The Night Sister

Some part of him knew it was wrong, how eager he was to see her, how he had lit up like a Christmas tree because he was the one she’d turned to. He’d thought of how disappointed Margot would be when he told her, so he decided he wouldn’t tell her. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and it wasn’t so terrible, was it? He was just going to see an old friend, to help out—where was the harm in that? Still, guilt whined around his head like a nagging, persistent mosquito. You have a wife you love and a baby on the way, it said. What do you think you’re doing?

Now, as he stood in the open doorway, he heard what sounded like a low groan. His skin prickled. Unholstering his gun, he stepped into the front hall; a closet door stood open, revealing a row of shiny rain slickers and grubby sweatshirts hanging over a jumble of shoes. Jason spotted small, sparkly pink sneakers; a large pair of worn work boots that had to belong to Amy’s husband, Mark; the leather flip-flops Amy had been wearing last week when she met him at the door. “Jay Jay,” she had said as she embraced him, somewhat clumsily, sloshing coffee out of her mug. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Now he looked around the house. The living room was to the right, the kitchen to the left, and a staircase directly in front of him. Everything smelled musty, vaguely ruined. Wallpaper hung off the walls like torn pieces of skin. The dull brown carpet (had it been white once?) was full of stains and burns, worn through to the floorboards in places.

He hadn’t noticed any of this last week.

Jason’s radio squawked. Doug Rainier was upstairs—Jason heard his shaking voice both in the house and, a split second later, as a mechanical echo over the radio. “Three victims,” he was saying. “All dead.” Then, quietly, “Oh God. Oh, shit.”

Adrenaline flooded through him, even before his brain fully understood Rainier’s words. He ascended the stairs two at a time, right hand on his gun.

Amy.

Where was Amy?

The scene at the top of the stairs nearly brought him to his knees. He had to grab hold of the wall to keep from going down.

He’d never seen anything like it.

Never seen so much blood.

A gunshot hadn’t done this.

There were gory red tracks everywhere in the hall. Doug Rainier was on his knees near one of the victims, retching violently. Jason staggered toward them. The victim was facedown, her long blond hair splayed out around her head. There was a rifle beside her, and she lay in what looked like a small lake of blood. The smell of it, sharp and metallic, hit him hard, filling his nose and mouth.

“Oh Jesus.” Jason breathed out the words and let himself sag against the wall.

She was facedown, but he knew it was her and he knew that she was dead. Her right arm was tucked beneath her chest, but her left was outstretched. A piece of paper rested near her elbow. He leaned in a bit—no, not paper, an old photograph. It was a black-and-white image of two little girls, and written across it in black marker was the phrase “29 Rooms.” He blinked; a part of him knew it must mean something, must be a clue, but what he found himself focusing on instead was Amy’s hand, pale and waxy. Her engagement ring and wedding band glinted up at him, just as they had last week, when she’d reached across the kitchen table to take his hand.

“There’s no one else I can tell all this to, Jay Jay,” she’d said through tears. “I swear, I think I’m going crazy.”

“Hawke?” a voice called. Jason looked up and saw Bruce McLellan looming in the doorway of the bedroom at the opposite end of the hall. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take his eyes off Amy.

“Do you remember, Jay Jay, back when we were kids, how you used to write me notes in secret code?” she’d asked, and he’d nodded. Of course he remembered. He remembered everything.

“Sometimes I’d pretend not to understand them,” Amy said. “But I always did. I always knew just what you wrote.”

“Hawke, I need you in here—now!” McLellan barked, and Jason turned from Amy at last, to walk down the hallway like a ghost version of himself, there and yet not.