“And what did Mr. Hart want from Christy?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I can’t speak for him, but it didn’t sound like he wanted the same. He told her he didn’t want a relationship with her. Like I said, I got the impression he’d realized he’d made a mistake having an affair. You don’t think Greg had something to do with this? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Come on. Come on.
“When was the last time you saw Christy?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“At work, she left slightly early. It was about four forty-five, I think. When she didn’t turn up the next morning, I assumed she was just ill.”
“And no one heard from her? She didn’t call in sick?”
“I can’t say. I don’t take those calls. You’ll have to speak to someone from HR for that—Jessica Peterson.”
He nodded and McKinney wrote something else down. “Have you ever heard Mr. Hart mention any other women?”
I smiled. Their line of questioning was focused on Greg. “Not to me. He did mention going out to dinner regularly. I assumed his wife wasn’t a good cook.” Brook smiled.
They continued their questions; most were about Greg, trying to find out what kind of a person he was and his relationship with others—particularly with women. When asked where I was, they were satisfied with my “at home watching Ocean’s Eleven” answer. They would look into it, of course, but I knew the movie was on at the time Christy died. “Well, I think that’s all for now, Mr. Brown. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.” He handed me his card as the stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
I took the card and smiled at them both. “Absolutely.” That was almost too easy.
26
SUMMER
Wednesday, February 9th (Present)
I looked up at the clock, only half past eight, still too early for bedtime. If I went to sleep too early, then I would wake up early—and spend the extra few hours stressing over how long until he came for breakfast.
Six months I had been living in the same hell, doing the same thing in the same four depressing walls. I didn’t even know how I was still sane. Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was too insane to realize that I was insane!
The cellar door creaked open. I knew him coming down here after seven wasn’t a good thing—only for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Was he going to kill again? He had killed too many women. I didn’t understand how he was getting away with it.
A high-pitched scream rang through my ears, and I gulped. Which poor girl was it this time? I had almost closed off from it. Watching someone being killed made me sick, but I pretended it wasn’t real, fake blood, just like the movies—my coping mechanism Poppy called it. Whatever it was called, I didn’t care. It helped. I stood up and moved to the wall close to our bedroom and the others followed. We should do something. We should always do something, but we didn’t. Fear was powerful. It was why he hadn’t been murdered down here by four women.
He pushed the girl downstairs roughly, making her cry out in pain. She had a short, pixie haircut, not something Clover thought was womanly. He liked long hair. Her clothes were short, revealing, and tight. She never stood a chance. Clover didn’t know why she was selling her body, and he didn’t care. He was judge, jury, and executioner.
As she sobbed, mascara-stained tears poured down her face. She stumbled down the stairs and clung to the wall. Lifting her head, she saw us and her eyes widened in surprise. “Help me,” she begged, her voice trembling. My eyes prickled with tears. She looked so scared and helpless. We were just as scared. I wished that there was something I could do, but I knew it was useless. I would never be able to overpower him alone.
He kicked her hard in the stomach, making her scream in pain. Something cracked, and I pressed my fist to my mouth as a wave of nausea hit me. I slumped down on the sofa and crawled back, curling up into a ball.
“Don’t talk to them. They’re not like you,” he spat. His face was red and his eyes so cold he looked dead. He had to be dead inside to do what he did. He kicked her again, and she screamed through another crack. I gulped and hugged my legs.
Why was he doing that? He used to just stab them. Why was he hurting her like that first? Did he enjoy it? “P-please don’t,” she muttered. “Let me go, please.” Her breathing was heavy and labored. He smiled in return, cocking his head to the side. His enjoyment in tormenting her sent a shiver down my spine. I hated him so much.
“You’re the one making me hurt you! If you didn’t ruin innocent peoples’ lives, I wouldn’t have to do this,” he growled and punched her in the face. She fell to her knees from the force and spat out blood onto the floor.