Cross pulled up a chair and sat down across from Sam. “I know I asked you this before, but is there anyone you can think of who might help him out? Anyone in this area?”
Sam shook his head. He couldn’t think. “No. No, there’s no one. I don’t actually know very much about him.”
“What about someone not in this area? Someone from his hometown?”
“Well… maybe Patrick. Patrick Winslow. He was Nick’s best friend. But he was convinced that Nick only did what he did because of Lola. I don’t think Patrick would be okay with Nick murdering other people.” Hell, he was doing it again. Calling him Nick, like he was a regular person, like he was Sam’s buddy. If he relegated him to a last name, he seemed more distant. Just a killer, not a man. Sam felt so confused.
“I’ve been in touch with him,” said Cross. “I think you’re right. I don’t think he’d condone the kinds of things that Todd’s doing now.”
Sam thrust his hands into his hair. “Do you think… Do you think there’s a chance that Rachel’s still alive?”
“There’s always a chance,” said Cross.
But Sam could see it in Cross’s eyes. Cross didn’t believe that Rachel was alive. And why would he? That wasn’t the way Todd operated. Sam dragged his hands down over his face. “It was my fault he went after her. He was angry that I hung up with him before.”
“Then it’s my fault,” said Cross quietly. “I’m the one who told you to do that.”
Sam looked at him, wanting for a second to blame Cross for everything. Then he sighed. “It’s his fault. Todd’s doing it. We’re not responsible for what he’s doing.”
Cross nodded. “Exactly right.” He licked his lips. “This woman? Rachel Fletcher? She was close to you? A girlfriend?”
“Sort of an ex,” said Sam. “You might remember her. Years ago, she was a kidnapping victim. Her father was Ian Fletcher, the oil tycoon.”
Cross nodded slowly. “I might remember something about that.”
“I was writing a book about her,” said Sam. “And, uh, well… anyway.” He looked up at Cross sharply. “But you know what? I don’t even know how he knew about her. It wasn’t as if I was publicly involved with Rachel. She and I had an affair. It was a secret. It ruined my marriage. How could he have known?”
Cross furrowed his brow. “He shouldn’t have had knowledge of your relationship with the victim?”
“No, he shouldn’t. But he did.”
“So, who knew about the affair?”
“Well, my wife. My publisher. My agent. It was the reason I dropped the book.”
“But it was never acknowledged anywhere? No record of it?”
“Well, I wrote emails with my editor, but… no.” Sam didn’t understand that at all. “Nicholas Todd doesn’t strike me as a skilled computer hacker.”
“No,” said Cross, standing up. “But maybe whoever’s helping him is.”
*
Lola was sitting on the couch in his living room. She was watching TV.
Sam slammed the door.
She looked up at him. “Hi, Sam.”
He stalked across the room, grabbed the remote control, and switched off the TV. “Get out.” He went back the hall to his bedroom. He was exhausted. He’d been at the police station for nearly twenty-four hours. It had taken them that long to find Rachel’s body. She’d been dumped on the side of the road somewhere between Hagerstown and Frederick. She was definitely dead, but they weren’t sure exactly where she’d been killed. Her body had obviously been moved.
Sam felt ill. He didn’t have anything in his stomach, or he was pretty sure he’d be vomiting.
He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to sleep either. His plan was to take some Benadryl, which usually had the side effect of knocking him out, and cease to exist for a few hours. The world felt like it was all razor-sharp edges, digging into him whenever he tried to breathe or move.
He collapsed on the bed but realized he didn’t have his Benadryl. He got up.
Lola was in the doorway. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“I told you to get out.” He pushed her out of the way and went into the bathroom.
“That FBI agent came to talk to me,” she said. “He wanted to know if I had any idea who could be helping Nick. And he told me about Rachel.”
Sam yanked open the medicine cabinet. “Go away, Lola.”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
He snatched up the Benadryl and turned to her. “I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m dropping this fucking book. I’m dropping you. Todd is doing this to me because he thinks there’s something going on between us. So I want you out of my life. Because if you’re gone, then maybe he won’t think that anymore.”
Lola was quiet.
Sam popped two pills out of the blister pack.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m doping up so I can sleep,” he said.
“Don’t.” She was next to him now. She pried open his hand and took the pills away. “Sam, this would be the worst time for you not to be alert.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nick is escalating, Sam. This is what he did before. After my parents, he waited two days before he killed anyone else. But once he started, he couldn’t stop. Nothing was enough for him. I came here because I was afraid. And because you should be afraid too.”
“Lola…”
“We should go somewhere. We should get the hell out of here, and get as far away from him as we can.”
Sam shook his head. “No. No, you should get the hell away from me.”
Her lips twitched. “You really don’t like me very much, do you?”
“It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“But you don’t.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It hurts my feelings.” She looked down at the floor.
Sam backed away from her. He staggered out into the hallway. Fuck Lola, man. Fuck her. He had more important things to worry about than her hurt feelings.
“I like you, Sam.” She’d followed him. Of course she had. She was everywhere. She was always right there, no matter what he wanted. “I like you a lot.”
He stretched out his arm and pointed at the door. “I want you to leave.”
“Not going to happen.”
Sam turned in a circle. He was starting to feel like the walls were closing in on him. He collided with one of them, just to make sure it was there, that it was solid, that it wasn’t moving. He rested his forehead against its cool smoothness. He banged both of his fists against it. He realized he was making a noise, some kind of half-strangled whine. He was losing it. Rachel was gone. Because of him. And Lola was…
“Sam.” Her voice was soft.
He banged his fists into the wall again. It hurt.
Her fingers on his back, feather soft. “Stop that.”
He broke away from the wall. He let out a wild chuckle. “Why won’t you go away?”
“You want to go to sleep? I’ll help you go to sleep. But no pills. You need to be able to wake up quickly if something happens.”
He shook his head. “Please leave me alone.”
She took him by both hands and led him back the hall to his bedroom. And he let her lead him, like he was a small child.
She gently pushed him back on the bed.
He sprawled out, his arms above his head. Nothing felt real anymore.
The gun shot. Rachel.
Lola climbed onto the bed.
He furrowed his brow. “What are you—?”
Her hands were on the zipper to his pants. “Shh, Sam. It’ll help you sleep.”
He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t want you to…”
But she’d freed him already, and he was stiffening in her hands as she stroked him.
And it felt… It was good and sweet. It didn’t feel like razors. It felt nice. He found himself wanting something nic
e.
But he shouldn’t let her... “Stop.” Except he didn’t move. He didn’t try to stop her.
And then he felt the warm slickness of her mouth, her lips easing around him, sucking him in, her tongue stroking him.
And he closed his eyes.
He gave in.
*
Sam awoke to someone nudging him. He slowly opened his eyes. He had a hard time focusing.
Daphne? Was Daphne standing over him? What was Daphne doing here?
And then, like the world was collapsing, he remembered. The gunshot. Rachel.
He sat up. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about Rachel,” she said. “I wanted to see if you were okay. You didn’t even call me.”
“I didn’t think you would…” It was obscene, asking your wife to comfort you after the death of your former lover.
“Well, I see why you didn’t need me, anyway,” said Daphne.
“You do?”
“Lola’s here.”
Lola.
Oh, right. He remembered now. His gaze shifted down to his crotch. Was he still…? No. Lola must have tucked him in and zipped him back up.
But Daphne had seen the quick look. Her mouth twisted. She was disgusted.
He got up off the bed. “Where’s Lola?”
“Asleep on the couch out there,” said Daphne. “The couch that I purchased, may I add?”
Sam felt like he might be getting a headache. “I didn’t ask her to be here. She was just here when I got home. I told her to leave, but she…” He didn’t think there was a way to describe the effect that Lola had on him. But he felt unwashed and crusty, as if he’d been sweating in his clothes and they’d dried.
“Sam, what the hell is going on with you?”
He looked at her. He was suddenly overcome with a wave of gratefulness. She’d come to check on him. After everything he’d done, she still cared, at least a little bit. He was seized with the desire to have her wrap her arms around him, to bury himself in her. “Daphne.” He reached out to touch her face.
She ducked away from him.
He dropped his hand. Her evasiveness hurt more than he thought it would.
She sighed. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft. “I didn’t come because of that.”
He stared dully at the carpet. “So, why did you come?”
“I thought you might need…” She took a deep breath. “It was a mistake.”
“Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it means something about you and me. Maybe there’s still something here.”
She cocked her head, her eyes full of sympathy. “Oh, Sam. There will always be something. But that doesn’t mean that it’s enough.”
He pressed his lips together.
She reached out and patted his shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, the kind that strangers make because they’re afraid to get too close.
Sam felt as if something had reached into his chest and squeezed. Everything they’d had together was gone, wasn’t it?
She quickly pulled her hand back. She wandered over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. “Back before you wrote the book, I felt trapped by my past. Whatever was done to me seemed to have narrowed everything. I felt like I was never going to be anything other than the girl who was captured. But there was something cathartic about what we did, opening it all up to the world that way. And there were things I told you that I’d never told anyone. It made me feel like you’d freed me. It made me feel like part of me was in you.”
He lurched toward her, wanting to say something.
But she turned around. “The thing is, none of that’s true.”
“How do you know that?”
“I did it on my own, Sam. I was the one who moved past all of it. You were just there.” She let the curtain fall back down. She crossed the room to him and kissed him on the forehead. “Goodbye.”
He caught her by the wrist. “No, don’t say that. You’re here. I need you. Before, you needed me, but now I need you.”
She shook her head. “Too late, Sam.”
He let go of her.
She gave him a sad look, and then she swept out of the bedroom.
Sam struggled to breathe for a moment, and then he went after her.
He heard voices coming from the living room.
“… must be Daphne. I’m Lola.”
He burst out to see the two of them shaking hands. No. This was wrong. They shouldn’t be cordial with each other. Daphne should hate Lola, should see her for what she was—whatever she was. And Lola should want to keep Daphne away, so that she could absorb all of Sam’s attention.
“He thinks of you often,” Lola was saying. “As I’m sure you know.”
“Not as often as he thinks of you, I bet,” said Daphne.
Lola smiled a little. She looked satisfied, like a cat.
“Anyway, take care of him.” Daphne strode across the room and out the door.
Sam watched her go like a man who’s being taken out to sea by the tide watches the shore. Except he couldn’t call for help. He couldn’t thrash and scream.
Lola was running her hands through her hair, making a face with every tangle she encountered. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announced.
*
Lola was exactly like Hannah, and that was why Sam didn’t trust her. He didn’t realize how he hadn’t seen it before. Ever since the moment he’d met Lola, she’d rubbed him the wrong way, and it was because she was just like Hannah.
Sam could hear the shower going in the bathroom. That was something Hannah would have done. No matter that it was Sam’s house. No matter that he was the one who’d lost someone the day before. No matter that he had been in these same fucking clothes for days. No, Lola should get a shower first.
Of course.
Sam went into the guest bedroom. He sorted through boxes until he found the box of Hannah’s things. He overturned it, and everything spilled out onto the floor.
All of her things weren’t there, of course. Most of her clothes were gone. They’d been given away to Goodwill or something, Sam thought. He didn’t really know. He hadn’t bothered with that stuff. So this was just the leftover things. The stuff that had sat on her dresser in her bedroom. A porcelain doll in a green silk dress. Several squat, fat candles with blackened wicks. A jewelry box, a snarl of necklaces inside. And the pictures.
He picked up one of the photographs. It was of him and his father. His father had his arm around Sam. He looked pleased and proud.
Sam turned it over so that it was face down.
He picked up another picture. Hannah, smiling for the camera. Sam touched the picture, caressing it. She was so pretty. So young.
He thought of the body he’d dragged out of the fire.
She hadn’t been pretty then.
But before the fire… before all of it, she had been so pretty. And mischievous. He could still remember the bright look she’d get in her eyes before suggesting they do something wicked. And back then, they both considered most everything wicked. That was the way the church they attended made it all sound. It was wicked to be proud, to enjoy one’s appearance or accomplishments. It was wicked to listen to popular music, to watch popular movies. It was wicked to be alone with a member of the opposite sex and think impure thoughts.
It seemed like Hannah only ever thought impure thoughts.
He could remember her lounging on her bed, half-dressed in her skirt and bra. She motioned for him to come inside from the hallway, but he knew he shouldn’t. Not with so much of her uncovered like that.
She giggled at him. She sat up and arched her back, pushing out her breasts. “Like what you see, Sammy?”
He was red-faced, choking, confused.
“Do you think I’m sexy?” She cupped her breasts and squeezed them together.
He couldn’t stop staring.
Why had she done things like that to him?
He set the photograph down. Hannah was the same as Lola. Teasing him, ta
unting him, lording her power over him.
He’d hated Hannah for that.
But he never wanted her dead.
If only he could have saved her from his father. If he could have kept his father from taking Hannah to the rooms above the garage.
His father said that Hannah needed to learn the wages of her sins.
Death, whispered a voice in his head with a nasty chuckle.
But Sam knew that his father had only wanted to do some sinning of his own.
Still, Sam had failed Hannah. He hadn’t saved her. She’d been captured, kidnapped, hidden. And all Sam had to do was find her and save her. But he hadn’t managed to do that. And then the fire…
He remembered his father through the flames, glaring at Sam, telling him that the fire was necessary. If Hannah and I burn in this life, we will be in paradise in the next.
So his father had known what he was doing was wrong. He’d known he needed to pay for his transgressions.
But Hannah hadn’t really done anything wrong, no matter what his father said. Sure, she’d tempted, she’d teased, and maybe she should have known better. Maybe she was overly sexual for a girl her age. Maybe she was improper. Maybe she should never have said the kinds of things to Sam that she’d said.
But she wasn’t bad, not truly. She was only confused. Confused and young. And twisted. All twisted up inside.
Because…
The shower had stopped, Sam realized.
He looked up and he saw that Lola was standing in the doorway. She was wrapped in one of his towels and her hair was wet.
Her eyes looked huge. Her body looked small.
“What are you doing?” she asked him.
He started to shove things back into the box.
Lola came into the room. She knelt down and picked up one of the pictures. “Is this her? Hannah?”
He snatched it from her. “Don’t say her name.”
“You want to tell me what happened, Sam?”
He chuckled darkly. “You know everything about it already, don’t you?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I know that your father burned the both of them alive inside the garage. I know that you feel responsible. You think you should have been able to save her.”
The Girl on the Stairs Page 22
