What if it’s not?
She hesitates, the step under her foot creaking with her weight. That’s when she sees him. He has a white hood on his head, belt tight around his neck. He looks up at her with dark eyes.
Julie backs up, blood turned to ice water. The man takes one step at a time. She can hear his breathing. She can feel his eyes burning into her. She backs up against something hard. It’s the wall next to the bathroom door.
Quick!
She darts inside the bathroom and slams the door, fumbling with the latch, trying to get it to move with fingers that are numb, hands that have turned to jelly. An incredible weight shoves the door toward her, smashing her in the face. Julie falls back, and the door thunders against the tiles on the wall. The man stands in the doorway. She whimpers, looking up at him, her heart jackhammering under her nightshirt. Tears fill her eyes as he walks toward her, as he dominates her vision.
“What are you going to do to me?” she whispers, her throat so dry she can barely form words.
The man bends down, face inches from hers. “What d’you think?”
He finishes and gets up. Carefully, he unbuckles the belt around his neck, then handles the delicate white material of the torn hood, almost as though he were cradling a newborn. She’s the first of his victims to get anywhere near it. He can’t believe she’s ripped it. Lester folds the hood, slips it into his pocket. On his way out of the bathroom, he flips the switch and the light goes off.
“Night,” he says as he goes down the stairs and out through the back door. Glass lies in shattered pieces on the floor. It crunches underfoot as he flees into the night.
No one saw him arrive. No one sees him leave. He is a ghost among the living. The giver of freedom.
The taker of life.
12
Someone is humming.
Harper opens her eyes and feels a sharp stabbing pain in the middle of her forehead. She sits up, groggy, feeling the worse for wear. “Christ, what happened to me?”
Ida walks in, apron on, smile on her face. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Harper croaks. She looks at the happy black woman standing in front of her, wondering how she could possibly be tip-top while she feels like death personified. “You’re not hung over?”
“No! You want coffee?”
“Yes, please God,” Harper says, getting up gingerly, as if she’s a patient who’s been operated on. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Not at all. You know where you’re going. Have a shower, if you like. I left you out some towels. I had an inkling you might have a change of clothes in your car, and found all that in your trunk. Sorry, I had to use your keys. I didn’t touch any of your stuff.”
“Wow, you’re really thorough,” Harper says, thinking of the overnight bag she always takes with her. There’s everything in there—change of clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, perfume, hairbrush . . . even condoms, should she need them.
Hope she didn’t poke around in there . . .
“Go on up, Jane. Coffee will be waiting for you.”
“Thanks,” Harper says, pausing on the steps. “Hey, you’re a really nice person, Ida. Does anyone ever tell you that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, they should,” Harper says. A half hour later she is in fresh clothes, hair still damp from the shower, and she feels better. It makes all the difference in the world just brushing her teeth. One of the things that’s always made her laugh is when, in a movie, two lovers wake up after having a drunken one-night stand, and full-on kiss. She could never do that.
Last thing I want is to exchange death breath.
“Have a seat, sugar,” Ida says. “Bet that feels better, don’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” Harper says, smiling. She looks at the clock on the wall. “Jesus, is that really the time?”
Ida puts a mug of coffee in front of her. “Thought I’d let you sleep. You looked tired last night.”
“I was,” Harper agrees. “I needed some rest, I think.”
Stu calls. Harper takes it outside. “Hey,” she says, holding the phone to her ear.
“You alright? I didn’t hear from you last night.”
“I stayed here at Ida’s.”
A second of silence, then: “Isn’t that, like, a bit weird?”
“No, I don’t think so. It feels like I’ve known her for ages.”
“I know, Jane, but—”
“Stu, honestly, I’m fine. How about you?”
“Albie called me. There’s a murder scene bears a close resemblance to Magnolia, Alma, and Gertie. Raped and strangled. It’s in a house. He’s at the scene now. They pulled DNA and are comparing it to what we have on file so far. Albie said he won’t say dick about this to Morelli, before you start worryin’.”
“Wow. Okay. I didn’t expect that,” Harper says. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Look, let me check it out; I’ll let you know what I find. There’s nothing you can do right now. I promise I’ll call soon as I can, and let you know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” Harper says through gritted teeth. “But right away, you hear?”
“Yes, mon capitaine,” Stu says. “And, uh, thanks for the reply last night. I didn’t know what you’d make of my text. I actually thought it might be a mistake sending it.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re a hard girl to read, Jane. What with what happened at the station, and the way you took off the other night, I thought maybe you were having second thoughts.”
“I took off because I wanted to be in my own bed,” Harper tells him. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted to leave yours.”
A pause. “You realize that statement makes no sense, right?”
“Oh shut up. I’ll talk to you later when you’re not being so obtuse.”
Stu laughs on the other end. “Okay,” he says. “I love you, kiddo. I want you to know that.”
“Stu, I . . .” Harper swallows. Her throat is dry. “Take care.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead and she puts the phone in her pocket. In that moment, on Ida’s porch, with the sun high above the tree line, she feels a sudden pang of loneliness.
I don’t know how she can live out here, Harper thinks. It’s peaceful, but there’s such a thing as being too peaceful. I’m well rested having come here, but it’s too far removed from everything.
She feels as though she is at the bow of an ocean liner, leaning on the railings, gazing upon an endless vista of blue sky and even bluer sea. A sense of being lost in place and time.
But there is Stu, and there are the victims awaiting their retribution. And there is Ida, who is as much a victim herself as her mother was. They are the anchors keeping Harper tethered.
It’s midday, and Ida has started her music. Robert Cray spills from inside the house—his clear tenor and riotous band causing the very air to quake.
I need to leave soon, Harper thinks. She sighs and goes in.
“Run this by me again?” Stu asks, looking at the broken glass on the floor.