“I had Dougie access the enrollment lists for Carruthers’s classes and compare them against my list of missing women.”
My heart pounded. “How many?”
“Two of the girls on the missing persons list were once Carruthers’s students.”
“So he’s recruiting girls into the Pater Society. That has to be how he met Katie. I bet she took his class, and he watched her, realized she was vulnerable.”
Just like Don had realized about us.
“Dougie’s trying to track down Katie’s tuition payments, link them to Carruthers. And he’s looking for whether any missing girls belonged to Mountainsong, too, but church records are harder to come by.” Jamie shifted to face me, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Shay, I was wrong when I told you the Paters were just a fringe kink group. Whether or not they’re connected to Laurel’s death—”
I made a noise of protest, and he hurriedly added, “Which I think they are, but even if they aren’t, they’re definitely connected to these disappearances. Which means we’re talking about a possible laundry list of crimes.”
“Does this mean you want to go to the cops? I thought it was too early. What happened to collecting more evidence, putting together the story?”
“I don’t want the whole thing to rest on your shoulders,” he said. “I have a friend of a friend at the Westchester police department. I know you said the chief’s a dick, but let me start feeling this guy out, get a sense of whether he’s the same way. Then, when it’s time to move, we’ll have laid the groundwork, built trust. Okay?”
I turned back to the road. “Okay.”
***
Jamie’s apartment was a fourth-floor Brooklyn walk-up, which he apologized for on every level. The apartment itself was like someone had taken the inside of Jamie’s brain and spewed it across a thousand square feet. A basket full of records by the turntable, two overflowing bookshelves, framed photos of Christiane Amanpour, Bob Woodward, and Florence Graves on the wall, a soft blanket tossed over a worn green couch, more books cracked open on the coffee table. It looked like he’d left in a hurry.
“Sorry,” he said, standing awkwardly in the front door. “It’s tiny.”
I inspected his bookshelves. A few classics left over from undergrad—Middlemarch, Mrs. Dalloway—but then, nothing but musician and activist biographies, true crime, investigative journalism. He was as voracious as I remembered, but— “Where’s your fiction?”
“Write your novel,” he said, “and I’ll fill my shelves with it.”
A book buried near the back caught my eye. I turned to him with a raised brow. “The Politics of Sex and Class in American Pageants?”
He shrugged. “I might’ve thought about the topic once or twice.”
I examined his desk, microphones and sound equipment strewn everywhere. “You record here?”
He nodded. “Usually the episodes are done in the studio, but I can get a little obsessive, want to work into the night.”
I put the cordless headphones around my neck and walked into his bedroom. Calm blue comforter, some plants, more books. It was serene. “No more rocket sheets.”
He walked in behind me. “Tragically, they don’t make them bigger than twin-sized.”
My eyes caught on a shelf of framed pictures. There we were: Jamie, Clara, and me, junior year of high school. I remembered that day. Jamie had forced Clara and me together after school, before our buses left for soccer and football games. Clara and Jamie wore their soccer uniforms, and I wore my cheerleading skirt, makeup thick enough for the stage. I’d been uncomfortable standing next to Clara after our dissolved friendship, so I’d overcompensated by throwing my arms around Jamie, holding him tight.