“I’m sorry,” Andrea blurted. “I was just kidding. You can cry. Oh, damn it, just ignore me and my stupid mouth.”
Zoe ate another bite of the omelet quickly, the taste mixing with the tears in her throat. She stabbed some vegetables, and they followed the omelet. Slowly, she got control back. Andrea was focusing on her plate, saying nothing. Zoe cleared her throat.
“There’s soda in the fridge,” she said. “Would you mind getting it for me?”
Her body ached, and she knew asking Andrea for help would calm her sister down. Win-win. Andrea bounded off her chair and hurried to get Zoe the soda.
She drank gratefully, then had another bite from the omelet. Life was beginning to look up. The hopelessness from earlier was gone—or at least much faded. Thank God for food.
“If you want to talk about what happened in Chicago, you know you can tell me,” Andrea said.
Her sister had picked her up from the airport and had nearly fainted when she’d seen the shape Zoe was in. Zoe had shaken her head when she’d asked her what had happened and had said she couldn’t talk about it. It was true, though not because it was confidential. Simply because it had been too raw to talk about.
But now, after resting a bit, she thought it might help to talk to Andrea about it. The envelopes Glover had sent her all these years, his recent victims, their encounter, his fingers on her body as she clutched at her throat, desperate for air . . .
But Andrea had her own memories. Talking about it might help Zoe, but she had no idea what it would do to Andrea.
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s fine . . . I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I promise you that it won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Andrea said, looking unconvinced.
They ate the rest of the meal. Andrea talked most of the time about troubles at work. Her shift manager was apparently a bitch and hated Andrea. Zoe wondered how bitches who hated Andrea always seemed to pop up wherever Andrea went. It was almost as if Andrea had something to do with it.
Finally, Zoe pushed away the plate. “That was an amazing meal.”
“I have a special desert for you.” Andrea grinned.
“Oh, thanks. I think I’m full.”
“Really?” Andrea looked at her in mock disappointment. “I guess I’ll have to finish up the Snickers ice cream all by myself.”
Zoe felt a surge of love for her sister. “You know what,” she said. “I might be able to stuff another bite down.”
CHAPTER 57
Tatum sat in his car, frozen by indecision. He knew he should probably go home, but he wasn’t sure it was habitable yet. He had arrived the night before, taken one look at the living room and bedroom, and left, locking the door behind him. He had slept in his car, which was totally fine by him. People underestimated the joy of car camping. The throbbing neck, the freezing cold around four a.m., waking up when the homeless guy knocked on your window . . . good times, good times.
He had called Marvin in the morning and yelled at him for several minutes, the old man listening patiently to his enraged grandson. His grandfather had apparently slept at a friend’s house and was in a cheerful mood. Finally, when Tatum had run out of words and rage, Marvin had promised to send someone to clean the place up. After seeing the ungodly things that had been done to his couch, Tatum was pretty sure they would need a flamethrower and an exorcist to really get the job done. Come to think of it, an exorcist with a flamethrower would make an awesome movie. They’d call it Burn, Demon, Burn. The exorcist would be played by Dominic Purcell; that was nonnegotiable.
He sighed, focusing. The real reason he wasn’t home was that he was worried. He had spent a whole week with Zoe, and though the psychologist could be incredibly frustrating, he’d developed a taste for her company. And there had been something . . . off about her ever since the incident. He scrolled through his contacts, located her name, and called her.
She answered after three rings.
“Hello?”
“Zoe, it’s Tatum.”
“Yeah, I know. I have you in my contact list.”
“Right. Uh . . . I wanted to ask how you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s your hip? Are the stitches—”
“I’m fine, Tatum. Thank you for calling.”
“Wait.” He drummed on the steering wheel in frustration. “Listen, I was hoping I could drop by.”
“Why?”
“To see that you’re okay.”
“I just told you I’m okay.”
“Look . . . it would let me sleep easier at night, okay?”
There was a moment of silence. “Fine,” she said. “I live in the Dale Forest Apartments. It’s in—”
“I know where that is,” Tatum said, glancing at the sign out the car’s window that said DALE FOREST APARTMENTS. “I’m nearby. I can be there in five minutes.”
“Okay,” she said. She gave him her apartment number and hung up.
He patiently waited four minutes. There really was no need for Zoe to know he had already found her address. Then he got out of the car and went over to her apartment.
A young black-haired woman with mesmerizing green eyes opened the door for him.
“Well, hello,” she said, smiling, one eyebrow raised. “You must be Tatum.”
Her resemblance to Zoe was strong. “And you’re Andrea,” he said.
“Come in,” she said, giving him another top-to-bottom look. Tatum felt very objectified. He was more than a pretty face, damn it.
He walked inside, taking in the small living room. Zoe sat on one of the couches, a brown folder open in her lap. She looked at its contents, frowning, and raised her eyes to meet his as he walked inside. He felt a pang in his heart as he saw her black eye, the purple bruise on her forehead, the black stitches on her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired. Tatum considered himself progressive—“go, girl power” and all that—but seeing her in that state made him want to take her in his arms and hug her. And then annihilate the man who had done this.
The sharp look she gave him clarified that if he tried to hug her, she would bite his face off. He cleared his throat.
“Hey, glad to see you’re”—he searched for a happy word—“sitting.”
As if to aggravate him, she stood up, wincing as she did so. “Happy you could stop by,” she said. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Uh . . .”
“I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” Andrea said.
Zoe turned to her sister. “Andrea, I can—”
“You need to sit or lie down,” Andrea said, in the same stubborn tone he had been hearing from Zoe all week. It made him smile.
“What?” Zoe asked.
“Nothing,” he said innocently.
She sat back down and set the folder on the coffee table, next to a stack of similar folders and some scattered papers.
“What’s that?” he asked. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be working.”
“Well, since we’re no longer assigned to the Chicago case, this isn’t work,” Zoe said. “I guess it’s a hobby.”
He sat down on the other couch and picked up one of the folders and flipped it open. It was a case file, all the paperwork photocopied. The papers were yellow with age, and the printed crime scene photos had a grainy quality. There was a wide shot of a nude female body, lying in what looked like a pond. The victim’s name was Jackie Teller.
“Is this one of Rod Glover’s victims?” he asked, scanning the details.
“That depends on who you ask,” Zoe said. “It’s one of the three Maynard serial killer victims from 1997. If you ask the police, they’ll either say it’s unresolved or claim a teenager named Manny Anderson killed her. Which is easy to say, because he’s dead.”
Tatum nodded and checked out the rest of the files. He glanced at Zoe. “You got copies of the Chicago murders?”
“Yeah.”
Andrea walked into the living room as Tatum was reading another of the Maynard case files. She handed him a cup of coffee.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going. I have a shift tonight. I’ll come back once I’m off.”
Zoe glanced at her. “You don’t need to—”
“I’m sleeping here. You might need me. This is not a discussion,” Andrea said. “Bye, Tatum. It was nice meeting you.”