I don’t want to find out.
And then there was the cross. He’d shoved it into his desk drawer days before. Then, it seemed to have had no purpose, and the things Echo had brought over had wiped Halcomb’s parting gift almost entirely from his mind. But now, after what Marty had said about the weapon Schwartz had used to kill himself, Lucas couldn’t shake the dread. All logic assured him that it wasn’t the same cross Schwartz had used—surely, the police had taken that one into evidence. And yet, the mere idea of it sitting in his desk drawer gave him the creeps. Because what if? Maybe he wants me to stab myself to death just like Schwartz. Fat fucking chance, he thought, shoved the car door open, and moved toward the front of the house. You may have convinced me to move into this house of horrors, but suicide isn’t in the cards for me, Jeff.
When he stepped inside, Jeanie and Echo were sitting on the living room floor. The coffee table was between them, a game of Scrabble in full swing.
Jeanie was just about beaming, but the moment she laid eyes on him, her mood shifted to something darker. He watched as his kid shot a look at Echo, as if questioning whether she should greet him at all.
“Hey,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the pair. “Uh, everything okay here?”
“We’re just playing Scrabble,” Echo announced. “Vivi is beating me by seventy-three points. If we could just forget this whole game happened, that would be great.”
Jeanie said nothing.
His kid flashed Echo a smile as she slid around a few wooden tiles, but her grin did little to diminish the weird feeling clambering up Lucas’s throat. Vivi? Echo’s new nickname for his daughter made him feel queasy and violated, as though someone had come into his home and stolen something invaluable out from under his nose.
Echo was looking a little too comfortable lounging on the floor the way she was. And Jeanie—a girl who avoided strangers—appeared more laid-back around her new friend than she did around her own dad.
Something twisted deep inside his guts.
“Can’t play,” was the only thing Lucas could manage, his mouth gone dry, full of cotton. “Jeanie . . . you should wrap up. I still want to drive up to Seattle today.”
The drive would get them out of the house and away from Pier Pointe for long enough to let him get his head straight. The news about the inmate, the guard, and now Jeanie’s weird silence, the strange stolen glances between her and Echo . . . it was all too much.
He turned away from them and stepped into his study. Closing the door behind him, he caught his breath, sure he was on the verge of vomiting his lunch down the front of his jeans.
After a few seconds of standing there with his eyes shut tight, a gentle knock sounded on the door. Echo peeked her head inside and gave him an apologetic sort of smile. It was almost as if she knew what was bothering him without an explanation.
“Okay, I’m off,” she told him. “Have a good trip into the city.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said.
Echo turned to go, then paused. “If you need me to watch her again, I’d be more than happy to do it. Don’t hesitate to ask.” She gave him a conciliatory shrug, then stepped away from the door.
Lucas didn’t move from where he stood. He considered running out and apologizing. He was acting crazy, his jealousy bubbling up green and ugly from the pit of his guts. He couldn’t afford not to be Echo’s friendly neighbor, couldn’t risk her taking her stuff back. He needed those photos to fix his life.
It was only then that he realized what that sick feeling truly was. He was being held hostage. And while it would have been easy to tell Echo to never set foot near his rental house again, Echo wasn’t his captor. He was a prisoner to his own insatiable need, his own obsession. Because falling prey to desperation was easy when you had nothing left to lose.
That’s what had bothered him most about seeing Jeanie sitting there with Echo that way. It made him feel as though he’d screwed up one too many times. She’d finally given up on him. And if that was true, Lucas Graham was done. Nothing was all that he had left.
40
* * *
Monday, April 19, 1982
Ten Months, Twenty-Three Days Before the Sacrament
THE GROUP HAD taken to making biweekly drives into Pier Pointe, breaking into houses. Avis didn’t dare mention how uncomfortable the trips made her. She went along every time.
They now had more food than they knew what to do with. Cardboard boxes lined the wall of the kitchen, giving the place the look of an in-process move. When Avis offhandedly mentioned that they could take a break from their little trips, that they had enough food to feed ten people and a dog for at least a month, Jeff pulled her into the sunshine-yellow downstairs half bath and murmured scoldings into her ear.
“You’re not here to give advice,” he said, his fingers tight against her arm. “You’re here to participate.” She winced against his grip but kept herself from trying to wriggle away. “And if you don’t want to take part, then why are we here, Avis? Why are we here?” When she didn’t answer, he tightened his grip. “Why are we here?” he demanded.
“Because I want to participate!” She blurted it out, twisting away from him. “I’m sorry.” Her voice drew out into a whisper. “I want to participate.”
Avis had thought being part of things would be limited to walking along the beach, sitting around a bonfire, growing vegetables in the backyard. Now participation had escalated from a “Kumbaya” circle to breaking and entering. And it was becoming very clear that it wasn’t about the food. It was about the thrill.