“Hey, you don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers, his fingers combing my hair. “I’ve got you.”
My jaw clenches as I remember those exact words exiting the mouth of my father. Me, running down that gravel roadway and up our steps, slamming into his outstretched arms. Him, hugging me tight. His body a vessel of warmth and safety and protection, whispering into my ear.
I’ve got you. I’ve got you.
That’s what Daniel has always been to me: warmth. Safety. Protection not only from the outside world, but also from myself. But in this moment, locked in his arms, the heat of his breath sending goose bumps up my neck, a dead girl’s necklace hidden in the depths of our closet, I start to wonder if there is more to this man than what I’ve always thought. I think back to all those times I’ve gotten involved with someone and wondered: What are they hiding? What aren’t they telling me?
I think about my brother’s words, all of his warnings.
How can you really know someone that well in a year?
Daniel releases me from his grip and holds me by my shoulders, smiling in my direction. He looks tired, his skin uncharacteristically baggy and his hair ruffled out of place. I wonder what he’s been up to tonight, why he looks like this. He seems to notice me scanning his features because he runs his hand over his face, pulling his eyelids down with it.
“Long day,” he says, sighing. “Lots of driving. I’m going to shower, then let’s get to sleep.”
I nod, watching as he turns around and walks up the stairs. I refuse to move until I hear the hiss of the showerhead come alive, and only then do I exhale, unclench my fists, and follow behind him, cocooning myself as tightly as I can in the covers of our shared bed. When Daniel emerges from the shower, I pretend to be asleep, trying hard not to flinch when his bare skin slides against mine, when his hands start to massage the nape of my neck, or when he emerges from the covers minutes later, tiptoes across the bedroom, and slides the closet door shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I wake up to the smell of popping bacon grease and the sound of Etta James’s earthy vocals traveling down the hall. I don’t remember falling asleep. I had been actively trying not to, the weight of Daniel’s arms draped across my torso constricting me like a body bag. But I suppose it was inevitable; I couldn’t fight it forever, especially after the tranquilizer cocktail I had downed just before he came home. I sit up in bed, trying to ignore the gentle pounding in my skull, the puffiness of my eyes constricting my vision to two crescent-shaped slits. I glance around the room—he’s not here. He’s downstairs, making me breakfast, the way he always does.
I slip out of the covers and creep down the stairs, listening for the sound of his humming. I hear it, confirming that he is, in fact, downstairs, probably hopping around in that gingham apron as he flips chocolate-chip pancakes with little drawings etched inside. A cat with whiskers drawn on with a toothpick, a smiling face, a bulging heart. I slink back up the stairs, back into the bedroom, and slide open our closet door.
The necklace I found last night belongs to Aubrey Gravino. I have no doubt in my mind. Not only did I see it in her MISSING picture, but I saw the matching earring. I held it in my hand, inspected the trinity of diamonds and the pearl apex. I start to push the laundry aside, my mind less hazy now that the wine and Xanax are fully out of my system. I think back to the list of people I recounted to Aaron. The people who would know about the jewelry my father took and stashed in the back of his closet.
My family. The police. The victims’ parents.
And Daniel. I had told Daniel. I had told him everything.
I didn’t even think to include Daniel … because why would I? Why would I have reason to suspect my own fiancé? I still don’t know the answer to that question, but it’s one I need to find out.
I lift up the LSU sweatshirt I remember tossing over the box and reach my hand out to grab it … but it’s not there. The box isn’t there. I push aside more laundry, grabbing heaps of clothes and throwing them to the side. I sweep my arms across the floor, hoping to feel it hiding beneath a pair of jeans or a tangled-up belt or a rogue shoe.
But I don’t feel it. I don’t see it. It’s not there.
I lean back onto my legs, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. I know I saw it. I remember grabbing the box, holding it in my hands, opening the lid and seeing the necklace nestled inside … but I also remember hearing Daniel get up last night to close the closet door. Maybe he grabbed the box then, too. Hid it somewhere else. Or maybe he woke up early this morning and moved it when I was sleeping.
I exhale slowly, trying to formulate a plan. I need to find that necklace. I need to know what it’s doing in my house. The thought of bringing this evidence to the police—the thought of bringing Daniel to the police—makes my stomach lurch. It’s almost laughable, how ridiculous it seems. But I can’t just ignore it. I can’t pretend that I didn’t see it. That I didn’t smell that perfume on Daniel last night, that I didn’t notice the way his collar was damp with sweat. Suddenly, another memory rises to the surface. My brother, last night, his weary eyes resting on that bottle of pills.
His briefcase is full of that shit.
I think back to Lacey’s autopsy, to the coroner poking at her rigid limbs.
We found heavy traces of Diazepam in her hair.
Daniel would have the drugs. Daniel would have the opportunity. He disappears for days on end, alone. I think back to all the times he has taken off on a business trip I didn’t know about or remember, and instead of questioning him, I had blamed myself for forgetting. I went to Detective Thomas yesterday with a tip about Bert Rhodes based on far less than this. It was a theory formed out of circumstance and suspicion and a hint of hysteria, if I’m being honest with myself. But this … this isn’t suspicion. This isn’t hysteria. This seems like proof. Solid, concrete proof that my fiancé is somehow involved in something he shouldn’t be. Something terrible.
I stand up, sliding the closet door shut and sitting on the edge of my bed. I hear the clatter of a skillet being lowered into the sink, the hiss of steam as the faucet sprays water onto the hot surface. I need to know what’s going on. If not for myself, then for those girls. For Aubrey. For Lacey. For Lena. If I can’t find the necklace, I need to find something. Something that will lead me to answers.
I walk down the stairs again, ready to face Daniel. I turn the corner to find him standing in the kitchen, placing two plates of pancakes and bacon on our small breakfast-nook table. There are two mugs of coffee steaming on the kitchen island, a pitcher of orange juice with sweat dripping down the sides.
It was just one week ago when I thought that this was karma. The perfect fiancé in exchange for the worst possible father. Now I’m not so sure.
“Good morning,” I say, standing in the doorway. He looks up and flashes a smile. It seems genuine.
“Good morning,” he says, grabbing a mug. He walks over and hands it to me, kissing the top of my head. “Interesting night last night, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, scratching at the spot his lips just left. “I think I was kind of in shock, you know. Waking up to the alarm like that and not knowing it was you downstairs.”
“I know, I feel horrible,” he says, leaning against the island. “I must have scared you to death.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A little bit.”
“At least we know the alarm works.”