“Doctor Davis,” I say.
“Chloe Davis?”
“Doctor Chloe Davis,” I correct. “Yes, this is she. How can I help you?”
“Man, you are a tough woman to get ahold of.”
The voice belongs to a man, and it laughs an exasperated kind of laugh, as if I’ve annoyed it somehow.
“I’m sorry, are you a patient?”
“I’m not a patient,” the voice says, “but I’ve been calling all day. All day. Your receptionist refused to put me through, so I thought I’d try after hours, see if I could be directed straight to your voice mail. I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”
I frown.
“Well, this is my office. I don’t take personal calls here. Melissa only forwards my patients—” I stop, confused as to why I’m explaining myself and the inner workings of my business to a stranger. I harden my voice. “Can I ask why you’re calling? Who is this?”
“My name is Aaron Jansen,” he says. “I’m a reporter for The New York Times.”
My breath catches in my throat. I cough, though it comes out more like a choke.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, fine,” I say. “I’m getting over a throat thing. I’m sorry—New York Times?”
I hate myself as soon as the question comes out. I know why this man is calling. To be honest, I had been expecting it. Expecting something. Maybe not the Times, but something.
“You know,” he hesitates. “The newspaper?”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“I’m writing a story about your father, and I’d love to sit down and talk. Can I buy you a coffee?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, cutting him off. Fuck. Why do I keep apologizing? I take a deep breath and try again. “I have nothing to say about that.”
“Chloe,” he says.
“Doctor Davis.”
“Doctor Davis,” he repeats, sighing. “The anniversary is coming up. Twenty years. I’m sure you know that.”
“Of course I know that,” I snap back. “It’s been twenty years and nothing has changed. Those girls are still dead, and my father is still in prison. Why are you still interested?”
Aaron is silent on the other end; I’ve already given him too much, I know. I’ve already satisfied that sick journalistic urge that feeds on ripping open the wounds of others just before they’re about to heal. I’ve satisfied it just enough for him to taste metallic and thirst for more, a shark gravitating toward blood in water.
“But you’ve changed,” he says. “You and your brother. The public would love to know how you’re doing—how you’re coping.”
I roll my eyes.
“And your father,” he continues. “Maybe he’s changed. Have you talked to him?”
“I have nothing to say to my father,” I tell him. “And I have nothing to say to you. Please don’t call here again.”
I hang up, slamming the phone back into its base harder than I intend to. I look down and notice my fingers are shaking. I tuck my hair behind my ear in an attempt to busy them and glance back at the window, the sky morphing into a deep, inky blue, the sun a bubble on top of the horizon now, ready to burst.
Then I turn back to my desk and grab my bag, pushing my chair back as I stand. I glance at my desk lamp, exhaling slowly before clicking it off and taking a shaky step into the dark.
CHAPTER THREE
There are so many subtle ways we women subconsciously protect ourselves throughout the day; protect ourselves from shadows, from unseen predators. From cautionary tales and urban legends. So subtle, in fact, that we hardly even realize we’re doing them.
Leave work before dark. Clutch our purses to our chest with one hand, hold our keys between our fingers in the other, like a weapon, as we shuffle toward our car, strategically parked beneath a streetlight in case we weren’t able to leave work before dark. Approach our car, glance in the back seat before unlocking the front. Grip our phone tight, pointer finger just a swipe away from 9-1-1. Step inside. Lock it again. Do not idle. Drive away quickly.
I turn out of the parking lot adjacent to my office building and away from town. I stop at a red light and glance in my rearview mirror—habit, I suppose—wincing at the reflection. I look rough. It’s muggy outside, so muggy that my skin is slick with grease; my usually limp brown hair has a bit of a curl at the tips, a frizziness that only the Louisiana summer can achieve.