Tag: writing

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Part Five: News From Home

Adam took a slow breath, both hands raised. “They didn’t use your dad’s real name.”

Kent blinked, which at least helped him look less like he wanted to throttle the other man. “What?”

“They …” Adam looked over to Art and Brandon, then back to Kent and Nell.

“For fuck’s sake,” Kent sighed, lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “If we’re in danger, then we’re in danger at work, too.”

“You shouldn’t be. Aren’t.” Adam shook his head a little, closing his eyes like he was in physical pain. “Hypothetically. If …”

Brandon snorted without amusement. “You want us to go to the back while you get this all sorted out?”

“Can’t,” Art argued. “Someone has to be paying attention in case we get customers.”

“Adam doesn’t want to go in the back because I threatened to break his arm with the dough mixer,” Nell explained, taking Kent’s hand and giving him a tug all the same.

“If he doesn’t spit it all out, you won’t need the dough mixer,” her husband muttered, gesturing for Adam to go first.

He did, turning and holding up his hands again until the doors shut. “I was only just told all this, and it happened a couple days ago, but: they got O’Connell’s real name and planned it all out. Two of them went to his house and asked him to come in and talk about it, and yeah, they planted the whole ‘Rosie’s the real killer’ thing, and buttered him up about connecting all five murders, and one of them dropped a name. Hillier.”

Kent frowned.

“It had to be an actual agent,” Adam continued, “because they weren’t sure if he’d check the WayBack machine to see if the website was just updated. Beckett,” he added, to Kent, realizing he hadn’t been there earlier. “Bentley Beckett. That’s his name.”

“So they told this Bentley Beckett that his Rosie …?”

“Was the real killer, yeah. To throw him off. And one of them ranted about how his ‘Rosie’ had a boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s dad was still in the agency even though he’d illegally helped the two of them disappear …”

Nell didn’t have to reach far for Kent’s hand, and he gripped hers tightly.

“And one of them dropped the name,” Adam continued. “Because Hillier volunteered. He doesn’t have kids, he’s divorced, it’s just him in the house, so all they had to do was photoshop some pictures and wait for Beckett to take the bait.”

“Is …” Nell tried to swallow. “Isn’t that entrapment?”

“Not at all.” Adam recovered enough to look a little smug. “They weren’t trying to get him to confess to it. They said oh, he did such great work in his research—could he provide some insight into the mind of the real killer?”

Kent switched Nell’s hand to his other one so he could put an arm around her. “You mean Nell.”

“Yes. His only known weakness.”

God, he almost sounded like he was talking about his favorite childhood superhero.

“And it worked, because Beckett went to Hillier’s house, and now …”

“Now?” Nell prompted hoarsely.

“Well. He’s going to be fine, and if nothing else, we can charge Beckett with assaulting a federal agent with a deadly weapon.”

“Wait, you …” Nell sagged against Kent. “You set an agent up and he almost got killed?”

Adam held up his hand. “He volunteered to do it—for you, by the way—and he knew the risks. And he’ll be fine. He’s in stable condition and expected to improve.”

“You …”

Kent locked both arms around her, standing steady. “Nate?”

“Sorry?”

“Hillier. Nate Hillier.”

“Uh …” The pause was long enough that Nell felt a dozen different emotions about Adam. Some agent risked his life for her and in the middle of retelling it, Adam couldn’t even remember his first name? “Yeah, Nathan J. Hillier.”

Kent nodded, lowering his head to rest his cheek against her hair. “I know him. He’s one of my dad’s best friends. I’m not surprised.”

“Okay, but does your dad also have the kind of job where he might get killed at any moment?” she asked, trying not to snap it, but her voice was shriller than usual. “Because I always got the impression he was kind of a desk guy.”

Kent shrugged. “We don’t talk about what Dad does. What happened with Nate?”

“Beckett, uh … located his house. He drove his company van, which we’ve got on camera, and apparently stopped to ask for directions.”

“Apparently?” Did that mean the agent who’d volunteered to pose as Kent’s dad hadn’t been conscious since then?

“He said he was lost and looking for a specific address, but we assume he was ready to use any excuse to drive by Hillier’s house and try to talk to him. Which was why it had to be a single agent,” Adam added. “They didn’t have time to update the website or make any sort of address changes on a larger scale, so Beckett had to be able to look him up in, say, the phone book and get the right information.”

It still sounded like entrapment to Nell.

“He could’ve just shown up and asked some questions,” Adam argued at whatever he saw on her face. “Out of curiosity, or because he could use some of the information on his book tour. He didn’t have to …”

“What did he do?” Kent asked in the voice that yes, really made people think he was a Hell’s Angel.

Adam cleared his throat. “Brass knuckles and a switchblade. But he didn’t really use the knife.”

“Didn’t really?” It came out of Nell like a laugh, but come on. How did someone not really use a switchblade?

“He threatened Hillier with the switchblade,” Adam corrected, and if he was ever put up on the witness stand, she hoped he got some more training about using a poker face. Clearly Adam thought this was an excellent and wonderful story and they were fixating on all the wrong parts. “He mostly used the brass knuckles.”

Nell’s hand went up to her face, fingertips on her cheekbones. How delicate was a human face? Or had Beckett gone for the torso and internal injuries?

“The point is, Hillier knew he had to play it right to make it believable.”

“To make what believable?” Kent demanded.

“Your address.”

Silence.

“God, no, your—a fake address. A safe house a couple hundred miles from here. I don’t know why they still picked Iowa, except I don’t think they know you’re here, so maybe it was just a weird coincidence. But Hillier had an address memorized, and if he just gave it up right away, Beckett wouldn’t believe him.”

Okay but if he’d given it up right away, he could’ve avoided the whole assault with a deadly weapon business.

Kent shook his head a little, like he’d caught her thought. “Nate would risk himself for us. Get the conviction for the assault, if nothing else. That at least buys us time. So he showed up at the safe house and you’ve got him? Because maybe you should’ve led with that.”

“Uh …”

“Wait, all that and you don’t even have him?” Nell gripped Kent’s arm with both hands.

“Not yet, no. He, uh … didn’t take the direct route, so … we’re not sure where he is.”

“He …” Nell shook her head, but that didn’t help things fall into place. “So why are you here?”

Adam sighed. “Because they’re going to put it out on the news that an agent was assaulted, and identify the suspect, and your dad didn’t want you thinking it was actually him.”

Nell closed her eyes because it wasn’t like the news would call him the father of Rosie’s boyfriend or something. “You’ve identified him, but now we’ve got no idea where he is, because two agents alerted him to the fact that you’re on to him and told him to come to Iowa.”

“Nowhere near here in Iowa,” Adam protested. “And I didn’t have a damn thing to do with this—they only just told me about it today.”

Because they were going to put something on the news, since so much had gone wrong.

Kent squeezed Nell tighter for a moment. “We need that picture of him. Beckett.”

“Why—?”

“Because our bosses are out there, and they need to know it’s a problem if they see that guy hanging around.”

A muscle in Adam’s jaw twitched. “I’m not happy that you’re sharing this information with anyone else, in any context.”

Said the man who was not actually trained to hide people in witness protection. Nell tried not to scowl. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot we’re not happy about, either.”

“You said it’s going to be on the news,” Kent argued more quietly, if not more calmly. “We’ll just tell them then. Let them draw their own conclusions about why they should keep an eye out for this guy who assaulted a fed with a deadly weapon.”

Adam shook his head. “Neither of you get it. You’ve had these identities for years now, and you want to throw it all away? You can’t go back to who you were, and you’re not getting us involved again. As far as the bureau’s concerned, your dad took things a step too far, but they’re leaving it … as long as nothing else comes up. If you start undoing all that, you’re not just losing us. You’re going to lose every single friend and connection you’ve made here, because basically you’ve done nothing for years but lie your asses off.”

Art understands. Nell wasn’t sure that Brandon did, but she could see Art got it. He was actually comforted by it, if only because he didn’t have to keep thinking Kent was a groomer. “The whole reason Kent’s dad did this is because there’s someone out there hurting people I care about.” God, she hadn’t expected her voice to waver this much. “If he’s out there, and now he’s even closer, then Art and Brandon are two of those people who need to be on their guard.”

“You know who to look out for,” Kent added, also softly. “And we know you can’t be everywhere at once. Give them a chance, will you?”

Adam stayed still for quite a while, resuming the fed mask and showing nothing, but then he took a slow breath, nodded, and got out his phone.

---

Chapter Thirty-One – coming January 31

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Ben hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. It wasn’t an apartment building but a duplex, and the number clearly designated her as living on the top floor, and there’d been lights on up there. People moving around—two of them, one of them clearly taller and bigger than the other. He hadn’t seen anyone going into the side door that went up the stairs, but he’d been able to catch sight of what was parked out front: a single car. Iowa license plate—no surprise there—and he could get the number later if he walked by during the daylight hours.

He knew where she was. It was nearly a confirmed sighting. But it was dusk, time for dinner and then bed, and he couldn’t just go knock on their door now. Especially because it was clearly a they, what with the shadows on the blinds. Maybe the boyfriend worked the night shift somewhere.

That was too much to hope for. His best bet was waiting until after 9 and then swinging by again to see what he could see: if the car was there or gone. If the shade was up and anyone was looking out. It was possible both of them worked, so the apartment would be empty, but …

But that wasn’t such a problem, either. If Ben could get in, he could place a lens or two. Catch some video as well as some audio.

It wasn’t so much about learning the names they’d picked—or, in her case, had forced on her—but learning their habits and schedules. If he heard them talk about work plans and knew she’d be alone tomorrow, for example—assuming he planted the bugs today, in an hour or so when he went over there—then he’d know when to show up. For the last time, that was. Taking her and the bug with him. Today was for leaving the bug if she wasn’t home.

He supposed he’d already made up his mind, then.

The instant coffee wasn’t great, but it was caffeine, and at least he had a microwave to heat up the water for it. He didn’t think he’d be able to put on a normal performance at the café to get any of the good stuff, and he definitely looked like he’d just pulled an all-nighter, even though it wasn’t intentional. Ben would rather be well-rested, just in case she was there and they needed to get a bunch of driving in as soon as possible.

On second thought, he shouldn’t have unpacked everything, but putting it back in his suitcase and getting things in his car meant he was taking up time and guaranteed he wouldn’t arrive at the apartment too soon. This way he’d be after 10, so it didn’t matter if the boyfriend didn’t start work at 9.

The boyfriend might be home. That was all right, too. Ben had a crowbar that would slip up his sleeve, and he’d practiced letting it fall just long enough to grab it, raise it, and swing.

Only if it was the boyfriend, of course. He wasn’t about to swing at her.

Plus, if the outer door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked, he wouldn’t even have to keep it up his sleeve. He could carry it up the stairs and lean it against the wall next to the door at the top, where he could grab it if he needed it, but where he could also ignore it if, say, she answered and she was alone. He didn’t have to draw attention to it, and he could hustle her out and pass it without her seeing it. Just because he’d killed for her didn’t mean she had to know for sure that he was willing to do it again.

Ben parked down the street, which was why the crowbar went up his sleeve, and walked as easily as he could up the sidewalk, which was buckled and broken through with weeds. He had to be careful not to trip because he wasn’t really set to catch himself, not with one arm that wouldn’t bend, but there wasn’t anyone else out. People watching from upper windows, maybe, so he couldn’t relax completely, but no one on the street.

It was a risk, just reaching for the knob like he expected the door to open, but it paid off. He didn’t just collide with a locked door, hand slipping. Ben opened it and went inside, nice and easy, and made sure it latched behind him. He didn’t even realize how tight the muscles in his chest were until he exhaled and it kept going. Letting the crowbar slide out of his sleeve, he rested the end on the ground, wiped both palms on his jeans, and picked it up casually in one hand. Casually, but ready to make things less than casual.

The stairwell was claustrophobic, clearly added as an afterthought to turn a house into a duplex, narrow and with a low ceiling. It wasn’t good for swinging, so Ben quickly started on up, not sure about how much things would improve at the top but, at least if they were on the same level, he could hold it more like a golf club and aim for the knees.

The boyfriend would scream. They’d have to be fast.

That would be okay. He’d made it out of tight spots before.

There was a slightly wider space at the top of the stairs, but it was cut off by a coat tree and a shoe rack. A shoe rack with a gap on the top shelf where a pair of women’s Skechers were off to one side, but there wasn’t a coordinating pair of men’s shoes to go with it. Ben considered his own boots, then decided against the delay of taking them off. Leaning the crowbar to the right of the door, he took inhaled slowly, smoothed the front of his sweatshirt, and raised a hand to knock.

It was impossible not to hold his breath as he waited for the sound of footsteps, counting off his heartbeats and trying to convert them into seconds to figure out when he could knock again. It was certainly possible that she had more shoes than fit on the rack, or that the top was where hers went and his usually sat on the floor, or … well, anything. The car wasn’t there, so maybe the apartment was empty. That was what Ben had planned for, but that was really second-best, and he’d really been hoping …

He knocked again, breathing more easily this time. His heart was still pounding, but he didn’t expect her to open the door and smile politely and then … however she’d react when she recognized him. He tried not to picture it, because expectation led to disappointment.

No one was coming. Casting a look back down the tunnel of stairs, Ben first tried the door—imagine starting to pick it and realizing the door was already open—and then knelt in front of it, pulling the lockpicking kit out of his sweatshirt pocket. He didn’t want to scrub the lock, because that was inelegant, and doing that would be admitting he was too wound up to finesse it. He could maintain control, because he had to maintain control, and if he couldn’t do this one … simple … thing …

The door opened. Good. He carefully put the picks back in their place, snapped the case shut, and returned it to his pocket as he got up. Absently he wiped his boots on the mat, because he wasn’t going to take them off now, either. If he had to run, he’d want them on. If she was just out shopping, for example, it probably wouldn’t be good to be discovered here, because startled people weren’t always predictable. Fight or flight kicked in, and he didn’t want her feeling sorry later for what she might do.

First Ben stepped inside and made sure the door was locked again behind him. No sense in leaving it wide open. If she did come home, she’d get the key out, and then wonder why it was unlocked, and if she’d forgotten and left it that way, and he didn’t want her to worry. The whole point was that he was the end of her worries.

He looked around the entryway, which was actually the main room of the apartment, with the kitchen off to one side and the little dining room set sort of hovering between the tile and the living room section. There was a lamp on the table by the couch, with the sort of lampshade he liked, because he’d already perfected how to attach one of his bugs with the way it unscrewed, and how to position it, and all the rest. Ben even pulled out a pair of thin cotton gloves before getting to work, reminding himself to wipe down the doorknob on his way out. Both sides.

He should’ve worn the gloves earlier, but he didn’t like them for picking, and he wasn’t going to knock on her door wearing gloves. He might as well put on a ski mask and a sign saying he was here to steal whatever he could get.

Carefully he returned the lamp to its spot, making sure the cord went over the edge of the table in the same place and that it still worked. Not like he might’ve broken it, but he wanted to be sure nobody would be fiddling with it anytime soon. If it was long after, that was one thing, but right now time was of the essence. Really, he only needed a little more of it. That was one room done, and it was the main room, so he took a look around to see … well. Just to see.

There weren’t any photos. None in frames on flat surfaces, and none hung on the walls. There were various prints of famous paintings—posters of paintings, really, in frames—but that was it. Ben really only had those collages and stuff in his house because he thought everyone expected you to have them: happy moments, people you were supposed to miss, important travel destinations, that kind of thing. The feds had certainly ogled every single one on their way by, and he supposed he’d studied the ones in Hillier’s apartment, so maybe he wasn’t one to talk,

He wasn’t one to hesitate, either, so he left the newly-bugged lamp and went back toward the bedroom.

---

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Ben ended up asking the barista about hotels and getting a couple options, as well as a weird look when he pulled out his notebook to write down addresses instead of looking at his phone, but that was how things went. Maybe he’d be remembered for his lack of phone, but that was it. His face was nondescript, his t-shirt and hoodie both solid colors without any markings, and there wasn’t even a credit card to link him to a name. He wrote down the addresses and strolled up and down the rest of what seemed to be downtown before heading back to his car. There wasn’t much to it, but at least there was a corner store if he wanted to pick up some staples.

In the car he pulled out his map and compared addresses to see if there was any reason to pick a hotel closer to her apartment, or if he might as well go for any of them. None of them were nearby, so he selected one that didn’t have a name he recognized—although he could get surprised when he pulled in and saw that it was a Hilton property or something like that—and figured out his route.

Asking directions here was not part of the plan. He didn’t need to talk to someone—like Hillier—and he didn’t want to be remembered. Just another guy, maybe on a fishing trip, or … ugh. He couldn’t pass it off like he was here to golf. He didn’t know the first thing about the game, and he didn’t have any clubs. Didn’t have any fishing gear, either. Wildlife photographer? Did Iowa even have wildlife?

That didn’t matter. If anyone asked if he was here for business or pleasure, he’d say business, and maybe sigh, and that would be that. Clearly he wasn’t even staying at a good hotel, so …

It took Ben two hotels, which was fine, because it meant he got to drive around and see a bit more. It was just the sort of place he’d expect to find her, too: small town, middle of flyover country, a quaint sort of throwback. Not that she’d swap out her jeans and hoodies for a housewife dress or anything, but there was just something comforting about the whole thing. A nothing ever happens here sort of feeling that would be good for her after everything that happened so quickly in one year. And the 50s vibe meant he could hope that, even if she had married the boyfriend, they’d have separate beds, kept apart.

It was a vain hope, because of course any boyfriend would want her physically as well as all the other ways a man could want a woman, and Ben couldn’t really blame the guy, but he could be jealous. Plus a marriage license was just an annoying legal entanglement that would have to be dealt with.

Okay, that meant disappearing again, on the run from all of the FBI this time instead of just most of it, but … they could do it. They’d figure it out. The main point was that this flight would be together. And there wouldn’t be separate beds.

Right, focus. He pulled into a parking spot in front of a motel that looked like it should be covered in one big spider web—clearly they needed some 50s housewives with feather dusters—and decided to try his luck at the front desk. The teenager, very much not a 50s throwback, barely even looked at Ben, which was good, because he put a fake name on the form alongside the number of the stolen license plate, and exchanged cash for a key. If he needed more than three nights, he’d extend it, but for now he had a base of operations that opened directly onto the parking lot, so there was no need to pass other doors—or to have other customers, if there were any, pass his—so he went out, moved his sedan to the proper space, grabbed his suitcase, and went in to investigate.

Sometimes even places like these had little pamphlets about things to do in the area, but no dice. The television worked, and looked like it cost more than the rest of the room combined, so he found a news station and turned it down low. Maybe an FBI agent in Michigan wouldn’t make national news, but he hadn’t checked in with Thom recently, so he needed to know if there was any buzz about that. He might need to use the personal hotspot he’d bought—not entirely sure if those were untraceable or what, but first, he hadn’t been sure if his hotel would have Wi-Fi, and second, that seemed at least a bit more anonymous—to check in and say hey, yeah, things are fine.

If there wasn’t anything on the news, Ben would probably have to email Thom, anyway, because hey, he was supposed to be gearing up for a national reading and signing tour. Thom expected him to have butterflies—which he would, if he didn’t already have her address. If he didn’t already know where she was, just waiting for him. They’d leave here together, and fine, yeah, it would mean surrendering the sales from the book, but that was a small sacrifice compared to the ones he’d already made.

He turned down the sheets, but they at least seemed clean, and his skin didn’t crawl just looking at them, so that was a plus. Since he had the place for three days, he decided he might as well fully unpack to let his clothes air out and get rid of some of the fold lines. She wasn’t going to care, but she was perceptive, and noticed details a lot of people missed, so he wanted to show her that he knew. He could be just as meticulous.

The boyfriend, though. That kept sneaking back into his head. He’d managed to keep himself focused on driving, on getting here, but now, with this down time … with the television on low in the background, talking about things that didn’t interest Ben and didn’t matter to his world … the boyfriend crept back in.

Why hadn’t he known there was a boyfriend? He could swear that no man’s voice had ever been caught on his bug, but an internet boyfriend whose FBI dad swept in and rescued her like this just didn’t make sense. There had to be a deeper connection than that, or else this whole thing turned sour.

An internet boyfriend who used his dad’s position of power to basically kidnap a young woman who was emotionally unstable in that moment was not a good guy. And neither was his dad, unless the boyfriend inflated the story and the dad thought it really was true love. But even then, it left her alone, with these guys planning her future, and helpless.

But, if two people were actually dating, it didn’t make sense that the boyfriend was never around. Seriously never. She was alone when she moved in, and the only friends they had over were female. There wasn’t any boyfriend voice at all on the living room mic—just her phone calls, which, yeah, sure, ended with I love you a lot of the time, but the content was the kind she’d share with her grandma or long-distance friends.

She’d been easy and free with her I love yous. At first it bothered Ben, because how was someone supposed to know they were special if she said it to everyone, but then he sat with it a while and realized that she was just overflowing with love. There was so much of it, she had to give a bunch away or else she’d swell up and explode.

It wasn’t hard to accept that other guys would see that in her, and want to be a part of it. It wasn’t the idea of a boyfriend that threw Ben, but the fact of one. A boyfriend with a father so devoted that he misused his position to help make her disappear, no less. If it had just been a boyfriend … a college boy, probably, simply because those were the guys she met … then they couldn’t have slipped away so completely.

What had Ben written? A rock sinking to the bottom of a murky pond? He should’ve called her a diamond, really, but the murky pond was accurate. She was somewhere so far away from him that her light was swallowed up. Maybe she wasn’t even allowed to shine. Didn’t they tell people starting new lives to change as much as they could about themselves, so no one would make the connection because of habits or a hobby or something?

Maybe the boyfriend, inspired by the 50s atmosphere, made her stay at home all the time. She’d vacuum and iron his shirts and meet him at the door with a martini when he got back from work, whatever his work was, but never leave the house, not even to do the shopping. You didn’t have to these days, what with Amazon and everything else that would deliver. She could be a hermit, a shut-in, and maybe he’d be the first person other than the boyfriend she’d seen in years. God, thinking about it that way, he was really wasting time here. He could at least drive past the apartment building and see if he could guess which windows were theirs.

Hers. Which windows were hers.

Ben could get some staples for the hotel room, at any rate. Instant coffee, that kind of thing. It would give him a reason for the drive, and if he happened to circle around a bit, then clearly he’d gotten lost in a new area. So maybe he could pass by more than once.

The stupid book cover had done a number on him. Here he was, thinking he’d catch a glimpse of her silhouette and he’d just know. Even after all this time, he’d know.

Maybe he would. Maybe the romantics of the world all kept their beliefs because, every so often, it did work out that way for someone.

Maybe, this time, it would work out for them.

---

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Part Four: The Saddest Experience

The fact that Thom made sure the FBI’s accusation of Rosie was in the news was helpful because Ben didn’t have to try to figure out digital access to keep up with it. Granted, everyone was looking at and talking about and commenting on those stories, but he didn’t want to connect with something attached to his real name and ping something somewhere. That sounded like a spy movie concern, not a real-world ability, but you never knew.

None of the papers Ben bought with cash mentioned anything about an FBI agent in Kalamazoo.

He’d gotten out of state on that first day, so that was probably why. And maybe he hadn’t actually killed him, but … those details were fuzzy. His hands were sore, his knuckles scabbed from rubbing against the inside of the sweaty garden gloves, but he didn’t think punching was all he’d done. When he got into those fogs, he could be … creative.

The drive wasn’t helping his sore back, and he preferred not to use cruise control, so his leg ached, too. Plus he wanted to avoid turnpikes, with their cameras and toll-takers—if there were still toll-takers who’d deal with cash and not just cameras that caught you if you didn’t have a Fast Pass—so the trip was longer than it normally would’ve been. He should’ve made it in a single day, easy, but with everything he wanted to avoid, he was pulling in late on the second day, grouchy from a night in a bad motel along with the drive.

There might have been bed bugs. He hadn’t thought ahead to buy one of those sleeping bag things the travel magazines advertised, so you never actually touched the mattress in a strange place, mostly because he hadn’t pictured himself staying somewhere that barely rated half a star. Ben tried telling himself that it was all in his head, and of course he was nervous, because he was heading to the small town where she lived. He was nervous because he was trying to figure out the best approach.

Once he arrived, he’d probably have to risk a Google search to see if his photo was out there yet. Thom said it wouldn’t be until his first event, but things had changed. If it wasn’t, then he could find a place to stay for the night, and casually scope out what there was to see. Not much, but that could play in his favor. If they happened to cross paths in the dinky little two-block downtown area, that would be perfect, but he couldn’t plan on that.

Ben didn’t try stopping anywhere for lunch because the last thing he needed was to send back a mostly full plate or to rush into the bathroom and throw up whatever he’d managed to force down. He made do with a gas station top-up and an assortment of things that looked less unappetizing than the others, but mostly coffee. The acid played hell with his stomach, but it was already a mess, and he needed to stay alert for the boring drive and in case he saw her on the street.

If she was alone, he could stop her. Ask her for directions to somewhere, the way he’d asked Hillier, to give her time to realize that yes, it was really him. It would be a complete surprise, so he couldn’t be hurt if she didn’t recognize him right away. He was supposed to be in Michigan, not Iowa, and she might panic when she realized. She couldn’t have a handler on her at all times, right? But she’d have to tell him where and when they could meet and properly talk if she was being watched.

If she wasn’t alone, he might still try asking, but having her realize in front of someone else—not the boyfriend not the boyfriend not the boyfriend—could be a problem. Of course one of them could always explain they were old friends and had known each other before, but he didn’t know what her cover story said about before. If he said they’d met in Michigan, but she’d told everyone she was from Wisconsin …

He wouldn’t run into her on the street. Ben kept telling himself that and hoping he was lying at the same time. He wouldn’t run into her on the street, so tonight he’d sleep in a motel—hopefully a step up from last night—and get out his map, or maybe buy a new map that zoomed in right here, and figure out his drive, or his walk, or where to drive to and start walking so he’d pass her apartment building.

The problem with the boyfriend—she didn’t have a boyfriend—was that he couldn’t just leave a note under the door or through the mail slot or whatever they had here and know that she’d be the first to find it. He didn’t even have a name for her, which was just sloppy thinking, but he’d been so focused on the where because he knew the who. He just didn’t know what everyone around her thought when they thought of her.

And thank God, the speed limit was dropping. Ben wasn’t on a main road, and he’d been keeping an eye on his trip odometer, but it was comforting to see the actual Earth match up with those calculations. Although it was also weird to pass a freaking golf course. Wasn’t Iowa supposed to be all corn? Who went to Iowa to play golf?

Not Ben, certainly. He’d never played golf in his life. Golf was bad for the ecosystem. Maybe they didn’t have to clear much of a natural environment out here in the middle of nowhere, but the care and maintenance of the grass … he clucked his tongue to himself as he drove by and switched his thoughts from fertilizer and water wastage to keeping an eye out for hotels, or at least some sort of local diner or something where he could get some dinner and ask about hotels.

As long as his face wasn’t out there yet. It would be best if he could find someplace with a public television permanently on the news, but that didn’t seem like something you’d find around here. In an airport, sure, but this was a small town, no matter how close to a city it was. If an hour or so counted as close.

This was the main road, so it did take him to the quaint little downtown area, which looked like it had been forgotten back in the fifties. Ben pulled into one of the slant parking spaces and tried to stifle a sigh at the fact that it had a number instead of an actual parking meter, but the machines generally took cash along with cards. He had a good amount of change, and he’d wipe the buttons down afterward.

If it had a camera, he’d just deal with it if he couldn’t cover it. He wasn’t wearing anything with his name on it today, but he also didn’t have a hat he could just pull down over his eyes or something … in order to look like someone who was trying to hide.

As Ben got out of the car, he saw a presumably homeless woman shuffling by. When she saw him looking at her, he nodded, but she jerked her head away and changed her course so she wouldn’t pass too close by him. He was pretty sure she was muttering to herself as she went, but that didn’t bother him. She was far too old for his interest, although … would she be homeless? If she’d run away from the boyfriend, then she would be, but if she’d run away from the boyfriend, then the address Hillier coughed up would be useless. She wouldn’t linger in the same small town, no matter how well that town served its unhoused population.

She was here. Hillier said she was here.

He set his sights on a storefront that looked like a diner, or maybe a café: a local place with a name he didn’t recognize instead of a chain. It wasn’t like chains wouldn’t take cash, but he always felt awkward when he went to order and didn’t know all the lingo. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. He might, anyway, since he wasn’t a local, but there just didn’t seem to be the same pressure at a little place instead of something all fluorescently lit and with sleek tabletops and uncomfortable chairs that didn’t want you to linger.

Ben didn’t know how to describe the lights here—they hung down and had shades—and the tabletops were old wood and looked scarred by frequent use and, maybe, the ghosts of old initials. The chairs might not be super comfortable, but they were wood and metal, not plastic. He approached the counter with its bakery case and looked up at the chalkboard menu while the barista—were men still baristas, or did the ending change?—finished with the customer in front of him.

The man greeted him with a smile, and Ben ordered a latte and a sandwich, negotiating the string of follow-up questions: dairy milk was fine. No, no flavor. Yes to all the toppings. For here. Sheesh. Maybe this was why he so rarely went out. It wasn’t just the chains that could annoy you.

Ben paid, accepted his change, and confronted the tip jar. It asked him to decide which of the animated characters was most likely to take over the world, and he didn’t recognize either, so he paused long enough for the barista to turn away before tucking a couple bucks into the left slot. That way he wouldn’t have to make even the smallest of small talk by admitting yeah, that one rocked.

He waited for his coffee and took a seat along one of the walls, sipping absently as he watched the front windows. It wasn’t like he was going to see her walking by, but …

“Here you go,” the barista announced, setting Ben’s sandwich down in front of him and making him jump. “Sorry, man. Head in the clouds.”

At least he didn’t have to respond, since the guy had to report to his post behind the register for the next customer, so he picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and tried to just … let things happen.

---

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Adam took a deep breath and ran his hand over his hair. Nell couldn’t tell if this was him stalling or him figuring out what to say, so she pressed her lips together and crossed her arms and tried to wait.

“C. J. O’Connell’s real name is Bentley Beckett.”

Nell blinked, then frowned. “Pretty sure I’d remember a Bentley Beckett.”

“He goes by Ben, and it’s possible you never really met him. He was a janitor and worked for the company that cleaned the units between renters.”

Her frown deepened. “So … if I never met him …?”

“We’re back to him bugging the rooms. He’s had his own business for a while now, so we don’t really have a way to go in and check the apartments, but …”  Adam shifted.

Okay, seriously. She could use a few interrogation techniques herself.

“He’s had his own business for a while, including cleaning up at crime scenes.”

“So …?” So what? It wasn’t like he’d worked any of the crime scenes that mattered the most to Nell, right? And, as a janitor, he’d only be called in after all the techs and stuff were done.

“So he’s had a full background check, and he’s clean. No reports of anything.”

At some point she’d reach maximum frown and not be able to force her eyebrows any lower.

“The story about agents picking him up and asking him about the truth of the book? Those are real.”

Nell pointed to a dough mixer. “I am sticking your arm in there and turning it on if you don’t start talking faster.”

“Look, Nell, all of this is already done and there’s nothing we can do, so I’m trying to be careful with how I explain it.”

“Then be careful faster.”

Adam scoffed and shook his head and crossed his arms. “Two agents went to see him, and asked him to come in and give them a statement, because he’d somehow Mindhuntered his way into connecting all five cases. They said he was kind of thrown by that—not too much, but they’d poked him. And they’re the ones who told him they want to talk to the real-life Rosie, because they think she killed all of them, but they can’t find her because …”

Oh, no. “Because?” It came out as a whisper.

“Because the real-life Rosie’s boyfriend had a dad who helped them disappear.” He licked his lips. “And he’s an agent. Nell—”

She shook her head and pulled away from his hand, bursting through the door between the café and the back room because her phone was out here. Art and Brandon looked up from one of the tables, startled, and of course Since You Went Away was there between them, because there was no escaping it.

“Kent said he’s coming right over,” Brandon offered before she ducked down behind the counter to grab her purse. “Didn’t even ask who Adam was.”

Like she was cheating on Kent or something. And why did her phone always fall out of its little pocket just when she needed it? Nell dug into the depths of her purse, went to her texts, and yep, there was one from Kent: I’m on my way. She checked the time stamp, but the bus schedule wasn’t in their favor.

Adam groaned, and Nell straightened up, phone in one hand, and then followed his gaze. “Exactly how many people have read that damn book?” he grumbled.

“How many people in the world, or how many people that matter to me?” she snapped, wanting to tell Kent to forget it and grab a cab or something, but Adam already said it: whatever was done was done, and it was all unfolding in another state, anyway. If Kent checked his messages he’d see she’d read it, but she stuck the phone in the pocket of her dress and crossed her arms.

Brandon looked at Art, then back at Adam. “If that’s not a rhetorical question … both of us.”

“Wait, you read it?” Nell asked Art.

He shrugged one shoulder. “All the new hype got me going. I like thrillers. This?” He tapped the book cover with one finger. “Not a thriller. And there’s no way Rosie did it. It’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”

“Good reference,” Brandon murmured.

“You can say the compliments out loud,” Art countered.

Adam held up a hand. “The murder of who?”

“Classic Agatha Christie,” the head librarian explained. “It’s a Poirot novel, but it’s not narrated by Hastings. His Watson,” he added, either because he thought Adam needed the explanation or because he was simply used to clarifying. “The narrator’s a doctor, and it turns out he’s the one who committed the murder. He just tricks the reader by neglecting to mention it, and then he follows Poirot through the case and pretends to help him, but it doesn’t end well for him. Poirot figures it out, anyway.”

The agent shook his head a little. “You think the Cal character’s a serial killer?”

“Hell, if we’re saying this whole thing is based on real life, I’m thinking C. J. O’Connell’s the serial killer,” Art almost laughed. “It can’t be Rosie.”

“You’re blinded by his clear adoration of her,” Brandon protested.

“Wait, so you think Rosie is a serial killer?” Nell wanted to know.

Brandon shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a serial killer. I looked into those cases. The bus driver was killed by her boyfriend, the neighbor guy got whacked by a loan shark, the one friend was in a bad part of town, the next one was drunk driving, and the last one was murdered. That’s one murder.”

“Whacking’s a murder,” Art argued.

“Different purpose.”

Art shrugged. “The FBI thinks it’s a serial killer. Don’t you,” he added pointedly to Adam.

“Oh, come on,” Brandon laughed. “Next you’ll tell me he’s here because Nell’s the real Rosie, so he’s going to arrest her.”

Nell froze, but Art was already looking at her, ignoring Brandon’s laughter. If she tried to un-freeze, he’d see that, too, and note it, and know …

“Rosie’s a college senior,” her boss said conversationally. “In the book.”

Nell swallowed.

“So she’s probably about twenty-two. Right?”

She could feel Adam practically vibrating just behind her.

“But maybe she looks younger?”

“Art?” Brandon asked, like someone else should’ve already stepped in.

Still ignoring him, Art held Nell’s eyes. “Rosie doesn’t have a boyfriend in the book. But if she did, Nell … how much older would he be? Not ten years.”

“Art, I think you’re getting fact and fiction confused here.”

Nell looked away, toward the window where she’d see Kent coming, but it wasn’t time yet. The stupid buses might run on schedule, but the stupid schedule wasn’t all that frequent.

The silence stretched until Brandon broke it. “For fuck’s sake. You’re not telling me my sarcastic ass is actually right about something?”

For once, Nell thought, but didn’t say. Maybe she didn’t have to say it.

“Fuck, Nell …” Brandon shook his head and slouched, ready to laugh it off, then caught sight of the book again and stilled. “Fuck, Nell.” It was the same words, but the tone meant he’d truly stopped laughing.

Art looked at him, then back up at Nell. “Someone from your past was reaching out again. That’s what you said.”

She nodded, because yes, she’d said that much.

“And that would answer your question, wouldn’t it?” he asked Brandon. “What’s going on with the two of them. Why they’re not telling.”

“Okay, it would, but …” Brandon took a breath and turned to look at Adam. “You’re not here because you think Nell’s a murderer. You’re here … what, because you think Art’s right? The author somehow …?”

“Nell, we really should talk in private,” Adam nearly muttered.

“All the paperwork I’ve ever seen tells me she’s Penelope Harris, age twenty-two,” Art pointed out mildly, like it wasn’t actually an argument. “Social security, driver’s license … if I started claiming it wasn’t her real name, that would be slander, wouldn’t it?”

God, he was talking like Kent’s dad had after Heidi’s murder. Soon he’d point out that he wasn’t asking for any favors.

“Brandon?” he prompted.

The librarian shook his head. “I don’t deal with paperwork. Klara did all that.”

“Was there a boyfriend mentioned in the articles you read?”

“Uh.” He blinked and shook his head like it was an Etch-a-Sketch. “If the surviving girl had a boyfriend?”

“Lida-Rose Dawson, yeah.”

“No. There wasn’t any mention of that. The roommate, though—Hailey’s real name?”

“Heidi?” Nell answered automatically, but her frown was back on again. Heidi didn’t have a boyfriend. There were times Nell thought her roommate would’ve had a girlfriend if she’d had anyone, but no one had ever come forward to say they thought Heidi had a boyfriend.

Art shrugged, still looking at Brandon. “I headcanon it, though. I think Rosie had a boyfriend.”

The door chimed, making Nell jump, but it was Kent. Before he could open his mouth, Art turned to him. “Kent. We’re discussing whether Rosie”—he tapped the book again—“could’ve had a boyfriend. Making fanfiction, you know. I say she does, but I’m having trouble figuring out the details.”

“Uh.” Kent stopped, one hand on the strap of his backpack, and looked first to Nell, then Adam. “You’re writing fanfiction for a book that’s not even out yet?”

“A lonely man fills his hours as he can.”

Kent looked at Nell again, then shrugged. “I think,” he said slowly, taking off the backpack as he approached their table, “he’d be a year ahead of her, so he’s not in the book because he graduated and he’s off at his job. Plus Cal wouldn’t want to see him, anyway.”

“A year, huh?” Art mused. “Does he look a lot older than she does?”

Nell laughed. “Only after he grew the beard.”

Art turned to Adam. “Did that give you enough time to get your thoughts in order?”

Aw, shit. This part. Nell came out from behind the counter and went to Kent, who hadn’t sat down. “He said two agents picked up O’Connell, whatever his real name is, and questioned him, and gave him …” God, how was she supposed to word it?” “The boyfriend’s dad’s name.”

Kent’s head snapped up as his gaze homed in on Adam. “What?”

“I can explain.”

He leveled a pointed finger at the agent. “Then get started.”

---

This is the end of Part Three.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

The text came in shortly after Nell got home from work on Monday: Don’t freak out.

Uh. Right. Clearly the FBI didn’t teach its agents social skills—or maybe they screened for them and rejected any hopeful who scored too high. Nell debated, but thought she might as well go for it: Your text is freaking me out. Send. Like fine, Adam wasn’t going to put certain things in writing, but come on, dude. Call if it was that bad.

You’ll know it when you see it.

Cryptic. And anxiety-inducing. And seriously, Adam, the exact opposite of helpful.

Nell had been planning on settling in on the couch with the borrowed Switch and getting some more hours out of it before it was due back at the library, but of course that couldn’t happen now. Now she had to wait and be on edge until she magically stumbled on whatever wasn’t supposed to freak her out. Seriously, Adam.

Her phone pinged again, this time from Art, and it wasn’t any less cryptic: I did not have this on my Bingo card. Okay, gentlemen … but clicking on the notification brought up the rest of the message, which was a link, but of course it didn’t give her a preview, so she had to tap it, and wait for it to load, and …

Fiction Writer Identifies Factual Serial Killer? Author C. J. O’Connell called in for questioning about his upcoming novel.

“Uh.” She hadn’t meant to say anything out loud, but maybe it was all the more surprising it was an open syllable and not a swear word. Nell had to blink a few times before shakily reaching out to scroll down and trying to get at least some of the sentences to stay in her mind.

The author, who writes under a pen name, was surprised to be contacted by FBI agents asking him for his insights into a story that, they suggested, covers a series of five murders, for example. So the FBI actually went to him and … what, exactly? Told him that by Jove, he’d done it? Except there weren’t five deaths in the book.

Since You’ve Been Gone, which releases in just over a week, details three of the deaths connected by the FBI, although only two are in the text as murders. “That’s how they were reported in the papers,” O’Connell explains. He refers to the newspapers around Kalamazoo, Michigan, which related …

Nell knew what the papers related. She’d read them closely, and possibly obsessively. What she didn’t know was how—or why—everyone suddenly thought Rosie was a murderer … and real.

Don’t freak out, huh? Seriously, Adam.

Normally Nell stayed out of the comments, but she had to know. It was about what she’d expected: some of them linking back to the old stories, the real stories, and others arguing that sure, maybe O’Connell used those newspapers as inspiration, but the whole idea of Rosie being a serial killer was just marketing. They want this book to debut at no 1, one commenter reasoned, so this is their final push.

It would be a more comforting point if Nell didn’t know that Rosie was, in fact, real.

We were already supposed to #FindRosie, someone else pointed out. This changes nothing.

omg what if O’Connell’s a fed? another user asked. That one was followed with a lot of declarations that ACAB included feds, thank you very much, so they wouldn’t be buying the book now. A handful even announced they’d canceled their preorders. Nell doubted the preorders would be missed, considering how many people were engaged in it now that it was not just maybe a thriller, but maybe true crime.

This can’t possibly be real, a keysmash username declared. If the Feds can’t find her, seriously? So now we’ve all got her real name? Might as well dox the woman.

Can’t dox someone you can’t find, numerous people shot right back, all trying to be the first to make that point.

Dear God, they were posting screenshots of records. The lease, signed by Heidi Phillips and Ellie Dawson—real names!—and even … seriously, how the hell did they find this? Credit card records. The charge to TGIFriday’s that night was the last one connected back to Lida-Rose Dawson. They were on this, and man, even the ones who complained that they shouldn’t be doing the FBI’s work for them were getting a hand in the game. Rosie HAS to be dead. No way she just disappeared.

Maybe she’s in witness protection.

The Feds would know if she’s in witness protection.

WP isn’t run by the FBI.

On and on and on, back and forth, all of it getting more clicks and more eyes on O’Connell’s upcoming debut.

He’s sending us after this chick and hiding behind a penname. No justice.

Fair point there.

Wait the last time anyone saw Lida-Rose Dawson, she was in police custody. Aren’t they looking in the wrong place?

Okay, yeah, her neighbors would’ve seen that, but O’Connell?

Nell’s hands twitched, because if the FBI brought him in for questioning they knew his real name, but she couldn’t text Adam about that. No paper trail. He hadn’t even called her, so she shouldn’t call him and start demanding answers. Maybe he didn’t have any answers, but hey, Adam, this sort of thing was enough to freak a girl out.

It was just publicity. It couldn’t be libel unless it was untrue that the FBI called him in, and though Nell was surprised if they had, she at least knew why. Or supposed she knew why. The FBI didn’t care about the New York Times bestseller list, but they’d want to know how much O’Connell knew, and why he’d chosen to include Margaret and Trevor when the easy stuff was the clear connection between the three dead women. Sure. Ashleigh was a car accident—and God, was it worse if it wasn’t an honest accident?—but that could be bent more easily into a fictional narrative. Everything was nice and neat and tied with a bow if it was a serial killer, but …

They’d never suspected Nell. She’d been in shock every time, especially after Heidi, but there was nothing that told her they’d actually suspected her. Wanted to check her alibi, yes, but as an initial step so they could clear her and mine her for information that might help them solve the most recent death. They didn’t suspect her, and they didn’t suspect Kent.

Thank God Kent hadn’t made it into the book. Men were more believable serial killers than women, so if they knew Rosie had a boyfriend … if there was any suspicion that the object of Cal’s obsession was already in a relationship …

See, and that would’ve worked! Nell locked her phone and set it face-down on the coffee table before punching one of the throw pillows. Give Rosie a boyfriend, or even, hey, make it a background obsessive character who was clearly a stalker, and bam. Or—the one that was really too close to the truth—make it murders to try to drive Rosie toward someone, except the Cal character ever so annoyingly did everything in the world to prevent himself from pursuing Rosie. He wanted her to come to him and then complained when she didn’t, because hey, maybe she didn’t even know he freaking existed.

Don’t freak out. God, Adam, how was she supposed to prevent herself from freaking out over this? They didn’t know it was her, fine, or how to find her, okay, but now all the true crime fanatics were going to put their training to work, and Adam better be damn well sure the FBI was watertight on this. Their identities … hell, even their ages … if this came out, it would explode. They’d have to move again, except this time maybe they wouldn’t have all that help, or the closed-court name change, and yeah, the birth certificate thing was maybe illegal, and just …

Don’t freak out. She wanted to punch an FBI agent squarely on the nose.

The landline rang and she shrieked, practically levitating off the couch. Why did they even have that thing? It was in the name of Kent Harris, sure, but … Nell shook her head and tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but her muscles were clamped down too tight around her lungs, and who was she trying to fool, anyway? At least the phone had a display to tell her who was calling, and she wasn’t going to answer a number she didn’t know.

Kent’s cell. Shit. Maybe she shouldn’t have put hers face-down. “Hello?”

“Hey. You saw?”

“I saw.” Seriously, this felt like they were in a spy movie. “Did Adam text you?”

“He did.” Kent swore softly, but he was at work, and even swearing in the back room would alert his coworkers that something was seriously wrong. Sometimes the problem was having people around who cared. “Nell …”

“I’m not really okay, but I can’t think of anything we can do.” She licked her lips but, since he didn’t reply, she asked, “Did yours also say ‘Don’t freak out’?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it did, so the first thing I wanted to do was Google some … names.” His family. Kent didn’t talk about it, but he worried that something would happen to one of them, and he wouldn’t know. Nell still didn’t know what his dad did, but maybe it was dangerous.

God, she hadn’t even thought of Gran. Gran, who was tough and spry and refused any sort of offer for some sort of age-based discount. Nell had only thought of herself. “But you found it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, babe, I can’t say it’s much better.” He sighed. “I have to get back out there or else someone will ask me what’s wrong.”

“I told Art that someone from our past has been poking around.”

There was a short pause, and then, “Huh.”

“Yeah, I can be brilliant every once in a while.” Sighing, she tried to get comfortable on the couch even though her body was still too tense for any sort of relaxation. “What about you? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, sure, but that’s definitely not safe for work.”

“One-track mind,” she teased, but it was working. At least a little bit.

“Every seven seconds,” Kent agreed. “Otherwise they revoke my man card. Okay, Brendan’s got me in his sights. I’m going to tell him what you told Art. And then, uh … home at the usual time, so be waiting for me with that martini.”

“Of course, master.”

Kent chuckled. She’d hoped for a laugh, but it was better than nothing. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Nell hung up and looked at the back of her cell phone, but this really wasn’t a good time to pick it up. All she’d get would be more comments, more theories, more conspiracies, and she really didn’t need to add to what was already going through her head. The Switch it was, but she checked the clock to note the time because, if she wasn’t completely absorbed in half an hour … well. Her phone would still be there.

---

Chapter Twenty-Four

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Nell was pretty sure Pending was open seven days a week purely because of the pending food wall. True, the people who came in with money and tips at the ready liked having a place to go between 7 a.m. and 8 p.m. every day, so they could meet their blind dates or do their studying or work on their laptops, but they’d never really been Art’s focus. Those staying at the shelter had to be in before Pending closed, but he wanted to make sure they always had a place to pick up something outside of the shelter times.

She also thought that it was nice because he didn’t expect them to remember what day of the week it was, so they didn’t have to plan ahead for a Sunday. How many Sunday nights in Italy had she eaten a weird collection of leftovers because she’d forgotten that most things were closed? Sure, there was the supermarket option, but that just didn’t feel worth it for a single meal when she could get the good stuff and feel more authentic in the morning.

Here it meant she didn’t have a regular schedule and did have to keep track of the days of the week, but Nell wrote them on the calendar at the apartment and turned alarms on and off on her phone depending on the week. The wall calendar always made her think of Heidi, but of course it was worse right now.

Colton didn’t work on the weekends, so usually the place was dark when Nell used her key, but there was a light on in the office. If there wasn’t, she’d flick it on and glance around before turning it off again, repeating the process with the back room before returning to the lit front. This was all ingrained for reasons she really tried not to remember, thanks, but Heidi was everywhere today.

Art looked up and waved at her when she stopped in the doorway. “Morning. Wasn’t sure you’d want to be alone.”

“I’ve been reassured that it’s incredibly unlikely, nigh on impossible, that anyone’s actually going to show up.” Except of course she didn’t trust Adam’s blasé attitude. This wasn’t witness protection, so Adam wasn’t actually trained for it. He just passed on letters—which she was pretty sure wouldn’t happen if it were witness protection—and checked in on them casually, but mostly they were left to go about their new lives. “I’ve got this for you, though,” she added, pulling out Since You Went Away. “Brandon really, really wants to borrow it. And if you sell tickets to the event, you’d better make sure he gets one before you run out.”

“We’ll probably have to do tickets,” he agreed, taking the book back. “For the reading, at least. We can have a line out the door for signatures, but …” Art pondered the cover and looked back up at her. “What did you think of the book?”

“Well …”

He almost smiled. “I read a bunch of the reviews. Was it truly a passionate and tender exploration of a deep emotional connection?”

“Did anybody call it an obsession?” She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

“No. Apparently it’s sweet and I should take notes on how to woo the fairer sex.”

Nell wrinkled her nose. “But he doesn’t actually get the girl. He never comes out and tells her how he feels. He’s just … a friend in everything but his mind.”

“There’s something wrong with a man wanting to be friends with a woman?”

She shook her head, even though that wasn’t actually her answer to the question. “He doesn’t want to be friends with her. He wants a full romantic relationship. He just acts like a friend around her and assumes that she’ll notice and the music will swell and he won’t actually have to take that step of saying something, so it’s a fake friendship. He friendzones himself in the hopes that she’ll fall in love with him back and be the one to take the risk of saying something.”

“The risk.”

“Yeah, sure. If you’re the one to say something, then the other person can reject you. Put you back in your friend place, which isn’t what he ever wanted.”

Art raised an eyebrow. “And which one of you took that risk?”

The true answer was Kent, but since they were supposed to be a decade apart … “We did start out as friends. And then I kissed him. So.” That was tricky, because Art would be thinking a seventeen-year-old kissed a twenty-seven-year-old, and the twenty-seven-year-old was okay with that.

“So—and you don’t have to tell me this, because it’s personal and I’m still your boss—that’s not weird? Being, I don’t know …”

The fact that he was blushing and not quite able to meet her eyes made it easier. “Yeah, it was kind of weird. Like, all my friends were jealous. They all had crushes on him, too. And his friends … I don’t know. They kind of teased him, but they were all single, so just … him getting any attention …”

“And your parents?”

Nell nodded without knowing what she was nodding about. “They’re not the ones trying to find me. They wanted to … you know. But I was seventeen, so there wasn’t anything legal they could do”—shoot, that still meant she could’ve come from a lot of states, right?—“and I was eighteen when I left.”

“Can’t they still report an adult missing?”

Yeah, probably. “Nobody did.” That was the truth. Gran knew why she was gone, if not where, and she didn’t think it occurred to anyone else that they could’ve actually pursued that.

Including O’Connell. Whoever he was.

Art nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring up the painful stuff. It’s obvious Kent’s really good for you.”

Nell realized she was chewing on her lip. “Being here’s been good for us. Away from … ugh, I don’t know.”

“The zone of familial expectations?”

“Yeah. Those, and … I don’t know. Your past weighs you down sometimes. The person you were before, or thought you were before, even outside of …”

“Parents and school?” he suggested.

She nodded.

“I always thought that was the best part of college. Meeting new people, being a blank slate …” Art tilted his head as his eyes drifted. “Going home for breaks was a problem, though. Mom still wanted me to be her little Arty, but I was out there changing, without her … growing up and away …” He refocused and smiled at Nell. “There’s a reason we’re still a few hours apart. It’s just better that way.”

Right, except his distance from his mom was a choice that either of them could change at any time, and they could still communicate with each other along all of the usual channels without an Adam to mediate and delay and who knew what else.

“Sorry,” Art added. “You’ve got stuff to do.”

She nodded, but at least she wasn’t feeling as thrown off as last week. Scanning the walls was enough, since the information actually stuck in her head, and she started the coffee going before getting the chairs down for maximum efficiency, and even if the urns weren’t all full when she flipped the sign, they opened on time.

This wasn’t the sort of job you were supposed to really want as a career, much less as a career after you got a college degree. Nell hadn’t gone back to class after Heidi’s murder, so she hadn’t completed her final exams. She figured she didn’t have the degree, even if they added up all the credits leading up to that last quarter.

She hadn’t asked about whether students in real life got an automatic 4.0 during a semester if their roommate died, the way they did in television shows, because having a diploma in her old name wasn’t going to help her in this new life, especially when everyone thought she was eighteen when she showed up. Eighteen, newly wed to a twenty-eight-year-old, and no, Kent had never protested the whole idea that made him look like a pedophile, because it protected her. It protected them. Even if O’Connell realized she’d had a boyfriend, he wouldn’t be looking for a couple with their backstory.

Even if he’d actually recognize her. It couldn’t have been someone she saw on a regular basis, much less every day, because you recognized faces both on campus and in the apartment building. Maybe you didn’t know names, but you nodded. If you ran into someone in Meijer or something you blinked a couple times because the face wasn’t in the right location, but then you laughed and nodded because yeah, that was another K student, or someone from the second floor, or just the whole Midwest nice thing.

It didn’t bother Adam that the O’Connell author headshot was a stranger, but it bothered her. Was she supposed to just be overly suspicious of any man with brown hair, just in case? And what if he bleached it or shaved his head? He was such a nobody, such a nondescript face, that if he changed his hair or his beard at all …

Nell put her customer service smile on when the door opened and the bell jingled, but the woman coming in wasn’t paying any attention to how friendly the barista was this morning. “Hi, I can’t figure out how to get to the lake?”

Right. Okay. “You’re in the town of Colchester. Lake Colchester’s almost three hours from here.”

“Three …? Well, fuck.” Without looking up from her phone, she turned, opened the door, and snapped, “It’s three fucking hours away!” There was a pause, and then “I asked you before booking the hotel!” There was a longer pause, and then the woman sighed and let go of the door, finally looking up and frowning. “Huh?”

Nell held up a large to-go cup. “Seems like you need it. On the house.” Because that was easier than explaining she’d just take the proper tag off the wall once the woman left.

She hesitated, maybe running through everything she’d said and the tone in which she’d said it, then shrugged. “Thanks. This is not how today was supposed to go.

Nell just smiled so she didn’t say something like Join the club.

---

Chapter Twenty-Three

Pending table of contents

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Sometimes fate smiled on you, even if you didn’t believe in fate. Ben was driving slowly along Hillier’s street, checking house numbers, when he noticed someone in front of the right number—Hillier’s number—working on the flower beds.

An older gentleman type of someone. The man didn’t have his back entirely to the road, although he could have, and he straightened up and shaded his eyes with one gloved hand. It wasn’t the best defensive position—Hillier still knelt on some sort of pad—and he wasn’t going to do anything too rash out here, but he stopped the van all the same, parking it by the curb across from the amateur gardener, and got out with a rueful grin. “Hey, sorry to bother you, but maybe you can help?” he asked, tucking the keys in his jeans pocket as he pulled the small spiral-bound notebook from his breast pocket.

Hillier got up nimbly enough. He had steel-gray hair almost the same color as his eyes, and those were surrounded by wrinkles that said he divided his time between squinting skeptically—which he was doing now—and smiling. “Are you lost?” he asked, not offering a hand, but maybe because it was both gloved and dirty.

Ben nodded. “My phone charger broke. I’m looking for …” He paged through the little notebook, apparently focused on his handwriting and not anything else around them. His peripheral vision showed a quiet street with no one else about. “The 5000 block of Blue Spruce.”

That made Hillier chuckle. “Well, you’re not too far off, son, but that’s as the crow flies. Here, come on in. I don’t think we’ve got a map, but I can print you something.”

He grinned because the other option was letting his mouth drop open in complete shock at how damn easy it was. “Thank you. That would be great. I’m not late yet, but …”

“To be early is to be on time,” Hillier agreed easily, stripping his gloves off and preceding Ben up the porch steps. The door wasn’t locked, and Hillier held the screen door open for him to take before opening the inside door. Hillier stepped to one side and slipped out of his gardening shoes, which weren’t quite crocs but were pretty darn close. “She’ll yell at me if she comes home and there’s a trail,” he explained offhandedly.

So his wife wasn’t home. “Do you want me to take mine off? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Nah. Unless you’re coming from a crime scene,” he added with a smile. “That’s your main thing, right?”

“That’s part of it,” Ben agreed, and this was an argument against using the van and the shirt. “But I’m on my way to deep-clean a house between owners, so … dust, maybe, but nothing extreme.”

Hillier chuckled like that was actually clever. “Come on, this way.”

And—bingo—it was down a hall that held family photos. Old family photos along with recent ones, so maybe … if Ben was quick … There were a lot of people in the recent family photo, so he couldn’t match things up perfectly, but the oldest boy in the older photos, when the children were all still children, had dark hair. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he had before.

“Blue Spruce?” Hillier asked, sitting down in front of an old desktop computer and shaking the mouse to wake it up.

“Yeah, 5000 something. Uh …” Seriously, Hillier had his back to Ben and everything. He pulled out the notebook again, quickly scanning the room instead of the page and absently reading off the number. There was an odd painting on the wall. The sort of thing people put over safes, as though it actually made things less conspicuous.

“All right, let’s see …” Hillier was the kind of man who leaned closer—maybe he needed glasses—and pecked away with both index fingers.

Ben looked around the office more slowly, and this time it was easier. There was a studio shot of a family, parents—yes, that could be a younger Hillier—and five kids, and next to it a likely professional photo of a lot more people spread out on a rolling green lawn. Keeping Hillier in his peripheral vision, he tried counting up the adults. The young adults, in the proper generation, and …

Eight. Enough for four children and their spouses. Or, fine, three married children with spouses and two unmarried, but … with the dispersal of the kids …

“Did you go to school with any of them?” Hillier asked, making Ben jump.

Of course he’d be sheepish if he got caught staring at a stranger’s family. Ben pointed to one of the young men. “He looks familiar.”

“Darrin? He’s my son-in-law. He teaches up at the high school. Do you clean there?”

He shook his head: the honest answer. “They have their own staff. Looks like a nice family.”

“Yeah.” Hillier glanced back, and was there something wistful in his smile? The sort of thing that meant five kids had indeed become four? “You got a family?”

“No. No, I …” Ben waited out a calculated pause. “We were planning on it, but … I lost her.”

“I’m sorry.” And damned if he didn’t look it, too. “That’s rough, at your age.”

Ben tamped down a snort. “I’d guess it’s rough at any age.”

“True, but …” Hillier carefully moved the mouse and deliberately clicked on the print icon. “There we go. Directions to Blue Spruce.”

He half-expected to see a dot matrix printer, but it was a sleek model much newer than the laptop. “Where’s your oldest son these days?” He hadn’t meant to ask it so bluntly, but apparently he couldn’t pass up the chance.

“My …?” Hillier turned in the chair—old, but on wheels—and looked up at him. It was not a position of power.

He stepped closer. “Your oldest son. And his girlfriend. I assume they’re still together?” Another step. “They disappeared at the same time.”

“They …?” But his eyes darted to the photos again.

Ben grabbed the front of Hillier’s t-shirt, twisting the fabric tight and forcing him to stay against the back of the chair so he couldn’t get up. “Where are they?”

Even breathing hard and forced to lean at this angle, Hillier pressed his mouth into a thin line as his eyes flashed. “I’m not telling you.”

That very statement admitted there was indeed something to tell. “Oh, I think you will.”

This was how it went: Ben wanted something, and he ended up getting it. The part in between was … inconsequential. The details of what happened certainly didn’t matter, and maybe it was better for him this way. If he didn’t remember what he did, then perhaps he didn’t do it, after all. If he’d actually done anything.

The important thing was that Hillier’s wife hadn’t come home. That would have been unfortunate. He would have dealt with it in the same nebulous way he dealt with all threats, but things were already complicated enough.

When he got back to his van, he stripped off Hillier’s gardening gloves—now bloodied as well as dirty, and his knuckles were raw and swollen, but at least he hadn’t transferred his own DNA to Hillier—and stuck them in a plastic shopping bag he pulled from the collection he kept in the van. It wasn’t sealable, like a Ziploc, but it would do for now. Then he started the van, checked his mirrors, and pulled away from the curb, carefully following all the traffic laws.

The printed map told Ben to turn left at the stop sign, but he turned right, instead. He was going back home, and packing up, and then heading out as soon as possible. Somewhere in the back of his mind he must have planned for this—or maybe the part of him that took over when the rest of him fogged out planned for it—because there wasn’t much he absolutely had to take from his house. He could even leave the laptop and all his notes, because he’d already burned the things that couldn’t be found. He’d grab the cash, his go-bag, and pause just long enough to change the license plate on his car. A car that looked like so many other cars on the road.

Ben wouldn’t shave at home and leave that evidence, but there was equipment in the go-bag. There wasn’t a list of the kinds of hotels he’d be seeking, but he had some burner phones, and his maps, and his wits.

And an address. He hadn’t memorized it yet, but it gave him a direction to start driving.

Iowa. Ben was going to Iowa.

---

Interview, Lida-Rose Elizabeth Dawson with Officer Melissa Jacobson, May 26, 2019

MJ: You can’t tell us anyone else Heidi hung out with?

LD: I can’t tell you anyone else she had over to the apartment, and she rarely left it for anything but class. Check with her advisor, and her classmates, and just … no, she wasn’t a social person. Her study group came over, but she never had, like … there weren’t just friends. Heidi didn’t … she didn’t act like she wanted friends.

MJ: What do you mean by that?

LD: I mean she only invited people over with a specific purpose. They were there to study, or tutor her, and they kind of made a joke of it. How she’d tell them to stop wasting time and just buckle down. That cross-stitch sampler in the living room? Danielle made it for her. As a joke, but I don’t think Heidi knew it was a joke.

MJ: Why did people keep coming over if Heidi was just a joke?

LD: Heidi wasn’t a joke—the sampler was a joke. Heidi knew how to run study groups. She would keep everyone on task, and God, between the senioritis and the classes, we really needed someone to keep us on task. She’d organize it, including snacks, and you actually learned stuff. It made more sense after. But she never just hung out with anyone, except the weekends she spent with her friends from back home. The names I’ve already given you.

MJ: We checked with those people, and none of them were planning on picking Heidi up on Friday night.

LD: But … that doesn’t make any sense.

MJ: None of them had seen her at all this year.

LD: But … no. You can go back through my texts. She didn’t spend a ton of weekends with them, but there were times … she’d be gone, and that’s where she told me she was. With one of them, or all of them, or …

MJ: We have looked at your texts. We’ve also done what we can to track Heidi’s phone. She didn’t go home those weekends.

LD: What?

MJ: Her phone didn’t ping the towers by your apartment, but she stayed in Kalamazoo.

LD: She …?

MJ: So, again: is there anyone else you can think of? Any names she mentioned?

LD: Can …? No, I … you’re saying she lied to me?

MJ: It certainly looks that way.

LD: But … she … fuck.

MJ: What were you going to say?

LD: I was going to say that’s not like her, but … what the fuck do I know? She was a freaking martinet about chores and checked off every single one every single week, and she’s the one who insisted we always tell each other where we were and who we were with and when we were going to be back, and that doesn’t make any freaking sense.

MJ: You weren’t friends before you moved in?

LD: No, I already told you that part. She was supposed to room with Sierra, but Sierra decided to stay in Belize.

MJ: And who were you going to room with?

LD: I was going to be on campus. Maybe Ashley, but then Heidi asked if I’d take the other bedroom because she needed someone, so … I said yeah, sure. I thought … I thought I was helping her out.

MJ: So she knew you well enough to ask you.

LD: I think she was working her way down the list of classics majors, just trying to find someone to float the other half of the rent.

MJ: And you were just the first one to say yes?

LD: I guess so. Or else she wouldn’t have needed to ask me.

---

This is the end of Part Two.

Chapter Twenty-One

Pending table of contents