“We’re not. She was released half an hour ago.”
“She was released? On bond?”
The officer on duty looks over his glasses at Noah. “Sir, whoever you are, I can’t give that information to you.”
He looks outside. She was released half an hour ago? But…he saw her car at her house just now. How did she leave? She wouldn’t have walked—
Justin, he thinks. She must be with Justin.
“I need to speak with Isaac,” he says. “I need to speak with the chief.”
“Sir,” says the duty officer, “you can’t just waltz in here and demand to speak with the chief.”
“It’s important.”
“Sir, the chief isn’t—”
“Listen!” Noah slaps his hand against the plate of glass. “I need to speak with him and I need to speak with him now!”
“Hey.”
Noah turns at the sound of the voice. A uniformed officer approaching him, a young woman—Murphy’s friend, the rookie cop, Lauren Ricketts.
“What’s going on, Noah?” she says.
“I have to talk to Isaac,” he says. “Right now.”
“Why? Tell me what’s going on.”
Noah thinks it over. He doesn’t know Ricketts. He has no idea what she knows and what she doesn’t know.
“No,” he says. “I’ll only talk to Isaac.”
108
JUSTIN PULLS his car into his garage in East Hampton. The garage door grinds to a close behind us.
“So tell me,” he says. “Tell me where you think Aiden is.”
“Later,” I say.
“Later? Why later?”
My cell phone buzzes. Caller ID says it’s Lauren Ricketts. I don’t dare answer. I let the call go to voice mail and then play the message on my speakerphone:
Murphy, it’s Ricketts. I’m not sure what’s going on, and I probably shouldn’t be calling you, but—but whatever, I’m calling you. Listen, about twenty minutes ago, Noah Walker had a private conversation with the chief, and the next thing I know, Isaac has issued an APB for you. They think you’re with Justin.
I look over at Justin, whose face has gone pale.
He mobilized the SWAT teams, Murphy. We’re coming after you with everything we have. You should surrender at the station before something bad happens. I can coordinate it with you. Please, call me before this gets out of hand.
Justin turns and looks at me, the gravity of what we’ve just heard sinking in. “He just released you, and now he’s after you again?”
After talking to Noah, apparently. And here I thought Noah didn’t get along so well with the chief.
I get out of the car, and Justin follows suit. We go into his house, his beautiful, spacious kitchen.
“You said you have a gun,” I say.
“Um—yeah, I do,” he says, still distracted. “Hang on.”
“And a flashlight,” I call out to him as he leaves the kitchen.
I take a breath. Isaac and Noah got together, had a nice little chat, and now the STPD is after me with full force.
Isaac and Noah. They’ve made a very public show of not getting along so well. An act? An act I fell for hook, line, and sinker?
“Okay.” Justin returns to the kitchen with not one gun but two, holding each of them with two fingers, the barrels dangling down.
“A regular arsenal,” I say.
But not really. One is a shiny, polished revolver, new and, from the looks of it, unused. The other is a beat-up revolver with a pearl handle, a vintage piece, a .38 special with a very short, maybe two-inch barrel that is probably thirty or forty years old.
“Take your pick,” he says, placing them gently on the kitchen table.
I laugh. “Take my pick? How old is that thirty-eight special?”
Justin shrugs. “My dad bought it years ago—probably the seventies. This new one, I bought. I assume it works.”
“You assume?”
He shakes his head. “Never used it. Bought it for home protection. Some silly notion that I’m safer with it. I have a feeling if I ever had to use it, I’d end up shooting myself in the foot or something.”
“You’re probably right.” I choose the shiny new revolver, hold the gun toward the floor, pop open the cylinder, and confirm the presence of rounds in all six chambers.
Justin looks at all of this like he’s scared to death of guns.
He probably is. This isn’t his thing. He isn’t cut out for this. He’s a nice guy, a wonderful guy, but he lives in a world where people are decent and gracious. He doesn’t live in a world full of bad guys. That’s where we differ. That’s where we’ll always differ.
“And the flashlight,” I say.
“Oh—right,” he says. He removes one from a kitchen drawer and hands it to me.
Then he claps his hands, as if ready for action, but the paleness of his face suggests otherwise. “Where to?” he asks. “Where do you think Aiden is hiding out?”
I stuff the revolver in the back of my pants. “I have to go now,” I say.
He looks at me. “Don’t you mean we have to go?”
“No, I mean I have to go. This is my problem, not yours.”
“Jenna—”
“You’ve done enough. You’ve given me your gun and a flashlight, and a ride. But I can’t ask for anything else.”
“For the last time, you didn’t ask,” he says. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “You can’t do this by yourself. I may not be a veteran police officer or some Navy SEAL—shit, I wasn’t even an athlete—but you can trust me. I’d do anything for you, Detective Murphy. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
I look into his eyes. Yes, there’s something there, something more than gratitude for all his attempts to help me. Maybe what I feel for him is enough. Maybe. But now is not the time to be gauging my emotions.
I have to do this, and I have to do it alone.
“I’ll just follow you,” he says.
“Not if I shoot you in the leg.”
He laughs, in spite of the circumstances.
Then the doorbell rings. We both turn our heads toward the front door. Justin takes a couple of cautious steps backward and peeks beyond the kitchen, presumably through a window.
“Police car,” he says.
“East Hampton PD?”
“Southampton,” he says. “That’s Isaac Marks at my front door.”
109
“SHIT,” I say, panic swirling inside me. “Shit.”
Justin puts out a hand for caution. “I’ll take care of it. Stay here.”
“I should hide.”
“No place to hide. He’d see you running through the kitchen. Sit tight.”
Justin walks out of the kitchen. A moment later, I hear him opening the front door. I steel myself, close my eyes, listen carefully.
“Isaac,” he says.
My blood goes cold.
“Hello, Justin. I’m looking for Jenna Murphy. Is she here?”
“Here? No. No, she’s not here. Why?”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No idea,” says Justin. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s a police matter. When did you last see her?”
“I dropped her off at her house earlier today. After she was released from custody.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That’s it. I dropped her off and I drove here.”
“You drove here? Why not to the restaurant?”
A pause. “I’m the boss, Isaac. I come and go as I please. I didn’t think I had to get the police department’s permission.”
“You come and go as you please.” A pause, this time from Isaac. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Justin? Because you know it’s a crime to lie to a law enforcement officer, don’t you?”
“I think I’ve heard that somewhere,” Justin says. “Oh, I know—it was on TV.”
I smile but don’t dare laugh.
“You think this is funny? Listen t
o me, and listen to me very closely. We are actively seeking to bring Jenna Murphy into custody. She’s not who you think she is.”
“I think she’s an honorable and decent person.”
“Well, she isn’t. I’m gonna take her down. The easy way or the hard way, I’m gonna do it. I prefer the easy way. The safe way. But if you’re helping her evade us, you become an accessory. You ever heard that term from TV? It means you’re just as guilty as she is.”
Justin doesn’t respond.
“I’ve known you a long time, Justin. Never had a beef with you. You’ve always been a good egg. And you make the best damn barbecue shrimp on Long Island. So I’m going to give you one more chance. And think about what I said. You can help us find a dangerous person who’s committed some very serious crimes. Or you could lie to me and spend a very long time in prison. And I will personally see to it that you do.”
My heart is sinking as Justin himself sinks deeper and deeper into my problems.
“I understand.” Justin’s tone is cold and flat.
“Do you know where Jenna Murphy is?”
I hold my breath. I’d come out right now and show myself, and spare Justin any further trouble. But if I do, it’s game over. I’ll never know the truth.
“I have no idea where she is,” Justin tells Isaac.
Justin returns to the kitchen, his face ashen, after Isaac drives away.
“Well, that was fun,” he says, trying to maintain a brave front, but he can’t even bring himself to smile.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m going to leave now.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No. I leave now, you have plausible deniability. I’ll scrape the serial number off your gun so it can’t be traced back to you. No one will ever know you helped me. But if you go with me, you spend the next decade in prison. Assuming you don’t get killed.”
“I don’t care.” He touches my arm. “I understand the risks. But you need help, and the risk of losing you is worse than…” He swallows hard. His eyes fill. “I don’t usually—I’ve never responded to anyone like I do to you.”
I step away from him. “Justin, you know I can’t reciprocate those feelings. I just don’t know—”
“Yeah, I know. But I don’t care. You just haven’t figured out what a wonderful guy I am yet. You will, someday.”
I drop my eyes and smile. Still trying to make this easier for me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe someday I’ll feel about him the same way he does about me. If there is a someday in my future.
“At least tell me where you’re going,” he says.
“No, Justin.”
“Then take my car.”
“No. They find your car and that’s the same thing as you coming with me. You’re aiding and abetting. I’ll walk. Better I stay off the roads, anyway. And I’m in no hurry. I need the sun to go down before I make my move. I’ll wait until midnight, probably.”
“Call me on your cell, then. At least tell me you’re okay.”
“Turning my cell phone off right now,” I say. “So they can’t track me.”
Justin lets out air, shaking his head. “Oh, Jenna. Don’t say good-bye to me. Just—tell me this isn’t good-bye.”
I walk up to him and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “This isn’t good-bye,” I say, before I head out his back door.
110
MY THOUGHTS zigzagging in every direction, trying to make sense of it all—Noah, Isaac, Aiden—not to mention the entire Southampton Town Police Department after me, heavily armed and prepared for combat. But something is telling me that the key to this is Aiden Willis. If I can get hold of him tonight, if I can surprise him and subdue him, I can finally put an end to this.
The walk from East Hampton isn’t bad. It’s about seven miles, which under different circumstances would be a typical day’s jog for me, and it’s safer than driving. When you’re on foot, you’re nimble. You can escape into crowds, cut corners, hide among foliage—you can obscure yourself in any number of ways.
The sky overhead is threatening rain, which will royally suck if it happens, but the good news is that in the meantime, it darkens the sky and brings the rough equivalent of nightfall prematurely.
I make it to the beach and kick off my shoes and tromp along the sand, the restless Atlantic Ocean to the south, the carefree breeze playing with my hair. I don’t look like a fugitive, and unless the police are conducting beach patrol, I’m practically invisible to them.
So I sit in the sand, less than a mile from my destination, watching the foamy tide crash ashore and recede, waiting for the moment to arrive. If my guess about Aiden is right, he’s settling in right now, nestled in his hiding spot, his guard slowly lowering.
Somewhere in the house at 7 Ocean Drive.
At midnight, I make the decision—it’s time. Hopefully, he’s asleep, or at least close to it. Not expecting company, in any event.
I step out of the sand onto the parking lot and look up at the mansion. No lights are on. No visible sign of life. Not that I expected Aiden to be hosting a party.
I walk along Ocean Drive until I reach the front of the house, my nervous system catching up now, sending warning signals to me, filling my chest. Justin’s revolver in my right hand, the flashlight in my left.
I try the driveway entrance, expecting resistance, planning to push it open and squeeze myself between the twin gates. But it’s not locked. I push one side open and enter, then close it back up, without allowing my imagination to wonder why the gate would be open.
My breathing erratic, my legs heavy, I walk up the driveway to the fork—to the right, the walk heading up the hill to the house; to the left, the driveway continuing on to the carriage house or whatever it is.
For some reason, I don’t take the familiar path, the one I’ve traveled several times during my investigation, up the sidewalk toward the house.
This time, I stay left, remaining on the driveway, walking toward that oversize carriage house.
Not knowing why. Unable to place it in my brain, but feeling something inside me growing, spreading like poison.
And then a flash through my brain like lightning.
Walking, shoved from behind, forced forward, wondering what it is, a stable, a garage, a separate house, where is it he’s taking me?
Walk. Move! Walk faster, you stupid girl!
I suck in a breath. I should turn around now. I know that. If I had any sense, I’d turn and run. Instead, I shine my light forward, just briefly, to see if there’s anything in front of me, up the driveway toward the structure.
I move slowly—
Faster! Walk faster!
—as I approach it. Tall double doors for an entrance. On the ground, at my feet, a long chain with a broken lock.
Somebody unlocked this door recently.
He’s here. Aiden is here.
I put my flashlight in my mouth and raise my gun. With my free hand, I pull on the door handle and yank it open.
In one motion, I drop to a knee, remove the flashlight from my mouth, and click it on, sweeping it over the space inside.
Open air. Two stories tall. Big, yes, but empty.
Empty.
Stains on the concrete floor from automobiles, once upon a time. A rack on the wall for tools, though none are present right now. A carpenter’s desk, too, a wooden top with steel legs, with an old saw and a vise on top.
Empty. But a different kind of empty.
I shine my light along the floor by the desk. There are circles on the floor, dust markings, from where the legs of the tool desk rested not long ago.
“Someone moved that desk,” I mumble to myself. Recently. Very recently.
Why move it?
I shine the light along the floor.
In the area where the desk once stood, before being moved, there is a break in the concrete. An outline. A square. Lying on top of it, a short length of rope.
I squat down for a closer look. Same color paint, but the surfac
e of the square looks different.
I try to pick up the rope, but it’s stuck to the floor, attached somehow.
And the surface is…wood, not concrete.
A wooden square with a rope attached to it.
I grab the rope and, this time, pull on it hard.
The wooden square jars loose.
“What the hell…”
I pull harder, and the piece of wood pops upward.
A burst of cool air escaping from beneath it.
“A hidden door,” I whisper.
There’s something underneath this floor.
111
MY GUN poised, I pull the trapdoor fully open. I turn on the flashlight, dust particles floating in the beam, aiming it down into the darkness below.
A ladder, a wooden ladder, leading down several steps to a floor.
My lungs thirsting for air, my head spinning. A small tremor spreads through my limbs, immediately turning into a full-scale tremble, my hand shaking so hard I can hardly hold my gun. I don’t dare cock the revolver’s hammer, putting the gun in ready position, for fear I’ll start shooting, maybe even hitting myself.
The ladder so wobbly
I don’t know how far down it will go
The boy yelling at me, “Move! Move!”
I drop to my knees and suck in air, desperately seeking breath while my lungs seize up.
I was here. I was in this carriage house. I went down this ladder.
Sweat stinging my eyes, my shirt stuck to my back, my vision spotty, my heart pounding so fiercely I can hardly move.
“Move, Murphy,” I whisper. “Move.”
I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. I fish around the open space with one leg until my foot finds a rung on the ladder.
I move slowly, hoping to minimize the noise, praying I don’t lose my grip, the ladder itself quaking along with my hands, my arms and legs.
Darker, the lower I climb.
Colder.
White noise filling my ears, bits and pieces of memories, the sounds of the boy’s voice taunting me—
Move! Keep moving, stupid girl
—my body shivering so violently, my feet hitting the floor, something hard like marble. I remove my gun and aim it in all directions, spinning, somehow keeping my balance, as I shine the flashlight all around.
The Murder House Page 29
