I get ready to stand from the chair before the detective looks at me again, a question forming on his lips.
“Real quick, Doctor Davis. You said that maybe this man, this—”
He looks down at the paper below him, devoid of any notes. I feel irritation gurgling up my throat like bile.
“Bert Rhodes. You should write it down.”
“Right, Bert Rhodes,” he says, scribbling the name in the corner, circling it twice. “You said he might be targeting girls you know specifically.”
“Yeah, maybe. He admitted to knowing where my office was, so maybe that’s why he took Lacey. Maybe he was watching me and he saw her walking out. Maybe he dumped her in the alley behind my office because he knew I might find her there, notice the missing jewelry, make the connection. That I’d be forced to acknowledge the fact that all these girls are still dying because of…”
I stop, swallow. Force myself to say the words.
“Because of my dad.”
“Okay,” he says, tracing his pen along the edge of his paper. “Okay, that’s a possibility. But then what exactly is your connection to Aubrey Gravino? How do you know her?”
I stare at him, my cheeks growing hot. It’s a valid question—one I somehow hadn’t thought to ask myself before. I was there just before Aubrey’s body had been found, which seemed coincidental, then Lacey going missing the day she left my office took it to a whole new level. But in terms of an actual shared connection between Aubrey and me … I can’t think of one. I remember seeing her image on the news for that first time, the vague familiarity of her features, like I had seen her somewhere before, maybe in a dream. I had just chalked it up to all the adolescent girls who streamed through my office on a weekly basis, the way they all seem to look somewhat the same.
But now I start to wonder if maybe it was something more.
“I don’t know Aubrey,” I admit. “I can’t think of any connection right now. I’ll keep thinking on it.”
“Okay.” He nods, still eying me carefully. “Okay, Doctor Davis, I appreciate you coming in. I’ll be sure to follow up on this lead and let you know as soon as I learn more.”
I push myself up from the chair and turn to leave; his office feels claustrophobic now, the closed door and the closed windows and the clutter piling high on every surface making my palms sweat and my heartbeat pound loudly in my chest. I walk quickly to the door and grasp the knob, feeling his eyes still drilling into my back, watching. It’s clear that Detective Thomas is wary of my story; with something this shocking, I had suspected that might be the case. But in coming here and revealing my theory, I had hoped to at least point the spotlight on Bert Rhodes, to get the police to start watching him closely, making it harder for him to lurk in the dark.
But instead, I feel like it’s pointed directly at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It’s late afternoon by the time I make it back home. When I enter the hallway, our new alarm system beeps twice, sending a jolt of panic through my chest at the sound. I immediately reengage it once I close the door behind me, increasing the sound to the highest setting. Then I look around my house, quiet and still. Despite my best efforts, Bert Rhodes’s presence is everywhere I look. The sound of his voice seems to echo across the empty halls, his dark eyes peering at me from behind every unturned corner. I can even smell him, that musky scent of sweat mixed with a hint of alcohol that trailed him around as he wandered through my home, touching my walls, inspecting my windows, injecting himself into my life once again.
I walk into the kitchen and take a seat at the island, placing my purse on the counter and fishing out the Xanax bottle I retrieved from my glove compartment. I twist it in my hands, shaking the bottle slightly and listening to the rattle of the pills as they tumble around inside. I’ve been craving a Xanax since the second I left the morgue this morning; that was only a matter of hours ago—sitting in my car, the mental image of Lacey’s blue body making my fingers shake as I held the pill in my palm—but given all that’s happened since, it feels like a lifetime ago. I twist open the cap and dump one in my hand, tossing it back and swallowing it dry before another phone call can interrupt me. Then I glance at the refrigerator, realizing that I’ve barely eaten all day.
I jump up from the island and walk over to the fridge, opening the door and leaning against the cool stainless steel. Already, I’m starting to feel better. I told the police about Bert Rhodes. Detective Thomas didn’t seem very convinced, but I did what I could. He’ll be looking into him now. Surely, he’ll be watching him, watching his movements, his patterns. He’ll be noting which houses he visits, and if another girl goes missing from one of those houses, then he’ll know. He’ll know I was right, and he’ll stop looking at me as if I’m the crazy one. As if I’m the one with something to hide.