“And you,” Susan said softly.
Archie scratched his forehead, right above one eyebrow. He was still looking at the frame. “Gretchen had excised Heather’s brain through her nose, using a crochet hook.” He sounded tired, his voice affectless. “You couldn’t tell. Her head looked like the only thing Gretchen hadn’t mutilated. The ME called me late at night and I went down to the morgue and he lifted off her skullcap and inside, where her brain was supposed to be, it was just mush.” He scratched his eyebrow again. “It looked like cake batter,” he said.
“That was your first homicide, right?” Susan sat on the edge of the desk and leaned forward over it so she could lay her hand on the inside of Archie’s wrist. It was a crazy thing to do. Completely inappropriate. But she felt a sudden urge to reach out. She wanted to connect. She could feel his pulse in her palm.
For a moment, neither of them moved. And then he turned his hand and took her hand in his. She felt her heart quicken and a girlish itch to giggle so strong that she was almost afraid to look at him. It was awkward enough being in his private space, where he slept. But she forced herself to glance up and found him gazing at her so tenderly, that for a second she thought he might actually lean forward to kiss her. Instead he said, “I need to see all of your notes on the Castle story.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes stung with tears. Her face burned.
“Archie,” she said.
“Susan,” he said. He tightened his hand around hers. “You don’t want to get involved with me.” As if to prove his point, he reached out and turned the frame on his desk. The picture he looked at on his desk every day wasn’t of his family. There was no Christmas tree, no rustic fence. It was a school photograph of a teenage girl. Susan recognized her. She’d seen her image enough times. She was the Beauty Killer’s first victim. Heather Gerber.
“Your Castle notes?” Archie said.
Susan caught sight of something out the window and froze.
“What?” Archie asked.
There were cops in the yard. There were two windows in the room and the beige curtains were half closed, but Susan could see, quite clearly, that there were cops in the yard. There were patrol cars on the street, their lights on, sirens off. The cops were moving toward the house. Archie turned in his chair to see what she was staring at and then stood.
“What’s going on?” she asked him.
The doorbell rang. Not rang. It was more like someone had leaned on it, so it went off again and again, a frantic, persistent chime, followed by the sounds of someone’s fist on the door.
Archie reached into his pocket for his phone, which Susan realized was ringing. He held it to his ear as he strode across the room toward the hall. Susan was still perched on the desk.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Susan said.
She heard the front door open and heavy footsteps rush into the house. She looked out the windows again, and there was a uniformed cop, standing right behind the glass. He waved. Susan turned back toward the door just as Henry turned the corner into the room, his face beet red, his phone to his ear, his gun in his hand. He was followed by four uniformed cops.
“What the fuck?” said Archie.
Henry’s face had a sheen of sweat on it. He didn’t put away his gun. “Gretchen Lowell escaped about thirty minutes ago,” he said. “She was last seen about ten miles from here.”
Archie coughed once and then he leaned over and vomited on the cream carpet.
CHAPTER
20
Check the house,” Henry barked. “The yard. Everywhere.” Archie could hear the sound of people moving through the house. Doors opening. Rooms being cleared. This wasn’t happening. The sour taste of vomit in his mouth made his stomach turn again. She knew where he lived. They’d shown the house on the news enough goddamn times during his captivity. She could find him. God, he should have stayed away. He felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch sent a current down his arms and he jumped, startled, and opened his eyes. It was Claire. Archie didn’t even know when she had come in.
Her expression was calm, in control, but her eyes darted, taking in every detail in the room. He saw her register the sofa bed, Parker’s Beauty Killer boxes, the macabre collage of Gretchen’s victims in the closet. She had her service weapon in her hand, a nine millimeter, with double action. It was a big, accurate gun and Claire pointed it at the carpet, but her arm was extended, elbow slightly bent, so if she had to, she could fire in an instant. “We’ll find her,” she said.
Archie turned away. Susan appeared at the door with a towel from the hall bathroom. She walked over, her face pink, knelt, and started to sponge up the vomit from the carpet.