“And the blood stain on Sarah’s mattress?”
“Apparently she had accidentally gotten pregnant,” I say in a matter-of-fact numbness. “But she had a miscarriage. She was pretty upset about it, but she wanted to keep it a secret. For starters, she didn’t want anyone to know she had gotten pregnant, but she especially didn’t want them to know it had been with her roommate’s boyfriend. She had been holing up at Ethan’s apartment for the week, trying to work through it. That’s why Ethan didn’t want me to freak out about it and call her parents—or, God forbid, report her missing.”
Detective Thomas sighs, and I can’t help but feel stupid, like a teenager being scolded for trying to get drunk off mouthwash. I’m not mad, I’m disappointed. I wait for him to say something, anything, but instead, he just continues to stare in my direction, scrutinizing me with those questioning eyes.
“Why are you making me tell you this story?” I ask finally, my irritation from before creeping back in. “You obviously know it already. How is it relevant to this case at all?”
“Because I was hoping that recounting this memory would help you see what I see,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “You have been hurt in your life by people you loved. People you trusted. You have an inherent distrust in men, that much is clear—and who can blame you, after what your father did? But just because you don’t know where your boyfriend is every second of the day doesn’t mean that he’s a murderer. You learned that the hard way.”
I feel my throat constrict and I immediately think of Daniel—of my other boyfriend (no, fiancé) who I am now investigating on my own accord. Of the suspicions that have been piling up in my mind, of the plans I have for this weekend. Plans that are no different from breaking through Ethan’s apartment window, really. It’s an invasion of privacy. A proverbial snoop through the diary. My eyes flicker to the duffel bag at my feet, zipped and ready.
“And just because you have a distrust of Bert Rhodes doesn’t mean that he is capable of murder, either,” he continues. “This seems to be a pattern with you—injecting yourself into conflicts that don’t concern you, trying to solve the mystery and be the hero. I understand why you’re doing it—you were the hero who put your father behind bars. You feel like it’s your duty. But I’m here to tell you that it needs to stop.”
This is the second time I’ve heard those words in a week; the last was with Cooper, back in my kitchen, his eyes on my pills.
I know why you do it. I just wish you would stop.
“I’m not injecting myself into anything,” I say, my fingers digging deep into my palms. “I’m not trying to be the hero, whatever that means. I’m trying to be helpful. I’m trying to give you a lead.”
“False leads are worse than no leads at all,” Detective Thomas says. “We spent close to a week on this guy. A week we could have spent on someone else. Now, I don’t necessarily believe that you have malicious intentions here—I do believe that you were trying to do what you think is best—but if you ask my opinion, I think that you need to consider getting some help.”
Cooper’s voice, pleading.
Get some help.
“I’m a psychologist,” I say, my eyes trained on his, regurgitating the same words I had spit back at Cooper; the same words I have been reciting in my own mind my entire adult life. “I know how to help myself.”
A silence settles over the room, and I can almost hear Melissa’s breathing outside, her ear pushed against the closed door. Surely, she heard our entire conversation. As did my next patient, probably sitting outside in the waiting room now. I imagine her eyes widening as she overhears a detective telling her psychologist that she needs help.
“Ethan Walker’s restraining order, the one he filed after you broke into his apartment. He mentioned that you had some substance abuse problems in college. You were reckless with prescription Diazepam, mixing it with alcohol.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” I say, my pill drawer radiating against my leg.
We found heavy traces of Diazepam in her hair.
“I’m sure you know that those drugs can have some pretty serious side effects. Paranoia, confusion. It can be tough to separate reality from fantasy.”
Sometimes it’s hard for me to determine what’s real and what’s not.
“I don’t have a prescription for any drugs,” I say, not exactly a lie. “I’m not paranoid, I’m not confused. I’m just trying to help.”
“Okay.” Detective Thomas nods. I can tell he feels bad for me; he’s pitying me, which means he’s never again going to take me seriously. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more alone than I did before, but right now, I do. I feel completely alone. “Okay, well. I think that means we’re done here.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Thank you for your time,” he says, walking toward the door. He reaches for the handle and hesitates, turning around again. “Oh, one more thing.”
I raise my eyebrows, a silent cue for him to continue.
“If we see you at any more crime scenes, we will take the appropriate disciplinary actions. Tampering with evidence is a criminal offense.”
“What?” I ask, genuinely stunned. “What do you mean tampering with—?”
I stop, mid-sentence, realizing what he’s talking about. Cypress Cemetery. Aubrey’s earring. The officer plucking it out of my palm.
You look so familiar, and I can’t seem to place it. Have we met before?
“Officer Doyle recognized you from Aubrey Gravino’s crime scene the minute we stepped into your office. We were waiting to see if you would say anything to us. Mention that you were there. It’s a pretty big coincidence.”
I swallow, too stunned to move.
“But you never did. So when you came to the station because you had remembered something, that’s what I thought you were going to tell me,” he continues, shifting. “But instead, you had a theory about a copycat. Stolen jewelry. Bert Rhodes. Only, you told me that seeing Lacey’s body had been the catalyst of that theory. But I had a hard time wrapping my mind around that, because that was after Officer Doyle saw you holding that earring. It didn’t make sense.”
I think back to that afternoon in Detective Thomas’s office, to the way he had been looking at me, uneasy. Unbelieving.
“How would I have gotten Aubrey’s earring?” I ask. “If you genuinely think that I planted it there, that must mean you think that I…”
I stop, unable to speak the words. He can’t possibly think that I have something to do with all of this … can he?
“There are different theories floating around.” He digs a pinky nail into his teeth, inspects it. “But I can tell you that her DNA wasn’t on it. Anywhere. Only yours.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying we can’t prove how or why that earring got there. But the common thread binding all this together seems to be you. So don’t make yourself look any more suspicious than you already do.”
I realize now, even if I do find Aubrey’s necklace hidden somewhere in my home, that the police will never believe me. They clearly think that I’m planting evidence to point them in a certain direction, a desperate attempt to prove another one of my baseless ideas, placing the blame on yet another untrustworthy man in my life. Or worse, they think I had something to do with it. Me, the last person to see Lacey alive. Me, the first person to find Aubrey’s earring. Me, the living, breathing DNA of Dick Davis. The spawn of a monster.
“Okay,” I say. There’s no point in fighting him on this one. No point in trying to explain. I watch Detective Thomas nod again, satisfied with my response, before turning around and disappearing behind my office door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE