I wait another minute, until I’m sure he’s gone, and take a slow step forward, the weight of my heel forcing the wood beneath my feet to creak.
I’m not talking about her. Not Lena. I never wondered what it was like to lose my life.
I take another step—slow, cautionary, as if he’s lurking behind the still-open front door, waiting to strike.
I’m talking about your father. I’m talking about taking one.
I take one last step to the front door and slam it shut, locking the dead bolt before pushing my back hard against the wood. I’m shaking violently as the room starts to get brighter; I’m fighting back that unearthly feeling that sweeps over your body after a shot of unexpected adrenaline wears off—twitchy fingers, spotty vision, ragged breathing. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, pushing my hands through my hair, trying not to cry.
Eventually, I look up at the security panel installed on the wall above me, glowing bright. I stand up and set the code on the keypad before pushing Enable, watching the little lock icon turn from red to green. I exhale, although I can’t help but feel that it’s pointless. For all I know, he didn’t install it correctly. He skipped a few windows, set an override code. Daniel wanted to get a security system installed to help me feel safer, but right now, I’ve never felt more afraid.
I need to go to the police with this. I can’t put it off any longer. Bert Rhodes not only knows who I am, but he knows where I live. He knows I’m here alone. Maybe he knows that I’m onto him. As much as I don’t want to thrust myself into another missing girls investigation, that encounter was the extra evidence I had been looking for; Bert Rhodes’s rambling—his anger over my life and how I turned out, his wondering what it felt like to take a life—was practically an admission of guilt and a threat of future violence all at once. I reach a shaky hand into my back pocket and yank out my phone, pulling up my previous calls and tapping on the number that appeared on my screen just this morning, the number that confirmed my biggest fear: that Lacey Deckler was dead. I listen to the ringing on the other end, bracing myself for the conversation I know we’re about to have. The conversation I had been desperately hoping to avoid.
It stops abruptly as a voice greets me on the other end.
“Detective Thomas.”
“Hi, Detective. This is Chloe Davis.”
“Doctor Davis,” he says, sounding surprised. “What can I do for you? Did you remember something else?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I did. Could we meet? As soon as possible?”
“Of course.” I hear shuffling on the other end, like he’s moving around papers. “Can you come to the station?”
“Yes,” I say again. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll be there soon.”
I hang up, my mind swirling as I grab my keys and walk outside, double-checking that the door is locked behind me. I get in the car and crank the engine. He didn’t have to give me directions; I already know where I’m going. I’ve been to the Baton Rouge Police Department before, although I hope that part of my past isn’t dragged up, too, when I reveal to him who I am. It shouldn’t be, but it could. And even if it is, there’s nothing I can do about that but try to explain.
I pull into visitors’ parking and kill the engine as I stare at the entrance looming before me. This building looks the same as it did ten years ago, only older. Less maintained. The tan bricks are still tan, but the paint is cracking at the seams, large chips peeling off and landing in piles on the concrete. The landscaping is patchy and brown, the chain-link fence separating the station from the neighboring strip mall wobbly and bent. I step out of the car and slam the door behind me, pushing myself inside before I can change my mind.
I walk to the front counter and stand behind the clear plastic divider, watching as the woman behind the desk taps her acrylic nails against a keyboard.
“Hi,” I interrupt. “I have an appointment with Detective Michael Thomas?”
She glances at me from behind the plastic and chews on the side of her cheek, as if she’s trying to decide if she believes me. My statement came out more like a question, undoubtedly because the certainty I felt back home about coming clean to the police all but evaporated the second I stepped inside.
“I can text him,” I say, holding up my phone, trying to convince both her and myself that letting me in is a good idea. “Tell him I’m here.”
She looks at me for another few seconds before picking up her phone and dialing an extension, propping it between her shoulder and chin while she continues typing. I hear the line ring before Detective Thomas’s voice picks up.