The Murder House

by James Patterson

  A dark room, but fresh air sweeping in.

  The window, open.

  He escaped out the back window.

  I climb through the window and run into the backyard, into a vacuum of blackness.

  He’s gone. This is his home turf. He probably knows every nook and cranny of those woods behind his house. He’s long gone.

  The darkness, suddenly interrupted by colored, flashing lights.

  A car engine, tires crunching over gravel.

  A patrol car, pulling into Aiden’s driveway.

  I move to the side of the house and peek around to the front. I hear a car door open and close. I hear footsteps, but not coming my way. Moving into the house.

  I place myself flat against the house, not moving an inch. The only sound the gentle swaying of the trees in the wind.

  Then a light comes on in the bedroom, where I just came from. I hear the footsteps inside.

  A head pops out of the window, looking outside. I hold my breath.

  It’s our beloved chief of police, Isaac Marks, illuminated by the light of the room. He’s only twenty feet or so away from me, but I’m bathed in darkness and far to his right—I don’t think he can make me.

  “Shit,” he says into the darkness.

  A noise; then I hear beeps. He’s dialing a cell phone.

  “You okay?” Isaac says. “Where are you? No, she’s gone. I don’t know, do you? She said what? Okay. Don’t worry about her. I’ll take care of her. I said I’ll take care of this. You gotta relax. Listen to me…”

  His voice fading as he leaves the room, as he moves into the interior of the house.

  81

  AFTER WAITING over an hour in Aiden’s backyard, I head back to my car. Aiden’s not coming back, and Isaac left long ago.

  My car is tucked away on the shoulder of the road down the street. Did Isaac spot it? I don’t see an ambush awaiting me. No doubt there’s an APB out, possibly a warrant for my arrest.

  I don’t know what Isaac has planned. I don’t know what he meant when he told Aiden he would “take care” of me.

  And I’m not anxious to find out.

  I have to get my car out of sight. I have to get myself out of sight.

  I pull my car into his driveway and ring the doorbell. Nobody likes unannounced visitors at midnight.

  “Who’s there?” he calls through the door.

  “It’s Murphy.”

  When he opens the door, Noah Walker is wearing an undershirt and sweat pants. He’s clutching a hand towel, his face still dripping with water.

  As always—that heat across my chest.

  There. That’s the difference. That’s the spark. That’s what’s missing with Justin.

  No time for that now, Murphy.

  “You okay?” Noah asks.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t go home. The police are looking for me.”

  “The pol— Well, come in.” He moves out of the way to let me in. “So what happened?” he asks.

  “I broke into Aiden’s house,” I say. “I know it was him.”

  “What, that dream again?” Noah closes the door and locks it.

  “He did something to me,” I say. “A long time ago. Back in ninety-four. The dream is a flashback, Noah. It’s a memory. I saw the police report myself.”

  “Then why wasn’t Aiden arrested or—”

  “Aiden’s not in the report. I didn’t tell anybody anything. I couldn’t. But now I know.”

  “Look, Aiden’s a strange bird,” he says, “but he’s a sweet kid.”

  “That’s what everyone says. That’s what everyone says.” I grip my hair as if I’m going to yank it out at the roots, feeling a buzz of nervous energy. “What happened to me was in 1994,” I say. “And in 1995, there was the school shooting. I know Aiden was involved in the first of those. Was he involved in the second?”

  Noah’s head drops. “Murphy—”

  “Tell me, Noah. Tell me what happened in that school yard.”

  “Let me make you some coffee or—”

  “Fuck coffee,” I spit. “I don’t give a shit about some stupid code or promise you made seventeen years ago. People we care about have died. More will die. Was Aiden a part of that school shooting or wasn’t he?”

  Flustered, Noah puts his hands on his head. Looking off in the distance. Probably pondering the importance of a promise made, or maybe just reliving what happened back then.

  Finally, he drops his arms, clears his throat.

  “I always met Aiden by that bench before school,” he says. “Back then, people used to pick on him. I tried to help him out. So we’d meet at that bench and walk into school together.”

  I suck in a breath. Aiden. I knew it.

  “So that day, I sat on the bench, listening to music on my headphones. Then all of a sudden, a gym teacher, Coach Cooper, is running up to me and telling me I have to come with him, I’m in big trouble.”

  I stare at him, waiting for more.

  “You didn’t participate?” I ask. “You had nothing do with the school shooting?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t even know it was happening. I was on the other side of the school, down the road, blasting music in my ears.”

  I step closer to him. “What about the rifle they found in the bushes behind you?”

  “Don’t know anything about it. Never saw it.”

  “And—what did Aiden say to you afterward?”

  “Nothing.” Noah raises his hands. “I was suspended for the rest of the year. I didn’t see Aiden for months. When I did—I mean, what was there to say? I don’t rat people out. And it’s not like I knew Aiden had something to do with it. I still don’t know that. I just know I didn’t.”

  I start pacing. “Reports said the shooter—the one they saw, over by the woods—was wearing a Spider-Man costume. Just like you were.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did Aiden know you were going to wear a Spider-Man costume to school?”

  Noah thinks about that. “Probably. Yeah, he probably did.”

  “And it never occurred to you that Aiden set you up?”

  “It crossed my mind. But I didn’t know. And I’m not a rat.”

  I bring a hand to my forehead, push my hair off my face.

  “The second shooter,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, you keep going on about that,” says Noah. “You’re sure two people did this?”

  I nod. “That’s the only way it could’ve happened. So if you didn’t do it…”

  “Then someone else helped Aiden,” says Noah.

  And after tonight, I think I know who. I think I know who was working with Aiden, who’s been working with him all along.

  The man who was in Noah’s house with my uncle when Lang planted the incriminating evidence to frame Noah.

  The man who always seems to show up conveniently to rush to Aiden’s rescue.

  The man who demanded that I stop investigating the school shooting, my uncle’s murder, all of it.

  The man who told Aiden tonight, I’ll take care of this.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “No, don’t.” Noah puts a hand on my shoulder. “You said yourself, you can’t go home.”

  “I can’t stay here.”

  “You could, actually,” he says, his voice quieter.

  I look at him, his eyes peering directly into mine.

  He puts his hand on my face and moves in for a kiss.

  Like a surge of electricity through my body. Realizing that I’ve always wanted this. His hands in my hair, my hand cupped around his neck, letting myself surrender—

  “No,” I say, breaking away. “I have to go. They’ll look for me here. It might not be the first place Isaac looks, but he’ll get here eventually.”

  “So let him.”

  “Why?” I gather myself, fix my hair. “So we both get in trouble?”

  He concedes that. “Where will you go?”

  I don’t know. Hotel, not an option—no cash to my name, and
using a credit card would be the same as handing the address to Isaac. Ricketts’s house, negative. Uncle Lang’s house, nope, I already gave back my keys.

  Someone I can trust, but close by, so I don’t have to drive the streets very long.

  “Justin,” I say.

  “Justin…Rivers? The guy who owns Tasty’s?”

  I nod, suddenly feeling awkward admitting that to someone I just kissed.

  “I…didn’t know,” says Noah, taking a step back.

  “No, it’s not like that,” I say. “I mean, we went on one date.”

  Noah’s eyes trail away. “Okay. I understand. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Hey,” I say, and when he looks back at me, I grab his shirt and draw him in and kiss him hard.

  Then I pull away and leave his house.

  82

  I PULL my car into the lot at Tasty’s Diner and park around the back, out of sight. There’s only one other car in the lot, Justin’s Jaguar. I walk in and find him behind the bar, reading something on his laptop.

  I admit—one of the reasons I came here tonight was the small chance that I might run into Aiden Willis, who apparently spends a lot of nights at Tasty’s drinking. But no luck. Justin is here alone.

  “Hey there,” he says when he looks up, not unhappy to see me.

  “Slow night?” I ask.

  “It picks up in the summer,” he says. He looks me over. “You doing okay?”

  I take a long breath.

  “You must not be,” he says, coming around the counter, walking up to me, unsure of how close to get, whether to touch me—the whole awkward thing again.

  I give him the short version of my lovely evening, that in the course of investigating my uncle’s murder, I may have bent the law tonight and found myself on the wrong end of an arrest warrant.

  “I don’t know for a fact that I’m wanted for questioning,” I say. “Or that an arrest warrant was issued. But my guess is they’re looking for me.”

  “You need a place to stay,” he says. “You can’t go home.”

  “Well…”

  “That’s no problem. You can stay at my place. I have plenty of room.”

  “If you’re sure it’s not a bother,” I say. “Technically, you wouldn’t be harboring a fugitive. But you might want to give this some thought.”

  He thinks about it for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to harbor a fugitive.”

  I laugh, in spite of the circumstances.

  He looks at the clock on the wall. It’s half past one in the morning. “Let’s go,” he says. “Nobody’s coming at this point.”

  We take our own cars. I follow him into East Hampton, checking my mirrors at all times, feeling very conspicuous out here on Main Street at this hour.

  But I don’t see any patrol cars.

  Justin has a house by the ocean, a beautiful two-story cedar A-frame. I park my car next to his in the garage and he lowers the door, shielding my car from any inquisitive law enforcement.

  Inside, he leads me to a family room. What a place. Clean and spacious and updated. He directs me to a couch that’s more comfortable than my bed, perched next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a large backyard.

  I sink into the couch, exhausted. Next to me, on a side table, are two framed photographs of Justin as a child. The first with his mother and father, at a Yankees game. Justin must have been, what, four or five? All of them wearing Yankees caps, smiling for the camera. Justin looking like a miniature version of his father.

  The second, just the boy and his mother, when Justin is older, probably ten or so, on the beach, the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop.

  “Nice family,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Justin nods at the photographs. “That’s the last photo I have of my father. He died two days later. Crazy, right?”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “How did he die? Not to pry.”

  “No, that’s okay.” He waves me off. “He had a brain aneurysm. Healthy as a horse, worked out regularly. Then all of a sudden, he dropped dead. He just dropped.”

  “I’m…so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Justin puts his hands on his hips. “The truth? I don’t even remember him. I was only four. That’s why I keep the photograph around.” He waves his hand around the room. “And that’s how I have money. A healthy life insurance policy.”

  “Sure.”

  He works his jaw. “I’d give it all back to have a father.” He claps his hands, shakes himself free of the memory. “Now, Miss Murphy, have you eaten?”

  “Have I—oh, listen, that’s not—”

  “Did you eat, ma’am? It’s a simple yes-or-no question.”

  I chuckle again. “No.”

  He nods in the direction of his kitchen. “I have cold cuts and some cheese and crackers. Maybe even some fruit. I’d like some myself.”

  “That sounds great,” I concede.

  He starts to leave but turns and spins. “And what are we drinking? I can’t tell if you need coffee or wine.”

  I look at him.

  “Wine,” we say together.

  He returns first with two glasses of Chardonnay. “Cheers,” he says. “Our second date.”

  I realize my hands are shaking as I clink glasses with him.

  “You’re trembling,” he says. He puts his hand on my free one. “You’re safe here, Jenna. Just relax.”

  I nod and take a sip. It’s on the sweeter side, but alcohol feels good right now, a little numbing of the anxiety.

  “I’ll get the snacks.” He pops off the couch and heads into the kitchen.

  Justin’s right. Isaac would never look for me here. I’m safe for tonight.

  But so much to do. I have to reach out to Ricketts to see what my status is. I need to find out more about Holden VI. I have his lawyer’s name, but—

  No. Justin’s right about that, too. I have to slow down. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to fall apart.

  I look over the room. Picture windows on two sides. Expensive leather furniture. A big-screen TV mounted on one wall. An oak bookcase lining another wall.

  A nice, handsome, rich guy. Yeah, run away from this one, Murphy. You wouldn’t want to be happy and comfortable, would you?

  “You look more relaxed now,” he says. He’s carrying a tray of cheese and salami, some sliced tomatoes and grapes, a small fancy knife, the Chardonnay bottle tucked under one arm.

  He sets it all down and sits next to me on the couch.

  “Now eat,” he says. “And drink. And be merry.”

  I pick a couple of grapes off the bunch and pop them in my mouth.

  “You’re spoiling me,” I say. “I show up unannounced, with the cops on my tail, and you spoil me.”

  When he doesn’t respond right away, I turn to him. He’s watching me.

  “Maybe I like spoiling you,” he says, touching my hair.

  Is this guy for real? Are there actually guys like this out there? In that other world, I mean, the one Justin mentioned, where people are truly decent and honest?

  And handsome, too.

  He leans into me slowly, giving me the chance to decide, and I lean into him as well. This kiss is better than last time, less inhibited, more natural, each of us more at ease.

  He pulls back. “You can stay here as long as you need to,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

  And then we both hear it, footsteps from a distance.

  From behind us, outside.

  And then a piercing smash, as something—or someone—comes crashing through the picture window.

  83

  SHARDS OF glass everywhere, something hard striking my head, and Justin and I are thrown from the couch as another body sails into us.

  All three of us hit the hardwood floor.

  Darkness.

  Chaos and shouting and thumping and grunting and smashing.

  Darkness.

  I open my eyes, my head reeling, my vision blurred.

  Justin and…

  Aiden.r />
  Struggling on the floor. Aiden on top, with the knife raised. Justin grabbing his arm to hold him off.

  Telling myself to move, begging my arms and legs to work, the room angled sideways, spinning—

  Move.

  I lunge forward, both hands aiming for the knife. The knife, the most important thing, disarm the suspect, disable the weapon.

  All my body weight, plowing into Aiden, both hands gripping his wrist, sending Aiden and me over Justin to the floor. I hit the floor again, hard, colorful bursts dancing around my eyes.

  But I have the knife.

  Behind me, the shuffling of feet. With everything I can muster, I manage to crane my neck around.

  Just as Aiden Willis is climbing up on the couch and jumping out through the window, the same way he came.

  Justin moans. Blood coming from his forehead, his breathing shallow.

  Around us, chaos. A piece of lawn furniture, the one that helped Aiden break through the window, the one that smacked me in the temple, lying by the bookcase. The glass table overturned. Food everywhere. Broken glass littering the couch and floor.

  And blood. Justin’s blood. And mine, some of which is spilling into my eyes right now from the head wound.

  “Are you…okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, short of breath. He props himself up on his elbows. Several cuts across his cheeks and forehead from the glass. Nothing too serious, nothing life-threatening. “How about you?”

  “Were you cut?” I crawl toward him. “By the knife, I mean.”

  He shakes his head. He looks about as stunned as I am. “What the hell just happened?”

  The wind gusting through the open, shattered window.

  “We have to call the police,” I say, just now catching my breath.

  “But…” Justin forces himself to sit up, grimacing. “If there’s a warrant for your arrest, you can’t be—”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have to report this.”

  He reaches over and grabs my hand. I squeeze back. After a moment, we help each other to our feet. He brings me close, hugging me, our chests heaving, our hearts pounding in tandem.

  “I’m…so sorry, Justin,” I say into his chest. “I brought this to you. I never should have come here.”