by Ellery Kane
“C’mon. He’s a perv.”
“I know, but he’s my supervisor.” Why am I defending him? she thought as the words left her mouth.
“Your pervy supervisor. You said it yourself. Are you defending him now?” But Clare knew the one she really was defending was herself. What it said about her that men saw her this way—and only this way. Or the other option. Worse. Unthinkable. This was how she saw herself.
She sighed, back-pedaling. “I need him on my side is all.”
“And you don’t need Neal on your side? He’s majorly pissed at you.”
“He told you that? He called you again?” It came out harsher than she’d intended. Rapid-fire and jealous-sounding.
“To ask about you. Don’t you think you owe him a conversation? He’s a good guy, Clare. A really good one.”
“Why don’t you date him then?” she asked, but Lizzie talked over her.
“And you’ve been stringing him along for years. Now you’ve got this other poor sucker, J. D., on the line. And Fitzawhozit. And Cullen. Hell, this guy probably wants to do you too.” Lizzie stuck her thumb behind her to the mustached barista. An innocent bystander, he pretended not to hear her. “Save some for the rest of us,” she hissed.
Clare felt raw, as if Lizzie had stripped away her skin. “It’s not like I enjoy it or anything. I’d give anything not to be noticed for one day. For one flippin’ day just to be like . . . ”
“Me? Like me? So dull and ordinary?”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re twisting it.”
“Woe is Clare. Always the victim. You think I don’t know you get off on these guys bird-dogging you? Rodney Taylor fucked you up. Royally.” And there it was. The hammer intended to shatter. But just when Clare thought it was over, Lizzie added, “You should go make out with Cutthroat. He’s on your level.”
Clare couldn’t remember the last time they fought—college probably—but Lizzie always got the last word. Not this time. She gathered her purse, slung it over her shoulder. It felt heavy and important with the key ring tucked inside the lining. “I already have.”
Anger made her bold. She charged into the prison entrance, a bull in a china shop, flashed her ID and opened the mouth of her purse for the guard.
“Morning, Dr. Keely,” he said. “Anything in here I should know about?” He winked at her, teasing like he always did. And, just for Lizzie, she paused to examine how she felt. Annoyed, a little disgusted. Bored mostly. There, she thought. I don’t like being bird-dogged.
“Just the usual contraband,” she joked.
He barely looked inside her bag. She almost felt disappointed, given the time she’d wasted sewing in the lining, stitch by perfect stitch. At the very least, he could’ve examined it more closely than he did her breasts.
“Alright. Have a nice day, Doc. And happy holidays.” That was it. Some lines you blaze through so fast, they don’t seem like lines at all.
Clare knew Ramirez wouldn’t come for the keys himself. He’d told her that much. Package it up real good, real legit, in a brown bag. Like your lunch. Third pew in the chapel. Noon. That’s where you leave it.
From her office threshold, she took a quick peek down the hallway. Fitzpatrick’s light was on, and she heard the dull drone of his therapist voice. This time she double-checked the lock on her office door before she slit the soft lining of her purse with a letter opener. Inside the paper bag, she’d arranged an apple, a granola bar, and a PB&J with banana, as legit as it gets. Careful but quick, she stuck the keys under a napkin and maneuvered them to the bottom of the pile. Then she rolled the bag shut and marveled at her work. Her third-grade lunch sack reincarnated. Back when her mother could be bothered with things like packing a lunch for her only child. Back before Clare became—how did Lizzie put it again?—royally fucked up.
By ten minutes after noon, Clare had made her delivery to a cemetery-quiet chapel and taken the stairs back to her office. She felt so light, she skipped steps, reciting words of relief with every footfall. I did it. It’s over.
Fitzpatrick waved to her from his desk as she passed, his other hand cradling a bologna sandwich. “You seem happy as a clam today, Dr. Keely. By the way—”
“Must be the holiday spirit,” she interrupted, hurrying past before he asked her to join him for lunch. Truthfully, she’d forgotten about Christmas altogether until that morning when a perky new hire had poked her head in, offering a wreath for her office door. She accepted, but only because it covered most of the beveled glass on her window. You could never be too careful. Plus, with sleigh bells affixed to the oversized red bow, her door jingled every time it opened. A small price to pay for an alarm in plain sight.
Clare noticed the blue slip on her desk right away, but she let it linger, let the feeling build from a dull ache to a steady, delicious throb—no less powerful than the beat of her heart. Finally, she flipped it over expecting to see Cullen’s block handwriting.
Her balloon deflated as she examined the dry cleaning slip issued from the prison laundry. Pick-up. Thurs, 12/19 by 7:00 p.m. Clare heard some of the staff took their clothes there on Mondays—cheap labor—but she’d always found it a little strange. The idea of those men—hulking and clumsy and criminal—touching her things. There must’ve been a mistake.
The bell on the door sounded, and Clare flinched. “Come in,” she said, but Fitzpatrick’s scuffed loafers were already halfway inside. He offered her a cookie from a metal tin, leaning so close to her, she noticed the dusting of green sugar on his mouth.
“I guess Cutthroat found you.” He eyed the blue slip, and Clare swallowed hard, trying to form words. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. He said you had some dry cleaning for pick-up.” Fitzpatrick ran his tongue over his lips, smacking them. The sugar disappeared. “I didn’t even know he worked there.”
The dank smell of sweat hit her first. Piles of laundry—most of it sheets and prison blues—reached high on either side of her. Dumpster-sized bins full of it. Clare moved in the dark, past the folding tables to the wall, where a thin stream of light came from underneath a closed door. She looked at her watch. 7 p.m. on the dot.
“Hello?” she whispered, feeling a little light-headed. A little deranged. What was she doing here? Banging your client. That’s what you’re doing. Crossing the last line. But Clare silenced Lizzie’s disdainful monologue. She couldn’t stop herself. Not now. Sometimes life unfolded at the speed of a locomotive, rolling through the countryside. Other times, it sliced like a bullet train—so fast it threatened to break her in two, to strip the skin from her bones.
Clare watched the light from beneath the closed door. It flickered on and off, and on and off again. A signal. Every part of her awakened. Every part of her felt alive. Not like all the other times—with Briggs, with Mr. Taylor, even with Neal—when she shut herself down, put her body on autopilot, and left someone else in charge.
It felt momentous, opening that door, because it was her decision to make. In the corner of the small closet, black as a cave, Cullen waited. “You came,” he said as she shut the world out behind them. He didn’t move closer to her, as she expected. His eyes, once she could see them, regarded her like something wild and sacred. Something to be revered. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “Just say the word and I’ll leave. I’ll get a new therapist. Even put in for a transfer if that’s what you want. I’ll do anything for you, Clare.”
She understood now that this, too, was her decision. To go to him. Or not. His hair felt damp to the touch, and he smelled like soap. His skin hot as a fever. She felt him sigh when her fingers ran down his chest. “Will you tell me the truth?”
“Ask me anything,” he said.
“Did you send me those flowers? The yellow mums?”
“Yes,” he whispered, and she kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Do you know what happened to Dumas?”
“No. Only what I told you.” She slipped her hand under his shirt and tugged it up and of
f. The knife wound on his side, the EME’s handicraft, felt smooth, nearly healed. She traced it with her finger and pulled his body flush with her own.
“How many girls were there?” His breath hitched, and she feared he wouldn’t answer. He wasn’t ready.
“Three. Only three. Jennifer. Sarah. Emily.” She tasted the soft skin of his neck, felt his hips drive against her, and still he didn’t touch her.
“Did you know this would happen?”
“Yes.” She took his hands in her own and put them where she wanted them.
Afterward, he didn’t leave right away. He held her close to him on the hard floor, wrapped in a scratchy gray blanket that felt like heaven, and the tips of her fingers found the scars on his stomach. You know, they say he caused those scars himself. She numbered them in her head—one, two, three . . . eight, nine, ten . . . twelve—until her counting drowned out Fitzpatrick’s nasally voice, his preposterous explanation. Cullen kissed the side of her head and brushed her hair back. “My turn,” he whispered. “Tell me one thing about you nobody else knows.”
December 20, 1996
Clare couldn’t stop moving. Her hands. Fidgeting. Her foot. Tapping. Her mind. Racing. She kept watching the door. Listening for those jingling bells. No one came, of course. She’d canceled her morning clients with some lame excuse about catching up on paperwork. But really, she needed time. Time to sort out what she’d done. And why—now that she’d done it—she didn’t feel guilty at all. In fact, she hadn’t slept so soundly in years. She’d turned the ringer off because Lizzie wouldn’t stop calling, and snoozed right through her alarm.
She closed her eyes, trying to conjure Cullen’s face. She wished she had sat up and turned to look at him when she’d told him. Instead, she buried her face in the crook of his arm as she talked. Told him the whole story while he stroked her back. He only stopped once—for a second—right when she said it. “I smothered her.” Then he started up again, his fingertips soft as a feather.
Clare reached for a tissue from her desk and dabbed her watery eyes, smudging her mascara no doubt. But at least it gave her something to do. She snagged her purse and beelined for the single-stall bathroom at the end of the hall to freshen up her makeup.
It’s okay. It’s okay. She didn’t imagine it. He’d actually said that. Over and over until she started to believe it. She repeated it now, out loud to herself, not caring if anyone noticed. She needed to see him. To listen to him say it again. He’d told her something else too. Words so powerful, she tried to unthink them. If I ever get out of here, I’ll kill him. I swear I will. They frightened her. In part, because she knew it would never happen. In part, because she wished it would.
Clare didn’t hear the boots that slipped in behind her as she rummaged in her bag for the tube of mascara. Or the fingers that locked the door. Then there were two faces in the mirror and a hand over her mouth.
“Shh. Silencio.” She bit Ramirez’s finger. “Pinche puta.” Those were swear words. She didn’t need Señora Costilla to tell her that, but the way he said them close up against her ear, he might’ve been whispering sweet nothings. She pitched and squirmed in his arms. A desperate fly in a web, her struggles only pinned her tighter. “Stop fighting, and I’ll let you go.”
She nodded, and he released her. But her knees gave way, and she collapsed to the floor. “What do you want? I did what you asked.”
“Cállate. Keep your voice down.”
“Or what?” she shouted in vain, most of her co-workers vanished to lunch.
“You know what. We own you now, puta.” Clare pushed herself into the corner by the sink, as far away as she could manage. “You work for me.”
“You said one thing. One.”
“Did I? Uno?” He scrunched his forehead in feigned confusion. “Solo soy muy estúpido. What do I know?” He held up two fingers. “Dos, por favor. I need you to set a trap for a rat.” His smile wasn’t a smile at all. He bared his teeth. “You, cariña, are the cheese.”
“A rat,” she heard herself repeat. Clare pressed her hands against the cool tile. It looked familiar somehow. The pattern—tiny flowers. The color—sickly green. Her mother’s bathroom. And blood ran everywhere. More blood than she knew her body could hold. And her hands were red.
24
POLAROIDS
Aside from a skin-and-bones dog rummaging through a discarded trash bag, there were no signs of life to speak of at Green River Trucking. Levi had spent the past hour on essentials—reloading his gun, wolfing down three granola bars, and perusing radio stations for any mention of Cullen or himself. And there were plenty.
The FBI is searching for Samantha Bronwyn and her mother, Clare, who were not heard from after leaving the San Francisco station yesterday afternoon. Agent Katherine McKinnon described the situation as dire and reported fearing for the women’s safety. McKinnon confirmed earlier reports that Virginia Dalton has been found alive and transported to UCSF Medical Center for treatment of a gunshot wound. No other information about her condition was released. Still at large is convicted murderer Clive Cullen, who is now suspected in the deaths of two civilians, including San Quentin employee Rosemary Trotter, who supervised him in a vocational computer class. Levi Beckett, a police officer in Austin, Texas, has also been identified as a person of interest . . .
“So is this your first stakeout?” I asked him, desperate to talk about something else. Anything else.
“I had to go along on one in field training. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
“I’m getting that,” I said, giving an obvious nod to the food wrappers at our feet.
His wry smile warmed me a little, and I imagined Ginny elbowing me in the ribs. At least you’ve got a hot guy on said stakeout. “Well, just wait until you have to go to the bathroom. I hope you can scrounge up a bottle from the dumpster over there.”
“Are you serious?” That’s—”
Levi turned up the radio at the sound of a name. James Dumas. “Hold on, I want to hear this.”
Mr. Beckett’s father, James Dumas, served time in prison with Cullen in the 1990s before he committed suicide. Beckett’s mother took her own life a short time later, leaving him and his sister in the care of the state. Sources from within the FBI have been tight-lipped about a possible connection between Beckett and Cullen. In other news . . .
“How long were you in foster care?” I asked.
He sighed, and I wished for a take-back. “Long enough to know it’s not a place a kid should ever be. My sister and I got separated for a while. She had it a lot worse. Girls usually do.”
I left that one alone, filling in the blanks for myself. Somewhere close by, church bells rang low and mournful, matching Levi’s grim expression. I silenced the radio. “Uh, is it Sunday?”
“I sort of lost track of the days,” he said.
“Me too, but that would explain why the place is so deserted. It’s probably closed today.” The burner phone buzzed on the floorboard, sending a jolt up my spine. I picked it up cautiously, like it might explode in my hand. “It’s a text from Ginny.”
I’m okay. McKinnon just left. Was asking lots of weird questions about your mom and some guy named Rodney Taylor. Told me not to contact you without her permission. As if. She tried to take the phone, but the doctor wouldn’t let her. I think he might have a thing for me. Where r u?
“Well, by the sound of that, we’re in the right place,” Levi said. “But if we wait, McKinnon will have her people crawling all over this place and all over me.”
“Only one way to find out. I’m not sure I can sit here much longer anyway.”
Levi took my words as a call to action. He secured his gun inside his waistband, along with a pair of Snip’s work gloves, and opened the door. “Wait—”
“Don’t even think about telling me to wait here. This place is creepy.”
He chuckled at me. “I thought I was creepy.”
“You are,” I teased. “But there are varying degrees
.”
“So you must like creepy guys, huh?”
Laughing, I shook my head at him, but a part of that stuck like a prickly burr in my heart, the kind that latches onto a cow’s tail or a shoelace. The kind you can’t pull out without sticking your fingers. My mom had a thing for creeps. Obviously. And my dad was one. What did that say about me?
“Just you,” I bantered back, before he read my mind. “And barely.” As we walked, I kept my eyes on Levi’s back, trying not to gawk at the buildings as we passed. Most of them were run down, boarded up. Some were marked with graffiti. The worst one had a shadowy space underneath where critters lived, plastic-covered windows that looked more like black-cauldron eyes, and a rusted shell of a truck out front.
The entrance to Green River Trucking lay beyond a tall fence, the padlock removed and discarded on the ground. I left the sidewalk and stood in the grass—knee-high—peering over to a row of 18-wheelers. Only one of the stalls was vacant. Past them, gravel and more weeds nearly obscuring the sign out front. The door stood open like someone waited for us just on the other side. “Maybe it’s permanently closed,” I whispered.
“Those tracks look fresh.” Levi pointed to the tire-sized marks in the grass. “Stay right behind me.” As if I had the intention of going anywhere else.
We slipped inside the fence and made our way around the perimeter. The sun had already begun its lazy crawl into the sky, and I shaded my eyes from the glare off the white gravel. That sinking feeling started in my stomach, beads of sweat pooling beneath my hair as we neared the door. Levi stopped moving, and I heard it too. A low buzz. The sound from my dream. A single fly—fat and black as coal—perched on the handle. It flitted away the moment Levi nudged the door with his boot.
Sunlight spread across bare cement, and the buzzing turned to a steady drone. The room was sparsely furnished with a dilapidated desk, a metal folding chair, and a file cabinet. A rotary phone hung from the wall next to an open key box, one set missing. Where the light didn’t touch, the floor seemed to move, to pulse, to writhe with life. “Sam.” The way Levi said my name—the deep hollow of that one syllable—meant something unspeakable just beyond my view. “I think we found Rodney Taylor.”
