“I don’t . . . I have no idea.”
“You know what? If you need an opinion, what do they call it, a beta reader? I’m your guy. You wanna send me the book early, I’ll give you my take.” He rattled off an email address, and I shook my head to clear it.
“Are you serious?”
“Andy, haven’t you heard? Everyone’s a critic.”
Then he was gone.
Five days.
She and the boys had been gone five days. I knew the first forty-eight hours were the most crucial for finding a missing person. I’d done the research for the second Laird Holmes book. Those who were much better at finding missing people than I was knew this. I had no doubt that was the reason why Spanner had looked so drawn. David’s and Rachel’s parents were powerhouses of the community. They most likely had Spanner’s number on speed dial and were using it. Probably hourly. He was working overtime to find Rachel and the boys, along with David’s murderer.
And here I sat at my table in the dark. The same exact place where I’d studied the note left in my door lifetimes ago.
Endless circles.
Circles that didn’t connect.
I knew what had happened. I knew when. I thought I knew why. I thought I knew how.
I didn’t know who.
Who killed David and Ryan? Who chased me from Rachel’s house? Who followed me to Mary Shelby’s and then to the other parish? Because someone had. I knew that now. Not only from the creeping sense of being watched in her yard but because of waking up to the smell of propane in the morning.
I’d been getting closer to the truth, and someone didn’t like it. Had been willing to risk sneaking into Dad’s and turning on the gas. Had been willing to kill him as long as I was dead too.
Someone who knew about Dad’s condition. Knew our deaths would be labeled as an accident caused by his disease.
I rolled that around a bit. How many people knew Dad was suffering from dementia?
A lot. Dozens? A hundred? Everyone in the neighborhood, that was for sure. The list went on and on.
My head ached.
From the start I thought everything would work out eventually, either by fate or the cops or my own intervention. Everything would be okay. I’d been telling Kel the same thing my whole life. I told Emma, too, but it hadn’t been.
And it wasn’t now. I’d tried my hardest to find Rachel and the boys, done everything I could think of, except one.
It was time to give the cops the note.
If there was even a shred of possibility it would somehow help the case, then I had to. I’d do it tomorrow after visiting Dad. I wanted to see him one last time before there was reinforced security glass between us. I could see how it would play out.
I’d hand Spanner the note, and he’d read it, look at me, and call me an unpleasant name. He’d find a reason to bring me in, keep me locked up after a round of questioning. I’d be suspect numero uno, because at some point you have to set romanticism aside and be realistic. People went to jail all the time for things they didn’t do.
Maybe something new would come along to exonerate me. Maybe they’d find Rachel and the boys alive and well. Maybe they wouldn’t.
Either way I’d be in prison. One of bars or of my own making.
I texted Kel good night and went to bed. Lay there for a few minutes, then got up and went across the street to Dad’s and punched in the code to the gun safe. With the revolver tucked beneath my pillow back at home, I slept fitfully. Woke up coughing a few times. I dreamed.
The dreams were cruel. They were suggestions of Rachel’s and my last time together, told in strange angles and sepia lighting.
Me kissing her shoulder blade. Her smiling.
Me thinking it was finally the right time to say something. To tell her. To ask.
Waking in the dim early hours, I thought of the words I’d said and wondered if they’d been the right ones. As a writer, you always wonder if the words you’re using are good enough, if they’ll find their way through a person’s eyes and mind to their heart.
I could see mine had missed their mark that day.
Could see it in the way she looked past me. The way she rubbed the spot behind her ear.
Nervous, anxious, afraid.
That made two of us.
So I’d dropped it. Hadn’t said anything more, and she hadn’t brought it up again. But for that one second before she’d grown distant, I’d hoped.
The coffee tasted stale, and there wasn’t much in the fridge to eat. I should’ve gone shopping. Maybe tomorrow if I was still a free man.
At the hospital I bought Dad’s favorite candy bar from a vending machine and brought it to his room. He was awake, and his color was good.