I stop, my mouth hanging open as I glance at the clock. Dozier just left here a few minutes ago. There’s no way he could have gotten to the station that fast.
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush with red, my heartbeat rising. “And how did that go?”
“Great. He’s being cooperative, but he did say he doesn’t know anything about your neighbor. I’m sorry.”
I open my mouth to respond again, but the words don’t come out.
“I’m heading to lunch a little early,” he says, oblivious to the thoughts racing around in my mind. “Still want to meet?”
I’m stunned, standing in place, trying to work through the implications of this conversation. What it all means.
“Isabelle?”
“Yeah.” I finally manage to croak out a word, although right now, lunch with Waylon is the last thing I want to do. “Yeah, sounds good.”
“Great,” he says. “Meet you at Framboise in thirty. I’ll tell you all about it.”
The line goes dead, and I stand in silence, the phone still pushed to my ear. Then I swallow, lower my arm slowly, a blanket of dread descending over me as I look around my house, at all of Waylon’s things cluttered around the room: his jacket flung over the dining room chair, his suitcase stacked in the hallway corner. His mug on the counter, drips of coffee that touched his lips still staining the rim. There are pieces of him everywhere, these microscopic clues of another life in my home like dust on furniture, visible only when you catch a glimpse in just the right light.
And that’s when the gravity of it all fully hits me.
Waylon sought me out on that airplane. With a rush of certainty, I know it in my bones. He was looking for me, specifically; maybe he even went to TrueCrimeCon to meet me. He had found me sitting there, that empty seat next to me, and introduced himself. Handed me his card. Then he came here and gave me a taste of what he knew I wanted: someone to listen, someone to understand. Someone to care. It was only a bite, though. Only enough to satisfy the craving. And then he threatened to go, leaving me desperate: a junky in need of just one more fix, so I had offered my home to make him stay.
Now this man who came into my life just one week ago has managed to weasel his way in so completely, I realize there is no way it wasn’t orchestrated. There is no way it wasn’t planned.
I think about the violence again, like I have so many times over this past year. About how sometimes, it presents itself as a shotgun blast, loud and messy, spraying gore against the wall—but other times, it’s as quiet as a whisper: a handful of swallowed pills or a scream underwater. A stranger slipping into a window at night before leaving without a trace. But then there are the other times, too, when it comes masked as something else. When it’s invited inside, stepping politely through the front door wearing a disguise: an ally, a friend.
I thought Waylon cared. I thought he wanted to help. But now I don’t know why he’s here. I don’t know what he wants.
Now I know that he’s lying. I know that he has a secret, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
On my way to Framboise, I get another phone call. This time, it’s Dr. Harris, calling me back.
“Isabelle,” he says, seemingly happy to hear from me. I’ve been avoiding him, I know, for months now. There’s an expectation with doctors that with their help, you should be getting better; that all your problems should slowly dissolve like salt in water, leaving nothing behind but the bitter taste of what used to be. But clearly, I’m not. They’re not. “Sorry for missing your call. I was with a client.”
“Yeah, hi,” I say, holding my phone between my cheek and shoulder. I’m in the car, ten minutes from the restaurant. “That’s okay. I was just wondering if I could make an appointment—”
“Yes, your voice mail requested as soon as possible. Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I just have some questions for you. Wanted to pick your brain.”
“Does this afternoon work? I’ve had a cancellation.”
I look at the clock in my car; it’s already past noon. “What time?”
“One thirty?”
I drum my fingers against the wheel. I want to hear what Waylon has to say—no, I need to hear what Waylon has to say—about his fictional meeting with Detective Dozier, his lie regarding Paul Hayes. I need to know what he’s after, why he’s here. Why he’s lying to me. But at the same time, I know I’ll see him tonight, too. There’s no avoiding that now. No avoiding him.