While I’m washing and rewashing my hands, I let my computer boot up, and once everything is going, I log in to our security camera feed, wrapping one arm around my stomach as I rewind the video, looking and looking until . . . there. There he is.
The security cameras got him. It just isn’t going to help me.
The guy—dark jeans, long-sleeved dark T-shirt—eases onto the porch. He’s looking down. Now he’s looking behind him. Now he looks at the camera. He’s wearing some sort of a zombie mask. It’s the last thing I see before he spins the bulb off the connection and the porch goes dim and the image goes too grainy to see anything more than shadows.
Shit.
I rewind the video, play it again. Still no good.
Honestly? I expected to see Kyle, but this isn’t him. In fact, I have no idea who it is . . . wait . . . maybe . . .
I slow the video, playing it frame by frame. The mask totally screws identifying the guy’s face. There’s something about the way he moves on the balls of his feet though . . . the way his shoulders round under his T-shirt . . . it looks familiar.
The guy reaches for the porch light, his hand and wrist and watch all facing the camera. Recognition punches me in the gut.
It’s Jason Baines.
Which means this isn’t just a scare tactic or even just retaliation for the roofies. He knows I’ve been informing and he’s reminding me what happens to people who become narcs.
I rub my eyes, feeling the dull thump of an oncoming migraine. Jesus, what have I done? What have I managed to get myself into?
Stop it.
Better to ask: What am I going to do to get out of it?
I don’t have an answer for that one.
I close the video file and return to the security system’s feed. With Todd and my dad in jail, it’s been so long since I’ve done this, it almost feels like someone else’s life and, watching the empty yard and street, I start to think this might be what I do best: watching and waiting.
This isn’t the way I wanted things to end up. I have a chance for my very own happily ever after. I can’t let details like Jason Baines or Kyle Bay get in the way.
But what do I do about them?
My stomach growls and I press my palm to it. I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning so I pad downstairs, keeping the lights off as I pull all the curtains shut. There’s still no sign of Carson’s watch detail and I don’t know what that means. I do know the darkness makes me want to come out of my skin.
Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. I wander into the kitchen to fix a sandwich and avoid the windows. God, it’s quiet. I refuse to say “too quiet” even though the description kind of fits. I pick up the television remote and tell myself I’m being a cliché. Too bad it doesn’t stop my hands from shaking.
Reality television.
Reality television.
Really stupid sitcom.
Carson?
It’s the evening news and they’re showing a clip of the detective standing behind a podium, addressing a small group of people. His hair is smoothed back and his clothes look pressed.
“We can’t discuss the case details at the moment,” he says, both hands gripping the microphone. “We can tell you the body discovered at the Bays’ residence is Lell Daley’s.”
The camera cuts to a picture of Lell and Kyle smiling, mouths slightly apart as if they were a gasp away from a belly laugh. She looks so in love it makes my stomach squeeze.
The picture vanishes, replaced with a close-up of Carson’s face. “While I cannot confirm that Miss Daley’s death has anything to do with Judge Bay or his family, I can assure you we are taking every precaution possible to protect all involved parties in the wake of these terrible tragedies.”
Well, protect what’s left of them. I watch the interview a little longer before switching it off. I’d rather deal with the silence. The detective’s right. It has to be the older son. All of this seems so . . . family-related. Remember me? What if Kyle’s trying to tell Bay to remember their dead mother? I know as well as anyone what losing a wife and mom can do to a family. What if Mrs. Bay’s death tore them apart? Could work . . . except the Chelsea thing doesn’t fit. Or maybe it does—she wasn’t a blood relative, but she was there all the time, taking care of Bay; that sort of makes her family. How to explain Lell then?
I blow out a sigh. If not the family thing, there are no other connections between the victims.
Except for me.
Doesn’t that prove the rule or whatever? I’m the only person who’s outside the killer’s scope and that’s because I was stupid enough to get caught. Plus, he hasn’t gone after me.