I’m talking about your father. I’m talking about taking one.
I take one last step to the front door and slam it shut, locking the dead bolt before pushing my back hard against the wood. I’m shaking violently as the room starts to get brighter; I’m fighting back that unearthly feeling that sweeps over your body after a shot of unexpected adrenaline wears off—twitchy fingers, spotty vision, ragged breathing. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, pushing my hands through my hair, trying not to cry.
Eventually, I look up at the security panel installed on the wall above me, glowing bright. I stand up and set the code on the keypad before pushing Enable, watching the little lock icon turn from red to green. I exhale, although I can’t help but feel that it’s pointless. For all I know, he didn’t install it correctly. He skipped a few windows, set an override code. Daniel wanted to get a security system installed to help me feel safer, but right now, I’ve never felt more afraid.
I need to go to the police with this. I can’t put it off any longer. Bert Rhodes not only knows who I am, but he knows where I live. He knows I’m here alone. Maybe he knows that I’m onto him. As much as I don’t want to thrust myself into another missing girls investigation, that encounter was the extra evidence I had been looking for; Bert Rhodes’s rambling—his anger over my life and how I turned out, his wondering what it felt like to take a life—was practically an admission of guilt and a threat of future violence all at once. I reach a shaky hand into my back pocket and yank out my phone, pulling up my previous calls and tapping on the number that appeared on my screen just this morning, the number that confirmed my biggest fear: that Lacey Deckler was dead. I listen to the ringing on the other end, bracing myself for the conversation I know we’re about to have. The conversation I had been desperately hoping to avoid.
It stops abruptly as a voice greets me on the other end.
“Detective Thomas.”
“Hi, Detective. This is Chloe Davis.”
“Doctor Davis,” he says, sounding surprised. “What can I do for you? Did you remember something else?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I did. Could we meet? As soon as possible?”
“Of course.” I hear shuffling on the other end, like he’s moving around papers. “Can you come to the station?”
“Yes,” I say again. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll be there soon.”
I hang up, my mind swirling as I grab my keys and walk outside, double-checking that the door is locked behind me. I get in the car and crank the engine. He didn’t have to give me directions; I already know where I’m going. I’ve been to the Baton Rouge Police Department before, although I hope that part of my past isn’t dragged up, too, when I reveal to him who I am. It shouldn’t be, but it could. And even if it is, there’s nothing I can do about that but try to explain.
I pull into visitors’ parking and kill the engine as I stare at the entrance looming before me. This building looks the same as it did ten years ago, only older. Less maintained. The tan bricks are still tan, but the paint is cracking at the seams, large chips peeling off and landing in piles on the concrete. The landscaping is patchy and brown, the chain-link fence separating the station from the neighboring strip mall wobbly and bent. I step out of the car and slam the door behind me, pushing myself inside before I can change my mind.
I walk to the front counter and stand behind the clear plastic divider, watching as the woman behind the desk taps her acrylic nails against a keyboard.
“Hi,” I interrupt. “I have an appointment with Detective Michael Thomas?”
She glances at me from behind the plastic and chews on the side of her cheek, as if she’s trying to decide if she believes me. My statement came out more like a question, undoubtedly because the certainty I felt back home about coming clean to the police all but evaporated the second I stepped inside.
“I can text him,” I say, holding up my phone, trying to convince both her and myself that letting me in is a good idea. “Tell him I’m here.”
She looks at me for another few seconds before picking up her phone and dialing an extension, propping it between her shoulder and chin while she continues typing. I hear the line ring before Detective Thomas’s voice picks up.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she says. She looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Chloe Davis.”
“A Chloe Davis,” she repeats. “Says she has an appointment.”
She hangs the phone up quickly and gestures to the door on my right, guarded by a metal detector and security personnel who looks agitated and tired.
“He said you can go in. Place all metal and electronics in the bin. Second door on the right.”
Inside the station, Detective Thomas’s office door is cracked open. I peek my head through, knocking gently on the wood.
“Come in,” he says, looking at me from above a desk cluttered with various papers, manila folders, and an open box of Saltine crackers, half a sleeve sticking out and a trail of crumbs littered across the wood. He follows my gaze and ducks his head, shoving the sleeve back into the box and closing the flap. “Sorry for the mess.”
“It’s fine,” I say, walking inside and pushing the door shut behind me. I linger for a second before he points to the chair opposite him. I take a seat, my mind flashing back to earlier this week when the roles were reversed. When I was seated behind my desk, in my office, gesturing for him to sit where I commanded. I exhale.
“So,” he says, folding his hands on the table. “What is it that you remembered?”
“First, I have a question,” I say. “Aubrey Gravino. Was she found wearing any jewelry?”
“I don’t really see how that’s relevant.”
“It is. I mean, depending on what the answer is, it could be.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember first, and then we can look into that.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, before I share this, I need to know for certain. I promise, it matters.”
He looks at me for another few seconds, weighing his options. He sighs loudly, trying to convey his annoyance, before shuffling through the folders on his desk. Then he grabs one, opens it, and flips through a few pages.
“No, she wasn’t found with any jewelry,” he says. “One earring was found near the body in the cemetery—sterling silver with a pearl and three diamonds.”
He looks up at me, his eyebrows raised, as if to question: Are you happy now?
“So, no necklace?”
His eyes linger on mine for another few seconds before looking back down.
“No. No necklace. Just the earring.”
I exhale, pushing my hands into my hair. He’s looking at me carefully again, waiting for me to say something, to do something. I lean back into my chair and spit it out.
“That earring was a part of a set,” I say. “There’s a matching necklace she would have been wearing at the time of her abduction. She wears them together in all of her pictures. On the MISSING poster, her yearbook photos, tagged pictures on Facebook. If she was wearing the earrings, she was also wearing the necklace.”
He lowers the folder to his desk.
“How do you know this?”
“I checked,” I say. “Before I came to you with this, I wanted to be sure.”
“Okay. And why do you think this matters?”
“Because Lacey was wearing a piece of jewelry, too. Remember?”
“That’s right,” he says. “You mentioned a bracelet.”
“A beaded bracelet with a metal cross. I saw it on her wrist in my office. She wore it to cover her scar. But when I looked at her body this morning … it wasn’t there.”
The room is uncomfortably quiet. Detective Thomas continues to stare, and I can’t tell if he’s actually considering what I’m telling him, or if he’s concerned about my well-being. I talk faster.