffed elephant. “Cuddles, right?”
At moments like this, Donovan found it difficult to maintain his objectivity and question whether this woman was indeed a fraud. Nobody could’ve known about Cuddles, or Elizabeth’s chosen seat at the family dining table, if they hadn’t been close to his daughter.
“There’s a note inside that elephant, Mr. Glass,” Monica said, turning around to face him again. She gave a firm nod before slipping off the stool. “Lizzy wanted me to tell you about the note she’d written and stuffed into the back.” There was a Velcro strip on Cuddles’s back that you could tear open to replace her batteries. “Go ahead, Mr. Glass. See for yourself.” She started to leave the kitchen. “I have to go to the bathroom anyway.”
Once Monica was gone, Donovan stared down at the eggs. He checked the stove. Before hurrying over to Cuddles, he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and poured the eggs into the frying pan. He sprinted to the elephant—which had remained on Elizabeth’s bed for when she would return—and ripped open the back.
Just as Monica had promised, there was a folded piece of lined paper tucked into the battery compartment. With his heart pounding so hard he could hear its beats in his ears, Donovan unfolded the letter with one hand and held on to the table with the other so he wouldn’t collapse. The rush of emotion at seeing his daughter’s young and sloppy handwriting was enough to make his legs go instantly numb.
She’d misspelled several words, even on the first two lines, but it didn’t stop Donovan from reading what turned out to be an eight-year-old girl’s apology.
Mommy and Daddy. I am so sorry for lieing about dinner. I don’t like stake, and there were burn marks on mine and, it was too bloody inside. Yuck. That was a cow once, and it reminded me of Chris the Cow, and I couldn’t eate him. Maybe I’m a vegetablearian. I’m so sorry for leaving the yucky cow stake outside for the raccoons but since you found it this morning I guess it means that even the raccoons didn’t like it neither. They eat everything!!!!! I am sorry, I will make my bed every day for a month. I am so sorry and hope you still love me even though I am now a lier.
Donovan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he did both.
“She was apologizing, wasn’t she? She’d lied about something . . .”
Snapping his attention to the stove, he bit down on his lip to regain control of his emotions and saw that Monica had snuck into the kitchen. She had taken over the breakfast preparation duties, watching him between tasks.
“Yes,” Donovan croaked, waving the page as if it were a flag. “She was a vegetarian.”
Monica shrugged, removed the dark pieces of bread from the toaster, and waved them at him. “That explains it.”
Shaking his head, Donovan stepped up to the breakfast bar, a sad grin on his face. “She never liked meat. It became something of an inside joke between Amelia and me.” Still grinning, still shaking his head, Donovan remembered thinking that if their daughter hadn’t had that little quirk, he and Amelia never would have had much to talk about in those later years. Their relationship had been a quicksand affair, sinking slowly. Slowly enough that there was hope of survival, but only if someone intervened, and it hadn’t looked like that was going to happen, not with Amelia’s distrust and Donovan’s hobby of luring the bad guys out.
“Good thing Roger didn’t serve steak.” Monica looked up from the eggs and grinned at him. She dumped a serving onto a plate, added the toast, and pushed the breakfast in front of him. She helped herself to a much smaller serving and, instead of half-burnt toast, settled on plain bread.
Donovan took a few bites as Monica climbed onto the stool next to his. “She told you about this letter?”
Going at the food with vigor, Monica glanced over long enough to nod. “It was one of those things she insisted I promise to do.”
“But when I told you the room had been converted . . .” He nodded, understanding why she hadn’t mentioned it before.
“She thought you and your wife would appreciate it.”
He nodded. Seeing Elizabeth’s old handwriting felt like seeing her again, being blessed with another piece of her. It reminded him of how much he missed her. It reminded him of the hatred he had for the man who had abducted her. And hearing about all the torture she’d endured, seeing that unmarked grave site . . .
Now he appreciated why Monica hadn’t gone to the authorities. She’d been right: they’d protect him, they’d have to, all while they fumbled through the case and tried to pull sloppy evidence together. But even then, if they got their conviction, so what? To send him to a country club prison where he’d be safe and comfortable? It didn’t make sense.
Finishing up quickly, Donovan left the crust and a mouthful of eggs on his plate. He folded the note and tucked it into his pants, swallowing the last of his breakfast. “Now you’re going to show me where this man lives.”
CHAPTER 33
At a little past one o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, Donovan felt Monica’s hand settle onto his forearm. She gave a nod outside the windshield and told him to make a right, which he did. He memorized the street name—Central Avenue—and noticed how it was built of brick. Not stamped asphalt, but actual bricks.
“Ironic,” he said, clenching his jaw shut because he could feel it humming from the anticipation of knowing where Elizabeth’s abductor and killer lived. “There’s an elementary school at the end of the street.”
In the passenger seat, Monica nodded. “He lives in the row houses, the ones on the left,” she said. “Third one in. Couldn’t get any closer to that school if he tried, I guess.”
Because there was no parking on their side of the road, Donovan made a left at Prairie and rolled to a stop behind an old Saab 900. He grabbed his door handle to get out but noticed that Monica wasn’t as eager. As he turned to look at her, he felt the vibration of an incoming text against his thigh. Probably Leo.
“What if he’s home?” Monica asked. For someone who had just killed a grown man, the fear in her tone took Donovan by surprise. “I don’t think I can face him. This Roger is different.”
Allowing a nod of understanding, Donovan asked, “Which number is his?”
She shrugged. “It’s the third one to the left. There’s just two units that separate him from all those young students at that school.”
Donovan followed her stare to the school outside the passenger window. The name on the brick between the first and second floors read “McKenzie Elementary School.” It reminded him of the school Elizabeth had attended—the standard yellow-brown brick, the plain aluminum doors with glass panels, the bench along the front walkway that never got used.
“What will you do to him, Mr. Glass?” Still with the worried look on her face.
“If he’s home?” He seemed to think of it. “I think I’ll start by introducing myself.”
“I don’t think I have to tell you that he’s a very dangerous man.”
Donovan knew she didn’t quite understand that, last night, when she’d told him that she did what Elizabeth always thought he would’ve done to find her, she’d been more accurate than she could’ve ever imagined. See, what he had never admitted was that he’d not only tried to set up RodgeDam. No, convincing him to bring one of his “girls,” a girl that most closely matched Elizabeth’s description, had just been a part of his plan. The rest of it involved doing unspeakable things to RodgeDam. And shoving his testicles down his throat was only just grazing the tip of that premeditated fantasy.
“Mr. Glass?” Her voice reeled him back to reality. “Are you okay?”
He cleared his thr
oat and nodded, feeling the rapid thumping under his chest. “Monica, do you really believe he’ll be home in the middle of the day on a Wednesday?” Donovan watched her sigh. Her shoulders seemed to relax a little.
“He works shifts. He’s a CTA bus driver, so you’re right, he’s likely working right now.”
Feeling his face turn red, Donovan forced a fake smile. “See? It’s safe for you to come with me.” He wanted a witness.
At last, Monica nodded. “Okay. I’ll show you then.”
She slipped out of the car, joining him for the quick sprint across the street. They walked back to Central where the town houses were. From this side, he could see that the town house complex was in the shape of an L, with some units facing Central and the others facing Prairie, which made for a confusing address. There were no driveways leading up to the units from the street, and although Donovan hadn’t seen a lane arrangement like where he lived, he figured that the owners parked their vehicles behind the building, either in a communal lot or in garage bays at the back of their units. The single homes directly across the street had long driveways, each of them leading up to a detached garage at the back of the property.
“There it is,” Monica said, distracting him from the houses across the street. If not for the monster that lived here, Central Avenue looked like one of those nice, quiet neighborhoods, vintage brick road and all. “Roger lives in G.” She pointed at the large window next to the front door. The blinds were angled open.
From the sidewalk, Donovan had a glimpse into the life of a man who abducted innocent girls, turned them into unwilling sexual slaves, and then killed them once they outlived their usefulness.
“Where’re you going?” Monica said, her voice raised and pitched high with panic as she clasped on to his shirt and stopped him from taking another step up the walkway leading to Roger’s door at 360G. “Jeez, Mr. Glass, please don’t do this right now.”
Deep breath. He inhaled through his nose, held it for a second or two, and then released it through his tight lips. He hadn’t realized that he’d taken a few steps onto Roger’s property, as if fifteen years of preparing for this moment couldn’t possess him. Or take his fists and clench them into wrecking balls. Or create a rapid drumbeat that pounded in his ears, the adrenaline soundtrack of a man about to attack. Fifteen years!
“We passed a Barney’s on our way,” she said, sounding a lot more desperate than he’d have expected. “Maybe you should drop me off, and then you can come back and do whatever you want.”
On the other side of the big window, Roger’s dining area had pumpkin-spice orange walls with a tasteful brown border up top with different types of coffee names and their respective cups—small and narrow for espresso, wide and fat for latté, regular and athletic for coffee—in elegant designs. The lights were off. The place looked tidy from the street; there was even a centerpiece on the bar-height table.
“He’s not home,” Donovan said, his words coming out with a choppy sigh.
“Maybe not, but I don’t want to be here anymore.”
If she had honestly killed a man last night, why did she seem so afraid at that moment, Donovan wondered once again. She knew revenge, and even if she couldn’t bring herself to kill Roger at 360G, wouldn’t she want to watch him hurt the way he’d made her hurt?
“Please give me a ride to Barney’s, Mr. Glass. If you don’t, I’ll have to walk.”
He looked over at her, noticing the fear in her face, the wild movement in her eyes. “Okay,” he said at last.
“Thank you.” She relaxed.
They walked back to Prairie, crossed the street, and slipped inside the Impala. As the drumbeat soundtrack settled down, Donovan’s vision also seemed to expand. He wasn’t stuck with the tunnel vision of rage that he remembered from his visit to Detroit the day Amelia killed herself in the bath.
“I’m sorry,” Monica said from the passenger seat, snapping her seat belt into place and gripping the fabric like it might be a lifeline. “I just can’t see that man again.”
Donovan started the engine. As he pulled away, he glanced over and considered her. “All this time, you’ve wanted revenge. I don’t understand why you’re so . . .”
“Afraid?” It was Monica’s turn to take a deep breath. She kept watching the vehicles they passed. “I should’ve killed him that night in the forest. I had my chance, and I blew it. And now, even after spending all that time hunting him down, I can barely stand the sight of him without wanting to curl up in a corner.”
When her eyes locked onto his, Donovan saw the embarrassment in them. Like that first night he met her, that knock on the door, and then her over-rehearsed speech about knowing Elizabeth and how she was dead.
Or was she? Once Klein got the results back, maybe he would know.
Looking away, Donovan let out a long breath. “I get it.”
They drove in silence. Once they reached Green Bay Road, the traffic was heavy, and Monica seemed to give up on identifying the drivers in the other vehicles. The silence remained, though, and Donovan’s mind worked hard at solving the puzzle that Monica had put together for him.
As he steered into the lot that Barney’s shared with an appliance store, he thought he might’ve figured it out.
“Thank you, Mr. Glass,” Monica said, reaching for the door handle once he stopped the car. “Not just for everything you’ve done for me, but for . . .” She paused. “For Elizabeth.”
Frowning, he glanced down at the Impala’s center console. “This thing with Roger . . . you want me to hurt him. This entire time, it was never for you. It wasn’t even for Elizabeth. It was for me, right? The stories, the knocking on the door, the money, and what happened to you in Detroit . . . it all leads back to Roger on Central Avenue, my knowing where to find him.”
After blinking a couple of times, Monica looked away. She allowed a soft, shy nod. “I’ve had my revenge. Yesterday evening, I kicked my revenge into the Detroit River and watched it float away.” She shifted her attention back to Donovan, moving a little too quickly to conceal any form of excitement brewing beneath the surface. “I’m having my revenge, Mr. Glass.” She shook her head. “After last night, I’m just getting started.”
He wasn’t sure how to feel about her admission.
“The man that hurt your daughter, he scares me more than five, ten, even fifty of the men from last night ever could. And trust me, I will kick another fifty of them into the river.” Her lips pulled back, baring her teeth. It was the look of a fierce survivor. “In the same way Lizzy knew you’d never stop looking for her, I want every little girl to know these men will never get away with what they’ve done to them.”
The way Monica’s ice-cold stare clung to his eyes, Donovan felt a chill ruffle through his limbs. This woman with the purple hair, nose piercing, and leather boots was a lot scarier than her youthful appearances suggested. She’d killed at least one man, Donovan was convinced of that now, and there would be more. She was a murderer. But worse, at least for all the men she intended to hunt down, she’d survived that night in the forest outside of Twilight Creek. She was the kind of survivor everyone wanted to be. Donovan included.
“I hope you find your peace, Mr. Glass.” She grabbed the door handle and was out of the car before he could say anything.
From the driver’s seat, Donovan watched her march straight into Barney’s. He considered following her inside, enjoying a shot of their finest espresso, and indulging in one final conversation with his daughter’s last friend before making another trip out to 360G Central Avenue.
But he couldn’t.
That conversation had been their goodbye.
Before he got the car moving again, Donovan reached into his pocket for the phone. He sent one text message and one email.
And then he maneuvered the five or six short streets that led back to Roger’s.
CHAPTER 34
Truth be told, Donovan hadn’t known what to expect when Roger came home. Part of him thought i
t would be dark, the dining room light would flash on, and a fat man with greasy hair and a stained plaid shirt would serve himself take-out KFC at the table.
But in reality, it didn’t happen like that. From his parked car on the other side of the street, Donovan had reclined far enough in his seat to be partially concealed and less obvious to dog walkers, joggers, and other people out for a late-evening stroll. Slanted back in the driver’s seat like that, he didn’t have a direct view of Roger’s big front window. When he sat slightly straighter, he had a better view, but when the wind blew, the big tree in Roger’s front yard swayed and its branches obscured much of that view anyway.
Still, Donovan knew when Roger was home, because the man stepped out onto his small front porch and lit a cigarette. Donovan watched him over the edge of the car’s doorsill, surprised that he felt a hint of recognition. Roger had a full head of curly hair, roughly 20 percent gray. He was slightly overweight, too, and he’d clearly changed out of his CTA uniform and donned a pair of elastic-band sport shorts and a white polo shirt with green and blue horizontal stripes.
While Roger smoked, he tapped madly away on his cell phone, half of the time letting the cigarette hang from his lip the way Agent Klein often would. The man didn’t notice Donovan, even when he raised his attention, looked both ways down the street, then reached inside the loose-hanging leg of his shorts to itch himself. It wasn’t a flattering gesture, not something even the most perverted pedophile would do in public, which reinforced Donovan’s belief that Roger hadn’t seen him.
Once he finished his cigarette, Roger butted it out against the side of the stairs and then climbed back inside his house.
Donovan watched the big window as Roger prepared his dinner in the kitchen.
He watched Roger serve himself.
He watched Roger pour himself a generous glass of red wine
After dinner, Roger disappeared for a while, and then he returned to the front porch for another cigarette and more tapping on his phone. At one point, he raised the phone to his face, said something, and then returned to the house.
The Last Friend Page 16
