“There’s obviously something going on with you two. You’ve been lying to us about something. But you know what, Chloe? I don’t have time for it. I just want to know where my daughter is.”
I’m quiet, unsure of where to even begin. Her daughter is in trouble, Riley is in trouble, and I’m pretty sure I know why. But how do I break that news to her? How do I tell her that Daniel probably has her? That he was probably there, waiting, when she tossed her sheet out her bedroom window and climbed down into the dark? That he knew she would be there because Shannon had told him herself, that night in our home? That he chose last night because I was gone, giving him the freedom to roam around as he pleased?
How do I tell her that her daughter is probably dead because of me?
“I’m going to come over,” I say. “I’m going to come over now and explain everything.”
“I’m not home now,” she says. “I’m in the car, driving around. I’m looking for my daughter. But we could use your help.”
“Of course,” I say. “Just tell me where to be.”
I hang up with instructions to drive down every side street within a ten-mile radius of their home. I stand up from the bed and look down, my duffel bag resting by my feet, Daniel’s receipts piled on top of that white envelope. I reach down and push everything back into my bag and grab the handle, flinging it over my shoulder. Then I look back down at my phone, at the texts from Daniel.
Chloe, can you call me, please?
Chloe, where are you?
I have a voice mail, and for a second, I consider deleting it. I can’t hear his voice right now. I can’t hear his excuses. But what if he has Riley? What if I can still save her? I press the recording and lift the phone to my ear. His voice seeps into my brain, slippery like oil, filling every corner, every gap. Coating everything.
Hi, Chloe. Listen … I don’t really know what’s going on with you right now. You’re not at your bachelorette party. I just talked to Shannon. I don’t know where you are, but obviously, something is wrong.
The line is quiet for too long. I look down at my phone, to see if the voice mail is over, but the timer is still ticking forward. Finally, he speaks again.
I’m going to be gone by the time you get home. God knows where you are right now. I’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. This is your house. Whatever it is that you’re trying to work through, you shouldn’t feel like you can’t do it from here.
My chest constricts. He’s leaving. He’s running.
I love you, he says. It comes out more like a sigh. More than you know.
The recording ends abruptly, and I’m left standing in the middle of the motel room, Daniel’s voice still echoing around me. I’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. I glance at the alarm clock again—it’s ten thirty now. Maybe he’s still there. Maybe he’s still home. Maybe I can get there before he leaves, figure out where he’s running to, and notify the police.
I walk quickly toward the door, stepping into the parking lot. The sun has already descended below the trees, the glow of the streetlights turning their branches into gnarled shadows. I stop in my tracks, instinctively uneasy of the darkness. The cloak of night. But then I think of Riley. Of Aubrey and Lacey. I think of Lena. I think of the girls, of all the missing girls out there, and I force myself to keep walking toward the truth.
CHAPTER FORTY
I turn my headlights off as soon as I pull onto our street, though I quickly realize it’s pointless. Daniel won’t see me coming, because Daniel is already gone. I can tell the minute my car creeps past our empty driveway. The lights, both inside and out, are off. My house, once again, looks dead.
I lean my head against the steering wheel. I’m too late. He could be anywhere by now—anywhere with Riley. I rack my brain, trying to imagine his final movements. Trying to visualize where he would go.
Then I lift my head. I have an idea.
I remember the camera, that pinprick in the corner of my living room that Bert Rhodes installed. I pull out my phone and tap on the security app, holding my breath as the image on my screen begins to load. It’s my living room—dark, empty. I half expect to see Daniel hiding in the shadows, waiting for me to walk inside. I press the slider at the bottom of the screen, moving it back in time, watching as my house illuminates and Daniel finally appears.
Thirty minutes ago, he was here. He was walking around the house, busying himself with maddeningly normal tasks like wiping down a countertop, stacking the mail two, three times before positioning it in a slightly different spot. As I watch him, I’m left thinking of those words again: serial killer. The taste is funny in my mouth, the same way it was twenty years ago as I watched my father hand-wash the dishes and dry each one with meticulous care, mindful not to chip the edges. Serial killer. Why would he care about something like that? Why would a serial killer care about preserving my grandmother’s china when he didn’t even care about preserving a life?
Daniel walks over to the couch and sits on the edge, rubbing his fingers absentmindedly across his jaw. I’ve watched him so many times before this, observed the little things he does when he thinks nobody else is looking. I’ve watched him make dinner in the kitchen, noticing the way he tops off my glass with the last dribbles of a bottle of wine before swiping his finger across the lip and licking it clean. I’ve watched him get out of the shower, tousling the strands of damp hair that cascade across his forehead before grabbing his comb and pushing them neatly to one side. And every time I’ve watched him, every time I’ve witnessed one of those little private moments, I’ve always been met with a sense of awe, as if he couldn’t possibly be real.
And now I know why.
He isn’t real. Not really. The Daniel I know, the Daniel I fell in love with, is a caricature of a man, a mask the real one donned to hide his true face. He lured me in, in the same way he lured in those girls; he showed me everything I wanted to see, told me everything I wanted to hear. He made me feel safe, he made me feel loved.
But now I think about all those other moments—the moments when he showed me pieces of his real self. When he let his mask slip for just a minute. I should have seen it before.
After all, it comes back to Aaron’s description of the two different kinds of copycats: those who revere and those who revile. Clearly, Daniel reveres my father. He’s been following him for twenty years, mirroring his crimes since he was seventeen. He visits him in prison, but at a certain point, that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to kill anymore. It wasn’t enough to take a life and dump it somewhere; he needed to take a life and keep it. He needed to take my life, hijack it the way my father had. He needed to trick me every single day, the way my father had. I watch him now, those hands that pushed his sister’s ring on my finger, marking his territory. Those hands that gripped my throat as he kissed me, squeezing just a little too tight. Teasing me, testing me. I am no different from a piece of jewelry tucked away safely in a darkened closet corner—his trophy, a living, breathing reminder of his accomplishments. I watch him now and feel the anger surge in my chest like a rising tide, getting higher and higher, taking me down, drowning me alive.
I watch as Daniel stands, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls something out, stares at it for a while. I squint, trying to make it out, but it’s too small. I pinch my cell phone screen with two fingers, zooming in on his hand, and that’s when I recognize it: the thin silver chain puddled in his palm, spilling over the edge of his wrist. A tiny cluster of diamonds glinting in the light.
I think back to him getting out of bed, creeping across the bedroom, and pushing the closet door shut. I feel the heat building from my chest and into my throat, up my cheeks, radiating through my eyes.