“Whoa, no. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
“Tomorrow, honey. I have to go now. Sweet dreams, okay?”
“Yeah, you, too.” She hung up the phone and started to cry in earnest.
She couldn’t lose him now. Not now. Not when everything was starting to come together.
She opened her email again, planning again to send him a note.
And saw a new mail, from an unknown address. With only two words in the subject line:
He’s alive.
Her heart took off. She clicked on the mail. It took a moment to pull up. The image began to scroll onto the screen, pixel by pixel. Dark and grainy, like an art house black-and-white.
Except this wasn’t an art house photo.
Aubrey’s hand went to her mouth to fight the sudden nausea that threatened to overtake her.
Josh. Josh standing in a darkened corner, facing the camera. A woman’s white-blond hair hovering at his waistline. His eyes closed, head thrown back in ecstasy.
She shut her eyes, willing the photo to disappear, for the shocking pain that lit her skin to fade. When she opened her eyes, the photo was still there, and a fine rage began to build, fiery hot, lighting her from within.
She didn’t know who was playing with her mind, but she wasn’t going to fall for it. Not again.
CHAPTER 36
Aubrey
Five Years Ago
Aubrey drove Arlo’s car to the house. Arlo was silent, drumming his fingers on his knee, still smelling like tequila and stale vomit. She didn’t care. She just wanted to get home.
The house was dark. April had turned into a blackberry winter; the windows were glazed with an edge of frost along the sill. Aubrey parked on the street, for some reason not wanting to be in her own driveway. She was overcome with dread. Something was so, so wrong.
Arlo tripped as he was getting out of the car, and went down hard on his knees.
“Whoops,” he said. Normally they would be laughing; Arlo was still a little drunk and very ungainly, but now, all she could do was grit her teeth and go around the nose of the car to help him.
“What’s this?” he said under his breath.
She could see him in the glow from the streetlights. He was on his butt, staring at his hand.
“I’m bleeding,” he said.
“Come on. Josh has a first aid kit in every bathroom. I’ll patch you up.”
Eerie, the similarities: Josh had patched her up just hours before. Her lip throbbed in turn with the memory, and she realized her neck was sore. Whiplash rearing its ugly head.
Arlo held out his nonbloody hand, and she hauled him to his feet.
They entered through the front door, and Aubrey smelled something she couldn’t identify.
“Josh?” she called. Total silence. “Josh? Where are you?” Nothing. Not even the sound of nails scrabbling on the hardwood floors, a noise so natural, so normal, that not hearing it made her tense immediately.
“Winston? Wiiiinston. C’mere, boy!” The dog didn’t respond to her, and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.
“What’s that smell?” Arlo could scent it, too, apparently.
“Arlo. Stop where you are, okay?”
He listened without question, and she stepped into the living room and turned on the lamp.
It took a moment to process what she was seeing. Winston was lying by the fireplace, unmoving. There were smears of red along the hardwood floor.
Arlo was staring at the floor and his hand, in turns. He looked up and met her eye. “Aubrey, we need to call the police again. They’ll have to listen to you now.”
Aubrey whirled to him, eyes wide, then dashed from the room, flipping on lights as she went. “Josh? Josh? Oh, God, Arlo, there’s blood everywhere.”
She stopped in the door to the kitchen. Viscous fluid covered a large area, about four feet wide, in a strangely configured puddle that looked a bit like the outline of Italy.
“Holy fuck,” Arlo said, joining her in the doorway. “Don’t go in there, Aubrey. Don’t disturb the evidence.”
She wheeled on him, her voice a screech. “How can you be rational at a time like this?”
She tore back into the living room, to Winston. The dog was breathing, but out cold. Aubrey collapsed next to him, frantically petting his unmoving head. She heard Arlo on the phone, all traces of drunk gone from his voice. He sounded so old, so serious, so grown up.
“This is Arlo Tonturian. We called earlier to report Josh Hamilton missing. We’re at the Hamilton home right now, and there’s blood everywhere.” His voice dropped to a whisper, cracking on the last note. He thought she couldn’t hear, but she could. And the words cut a knife through her soul.
“I think he’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER 37
Chase
Once he hung up, he at least felt like he could sleep tonight. Even her voice made him calm. His earlier doubts were gone—he thought he might actually be in love.