“No. I don’t see everything.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He was silent for a moment, considering. “I confess . . . I was quite upset at you when I realized. I saw you at the gala, dancing with him. Daniela Kos and Michael Malone. Together. The undertaker and the spy.”
He’d seen them at the gala. He’d been watching them before they were watching him.
“I left you alone all these years. Let you write your little notes and play with the dead. There was room here for both of us. I did not interfere with your work. Why did you interfere with mine?” he repeated.
He’d used the morgue.
It was the perfect spot. And she’d never felt him. Why would she? His dead and hers were not the same. His dead did not arrive via the city morgue. They came drugged and trussed and . . . alive. Then he scattered his dead all over town. He didn’t leave his victims for her to clean and dress. And name.
“I know all about you, Daniela. I’ve known you for years. I know your family. I know everyone in Kingsbury Run. But do you . . . know . . . who I am?” he asked.
He was not asking her if she knew his name. They’d already established that.
“You’re the Butcher,” she said. No need to pretend any longer. It wouldn’t save her to play dumb.
“Yes. I am,” he said. “And I am Francis and Frank and Edward and Eddie.”
“You are not Edward and Eddie. You killed Edward and Eddie.”
“Yes. But they are still here. They won’t leave me alone.” He grew quiet again, drinking. She heard his weight shift and settle, and for a moment she thought he might have drifted off. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear him.
“Would you like to come out now?” he asked suddenly, his voice loud, and she bit back a cry and bore down on the lock.
He laughed and sighed. “No? That’s a pity.”
Another hour passed in silence. Francis Sweeney drank, and Dani sat and then stood, the room growing more and more unbearable.
“I’m going to go now, Daniela. You’ve made it so easy for me. I will miss you. I suspect many will. Do you think Mike will come back when he hears? I hope so.”
She heard a clanking and a rattling of the handle, and a small scream escaped her throat.
“I’m not coming in. Don’t worry. But you’re not coming out either. Farewell, dear girl.”
Then he retreated, his tread heavy. She held her breath, trying to track his progress. She thought she heard the entrance door open but couldn’t be sure. A high, narrow window covered by a metal grate sat at the southwest corner of the wall, and she pulled out the locker drawers, climbing them like stairs until she could see out through the window. In the moonlight, she could see Francis Sweeney walking down the street, pulling her wagon behind him. She frowned, puzzled, and then she began to weep.
He was actually leaving.
Her hope was short lived. Sweeney had wedged something through the door handles, barring her escape, and when Dani unbolted the door and tried to open it, it didn’t budge. If she could break the glass on the window she could scream for help. Not that anyone would come. The street was as dead as the regular inhabitants of the morgue. She climbed back up, but the holes in the grate covering the window were barely big enough to peer through, and she couldn’t loosen it, though she tried until her fingertips began to bleed and she was sweating profusely.
She remained atop the shelves where at least she could see the street, where at least she could observe whether he returned, but after several hours, she feared she would doze off and fall, and she’d begun to shake with fear and fatigue. She climbed down on wobbly legs and sat with her back against the door so she would hear Francis Sweeney if he came back.
The room was not completely airtight—Mr. Raus had complained about cold air escaping into the cavernous warehouse and costing him money—but it felt airtight. The air was close and dry, hot from the August heat, and Dani spent the remainder of the night trying to conserve her energy and control her emotions. Tears were a luxury she couldn’t afford, not when she had nothing to drink and her dress was stiff with perspiration.
The faulty refrigeration suddenly kicked on sometime around dawn, and she moaned in horror. It felt so good, but it would kill her. Sweeney was counting on it.
It became too cold very quickly, and she rose and began to pace to keep warm.
From the sunlight poking through the grate-covered window, she tracked the passing of the day. Her aunts would know she was missing by now. They would know she’d never made it home. They would come. Mr. Raus was out of town, and the aunts would not be able to get inside, but they would get help. Someone would surely come. Someone other than Frank Sweeney. Oh, please God. She had no doubt he’d left her for dead but feared he would come back to see for himself.