I blow the dust from the cover so I’m staring at that famous statue of a young, innocent girl, her neck tilted as if asking me: Why? I run my fingers against the glossy cover the same way he had. Then I turn it to the side and see a gap in the pages, the same way his business card had left a gap in mine after he had wedged it deep inside.
Got a thing for murder?
“Chloe,” Aaron says again, but I ignore him. Instead, I take a deep breath and stick my nail into the crack, flipping the pages open. I look down and feel that same twist in my chest as my eyes scan a name. Only this time, it’s not Daniel’s name. And it’s not a business card. It’s a collection of old newspaper clippings, pushed flat from two decades of being wedged between these pages. My hands are shaking, but I force myself to pick them up. To read the first headline that stretches across the top in boldfaced print.
RICHARD DAVIS NAMED AS BREAUX BRIDGE SERIAL KILLER, BODIES STILL UNFOUND
And there, staring back at me, is a picture of my father.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Chloe, what is that?”
Aaron’s voice sounds distant, like he’s calling to me from the other end of a tunnel. I can’t stop looking into my father’s eyes. Eyes I haven’t seen since I was a little girl, twelve years old, crouched on my living room floor, gazing into them through the static of a television screen. In this moment, I think back to the night I told Daniel about my father, the concern etched into his features as he listened to me detail his crimes in such gruesome specificity. The way he shook his head, claimed he had never heard, he had no idea.
But that was a lie. All of it, a lie. He already knew about my father. He knew about his crimes. He kept an article describing every detail tucked away in his childhood bedroom, hidden between the pages of a novel like a bookmark. He knew how he was able to take those girls and hide their bodies somewhere secret, somewhere never to be found.
Had Daniel done something similar to his sister, something terrible? Had my father been his inspiration? Is he still?
“Chloe?”
I look up at Aaron, my eyes wet with tears. Suddenly, I realize that if Daniel had known about my father, that means he had known about me, too. I think about the way we ran into each other at the hospital—a fateful coincidence, or the result of meticulous planning, being at the right place at the right time? It was common knowledge that I worked at that hospital; that article in the newspaper was proof of that. I think about the way he had looked at me, as if he had known me already. His eyes scanning my face, as though it were familiar. The way he had poked his head into the box of my belongings; the smile that snaked across his face when I told him my name. The way he seemed to fall for me instantly after that, gliding seamlessly into my life the way he’s somehow able to glide seamlessly into everything and everyone.
I just can’t believe I’m sitting here. With you.
I wonder if this was all a part of his plan. If I was a part of his plan. Damaged Chloe, another one of his unsuspecting victims.
“We need to go,” I whisper, my shaking hands folding the clipping and tucking it into my back pocket. “I … I need to go.”
I walk quickly past Aaron, charge down the steps and back toward Daniel’s mother, still sitting on the living room couch, a distracted look in her eyes. When she sees us walking toward her, she looks up at us, smiles weakly.
“Find anything useful?”
I shake my head, feeling Aaron’s eyes glued to the side of my face, watching suspiciously. She nods gently, as though she were expecting as much.
“Didn’t think you would.”
Even after all these years, the disappointment in her voice is palpable. I understand what it’s like: always wondering, never being able to really let it go. But also, never wanting to admit it—that you still hold out hope that one day, you’ll know the truth. That you’ll understand. And that maybe, in the end, somehow, it will be worth the wait. Suddenly, I find myself drawn to this woman I barely even know. We’re connected, I realize. We’re connected in the same way my mother and I are connected. We love the same man, the same monster. I walk toward the couch, taking a seat on the edge of the cushion. Then I place my hand on hers.
“Thank you for talking to us,” I say, squeezing gently. “I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”
She nods, glances down at my hand clutching hers. Slowly, I see her head tilt gently to the side, as if she’s inspecting something. She flips her hand around and grabs mine, squeezing it tighter.