First thought: it’s Jackson, with flowers and take-out because he couldn’t stand the idea of dining without me.
Hah.
Second thought: aside from Amelia III, I didn’t have any deliveries scheduled for today. (And when you’re stuck inside, your life kind of revolves around deliveries.)
Weird.
But then comes my third, and most chilling thought: Mrs. Archer has returned.
And now she knows that I’m alone.
Instantly, my heart is pounding and my throat is tightening and my brain feels like it’s swimming in my head. No. Not again. I refuse to turn into a basket case for the second time in a twenty-four-hour period. I go to the front door and look through the peephole and—
Nobody’s there.
But there is movement behind the shades of my front window. I quickly put on my sunglasses and knit cap and peek outside, just in time to see a bright green Fresh Grub Now truck parked outside, near the corner. Which is one of my delivery services. Did I have something scheduled for today? Could I have simply forgotten?
Back at the door, I take a deep breath, then flip the lock and twist the knob. Sure enough, there’s an insulated Fresh Grub Now bag waiting for me.
The bag is small, but heavy. Why would I have placed such a small order? That’s just a waste of the delivery fee.
I bring the bag to the kitchen, drop it on the counter, and pull out the contents. They seem to be a dense squishy mass of…something. Then the odor hits me. It takes me a while to place, because I’m vegetarian. And even when I was a preteen and still eating meat, my parents always opted for the fresh stuff.
But that’s not what this is.
This is rotten meat.
Chapter 22
It’s not a threat.
It’s not a threat.
It’s not a threat.
I tell myself.
But honestly, what else could it be? Oops, looks like I clicked on the wrong box at the website. I meant to check “rhubarb treat,” not “rotten meat”! I check my order history, and discover that, of course, I didn’t order any food from Fresh Grub Now in the past few days.
No, this little package must have been a gift from you-know-who.
I know I’ll have fat luck, though, convincing Officers Yates and Sears that this huge chunk of fetid meat was from my friendly neighborhood murderer. It’s not like my track record is working in my favor in that department.
I hastily rewrap the meat in the Fresh Grub Now bag and consider walking it straight to the dumpster behind the building…except, I never walk to the dumpster. (My landlord takes pity on me and allows me to leave my lonely little trash and recycling outside my door every Monday, and he takes it out from there.)
So I have no choice but to leave this disgusting chunk of decaying meat in my trash bin all week. Which is going to be awesome.
Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but as the evening goes on, the smell of that meat becomes even more intense. For a moment, I consider putting it out in the hallway anyway. But then the odor would waft throughout the building. I’m sure that’d turn me into everyone’s least favorite tenant in about two hours flat.
Even if Jackson were to come knocking at my door right now, flowers in hand, I’d have to turn him away before he started gagging.
I spray the living daylights out of the interior of my trash bin with a bathroom deodorizer before I go to bed. If I had a hundred of those pine tree car fresheners, I’d hang them all over my apartment, just like that crazy guy did in the movie Se7en. Honestly, anything would be better than this.
My mind is too agitated to allow itself to sleep. I keep thinking about the meat. And why meat? It’s kind of a juvenile prank, along the lines of leaving a flaming bag of doggie doo on your doorstep.
Unless…
Unless Mrs. Archer somehow knew about my condition. And that I’d essentially be trapped inside this one-room apartment with rotten meat for an entire week. Which makes it downright diabolical.
Crazy Arrow Lady: 1
Tricia: 0
Sometime after midnight I finally drift off, which is a nice break from the stench. I dream about walking around outside. It’s a common recurring dream for me. There’s fresh-cut grass under my feet, and warm sun on my face, and it isn’t covering my skin with blisters or turning it to ash. Maybe my subconscious mind is starved for this experience and recreates it when I’m in my most defenseless state. Or maybe my subconscious just likes to torture me with what I can’t have.
But for the moment, it’s all so wonderfully real and vivid that I forget about my troubles. Do you remember those carefree days as a kid during the summer, when time seemed to stretch into forever? No homework, no responsibilities whatsoever? That’s what this dream felt like, right up until the moment—
My front door slams shut.
Chapter 23
I’m scrambling down from my sleeping loft before I’m even fully awake, slamming my elbows into walls and banging my knees on the ladder. I’m in such a hurry that I don’t realize that I’m doing something very stupid.
What if the slamming door was meant to wake me up, and right now I’m rushing into the waiting, murderous arms of Mrs. Archer?
I skid to a halt in the middle of my apartment and attempt to see in the near dark. Is there someone in here with me?
If there were an intruder, Tricia, what exactly would you do about it?
The heart, the throat, the brain—they all start up again with the pounding, the tightening, the dizziness. Instead of paralyzing me, though, the panic attack seems to spark the opposite effect. I’m suddenly furious.
“Is there somebody here?” I say. “Look, if there’s someone in this apartment, stop being a coward and show your face!”
There is no reply. The gloomy dark keeps its own counsel.
One by one, I flip on the lights, illuminating every square inch of my place. One by one, potential hiding spots are eliminated. After a good fifteen minutes of searching (it’s not a big place—but I searched everything five times anyway), I’m reasonably sure I am alone.
But I am definitely awake. There will be no more sleeping tonight.
I consider calling Jackson, who’s probably sleeping just two floors above me. But no, he doesn’t need my brand of crazy in his life right now. I’ll just have to deal.
I spray the inside of the trash bin with deodorizer again, but it doesn’t seem to do anything. I don’t think the fetid stench will ever get out of my nostrils.
I’m still angry. So, somewhere around 4 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I silently tell Mrs. Archer:
You psycho—it’s time for me to take the fight to you.
Chapter 24
I’m ready before the crack of dawn on Wednesday morning. Amelia III is perched on my windowsill and ready for active duty. Let’s do this thing.
Amelia III flies up, up, up, and over the edges of my rooftop. Then she zooms toward the city proper. This is my first time piloting her, since Jackson had the honors of making the maiden voyage. And wow, is she a thing of beauty. No offense to the previous Amelias, but they were basically just radio-controlled helicopters when compared to this fighter jet of a drone.
I swoop around the Parkway. Today there are wooden barricades, all up and down the sides of the street, which means Philly will be hosting some kind of important visitor this afternoon. Then I remember: it’s the senator that Mr. Burke mentioned. That’s the reason the authorities shooed all of those homeless people away.
But never mind that. I need to focus on my target.
I check Mrs. Archer’s last known locations, hoping she’s returned to the scene of the crime. I start in the park, but there’s no sign of her there. So I guide Amelia III down 19th Street and I’m about to enter the viaduct when I see…
Flashing lights.
Police—and they’re like, everywhere.
What’s going on?
The tricky thing here is getting a good view without the police knowing that I’
m watching. Fortunately, they’re so busy keeping onlookers on the fringes of the scene that none of them even bother to look up. (Besides, it definitely helps that Amelia III is much quieter than her sisters.)
I tweak the controls until I’m at the best vantage point possible, allowing me to see right down into the viaduct, where there is a lot of activity and uniforms and detectives and forensic-type people.
My blood freezes as I realize what the police are doing.
They’re carrying dead bodies away from the scene.
The urge to vomit almost overpowers me—and not just because there’s a stench of rotten meat in my apartment.
I struggle to keep Amelia III steady as I count the bodies under the tarps.
There are six of them.
Apparently, Mrs. Archer has killed many people.
Was the murder I saw the first one? Do I share the blame for those five other poor souls? Did they die because I’m such a freak and wasn’t able to convince two police officers that what I saw was real?
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening…
My view of the crime scene is interrupted by a ding on my cell phone—a Facebook message is waiting for me.
It’s from John Burke, the homeless advocate who messaged me last night. No doubt he’s heard about the bodies being discovered and checking in to see if I know anything.
I know more than you could ever guess, Mr. Burke…
I hesitate clicking on the message, though—what am I supposed to say? That I knew what was happening all along and wasn’t able to stand up and do anything about it?
Stop being a baby. Answer the man’s message.
But it’s not a Facebook message from John Burke at all. Instead, it’s a dark, slightly blurry photograph from an unknown account. What the hell?
I use my thumb and middle finger to pinch it open.
And I see it’s an image of me.
Sleeping in bed, nearly eight hours ago.
Chapter 25
Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day)
Sometimes you think a mission is all nailed down. You’ve planned every detail to perfection. Every possible scenario is conjured and considered.
And then along comes a wrench. Or in this case, a nosy little wench, who throws herself into the works. Now a dilettante would react to such a complication with panic or, at least, fear of discovery. Most likely, the final result would be a cowardly abandonment of the mission.
But, as I’ve explained before, I am no dilettante.
The mark of a truly gifted operative is to take those frustrating little complications and work them into the very fabric of your mission. Not only will your antagonist never see it coming, but if you’re smart enough, it will seem like the complication was part of the mission all along.
And how exciting, this new adjustment to the mission!
The first thing I did was shake Miss Patricia with a special delivery. I couldn’t have her get too cocky and comfortable.
The police discovered the bodies of Subjects One through Six exactly as I’d planned. It happened the day after I visited the pit, taking the piece that I needed with me. Then I phoned in the anonymous tip myself.
And then, posing as “John Burke,” I reached out to my dear Patricia so I could give her a little bit of comfort about her mysterious homeless man. After all, for my plan to work, I can’t have her become too unhinged. Now, I need her to fall asleep.
Patricia Celano, I hope you understand. We were meant to be joined together on this wonderful day. It’s almost as if you and your particular affliction were crafted by some brilliant deity for this singular purpose. My purpose.
Blessings to you.
Chapter 26
There’s no time for a panic attack. I barely have time to pilot Amelia III back home safely before there’s a sharp knock-knock-knock at my door.
Please don’t be Mrs. Archer, come to finish me off…
But no. The view through the peephole reveals the burly frames of Officers Yates and Sears. And this time, I couldn’t be happier to see them. I fling open the door, feeling like my soul has just lost three hundred pounds.
“If you’re here to apologize, then you’re in luck. Because I’m taking apologies all morning long.”
Yates, the babyface, says, “I’m sorry?”
“Ms. Celano, we’re here to ask you a few questions,” Sears says. “May we step inside?” He asks the question without really requesting my permission.
“Sure, come on in. Want me to put on some coffee?”
Yates wrinkles up his nose. “Ugh, what is that smell?”
“The garbage. Which is part of the reason I’m so happy to see you guys. You won’t believe what’s been going on the past couple of days.”
“So you’ve been inside your apartment this whole time?” Sears asks. “You never left once?”
“No. I haven’t,” I say. “Like I explained to you the other day, I have this…”
“Sun allergy, right,” Sears says. “I did some looking into that. It’s extremely rare. I mean, like, you’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning while winning the lottery.”
“I guess that’s me,” I say. “Lady Luck.”
Yates and Sears give each other a knowing look. What is going on with these two?
“Look, I’m not the type to say I told you so, but I saw the news about all the bodies you guys found.”
“You did?” Yates asks.
“Yeah. I swear to God, though, I only knew about the one! The one I told you about. I don’t know if she’s been at this a while, or racked up a few more since I last saw you guys, but—”
Sears interrupts, “How many bodies did you hear we found?”
“Six.”
“And how, exactly, did you hear about them?”
“What do you mean?”
“TV? The radio?” Yates asks. “Maybe online?”
And that’s when I realize I’ve been caught in a lie.
“Because, you know, the department hasn’t released any details to the media yet,” Sears says.
“Okay, I admit it,” I say, huffing out a breath. “I flew my drone over the scene and saw what was going on. And I swear, I was about to call you guys when I heard from the killer again. She was here! Inside my apartment last night!”
“Hold on—what drone?” Sears asks. “I thought you said you crashed that drone after you saw this supposed killer.”
“Unless you left the apartment at night to take the drone you crashed off the roof,” Yates says. “Is that what happened? Were you able to get it back and fix it?”
They’re both trying to catch me in a lie. I already said I hadn’t left the apartment in days—so why would I admit to slipping out at night (which I haven’t)? Why would they do such a thing?
Oh no, I realize.
They think I did it.
Chapter 27
“Look,” I tell them. “I know how this is going to sound, but I need you guys to believe me.”
Sears gives me this super-patronizing smile. “Why don’t you tell us what happened, and we’ll let you know how your story sounds?”
Thing is, I know exactly how it sounds. But I try to clear my name anyway.
“So I bought another drone—you know, because I crashed the first one.”
“We remember,” Yates says. “And like I said, did you ever manage to pull it down from the roof?”
“No, dummy, she can’t, because she’s allergic to the sun,” Sears says, with all of the conviction of a man telling another man that the Easter Bunny is real.
“Anyway,” I say, “this drone had recording capabilities. That way, if I found Mrs. Archer—”
“Who?” Sears asks.
“That’s what I’ve been calling the suspect. You know, because of the arrow thing? I wanted to capture Mrs. Archer on film so I’d finally have proof for you guys.”
“That’s very nice of you,” says Yates. “So did you find her?”
&nb
sp; “Um, yes and no. I definitely caught her, in the park down on 19th Street.”
“So let’s see the footage.”
“Well…I can’t because she shot my drone out of the sky with an arrow.”
Both tough guy cops blink at that one.
“I’m sorry?” Yates asks.
“I don’t know what to tell you, other than the fact that she has amazing aim. But yeah, she took down my drone with an arrow, then presumably destroyed it, which is why I don’t have any footage of her.”
“You said she shot it down…with an arrow?”
This is getting annoying. “Can we move past the arrow? Please? Because the really scary thing is that I think she traced my address and online identity through the drone. And now some really weird things have been happening to me over the past couple of days…”
Then I start to gush, telling them about everything—the rocks against my window pane in the middle of the night and the delivery of rotten meat. Everything except my new visits with Jackson Dolan, because the last thing I want to do is send these two lugs to his front door. I may be a freak who has to hide indoors all the time, but I’m not the girl who brings trouble into someone else’s home.
And that’s when I suddenly remember the creepy sleeping photo.
“Oh, wait! I do have proof.”
Officer Yates makes this grand sweeping gesture as if to say, Well, then lead us to it, my fair lady.
I open my laptop then call up Facebook. There it is—the message, and the photo of me taking forty winks. “See? Clearly I couldn’t have taken this.”
I sense the sheer presence of their bodies as they both lean around me to take a look at the image. Not only do I not come in close proximity to any other human beings 99 percent of the time, but I never have this kind of personal space violation. My heart begins to do its jackrabbit thing and my throat tightens.
“You know, a friend could have easily taken that,” Yates says.
“What kind of friend would sneak into my place and snap a photo of me while I’m sleeping?”
The Shut-In Page 5
