Was he still here?
No, he couldn’t be. If he was still in the apartment, waiting for her, he would have shown himself while she was in the bathtub, naked and vulnerable.
A thought occurred to Joey then. Vinny might not have found whatever he was looking for, but did he find her cash?
She rushed to her nightstand drawer, which was open, its contents rifled through. She didn’t keep anything interesting in here—bottles of nail polish, two half-read paperbacks she’d lost interest in, an open box of condoms Chaz had brought, an issue of Cosmopolitan—but it was what she hid under the drawer that she cared about.
Kneeling on the floor, she emptied the nightstand quickly, tossing everything onto the bed. Then she pulled the drawer out as far as it would go. Placing her palms flat against the bottom of the drawer, she slid her hands to the back of the nightstand and pressed down hard on each corner. The false bottom popped up. Holding her breath, she removed it and looked inside.
It took a few seconds to process what she was seeing.
Her small fireproof box was still there. She removed it from the drawer and opened it, sighing with relief when she saw that her cash savings—a little over forty grand that she’d saved from her tips over the past year—was still intact. But that wasn’t what she was having trouble with.
It was the five thick stacks of cash that were also inside the drawer, each one secured with a rubber band. They all appeared to be in hundred-dollar bills. She couldn’t imagine how much money it was, but she sure as shit wasn’t about to count it. Beside the cash was a plastic-wrapped brick of what looked like cocaine. Or maybe it was heroin. How the hell would she know?
What she did know was that none of this was hers. It had to be what Vinny was looking for. He had given his girlfriend drugs and cash to hold for him, and for reasons Joey couldn’t begin to fathom, Mae had decided to hide it here. Joey had never revealed her hiding spot to anyone, but at some point, on one of her visits, Mae must have spied Joey stashing away her tips for the night.
And if her boyfriend didn’t get back what he was looking for, he was going to kill her. She needed to get a hold of Mae and talk her into giving it back.
Joey picked up her cordless handset and punched in her friend’s phone number. In her ear, the line started ringing. Three seconds later, she heard a sound coming from somewhere outside the bedroom, and her head snapped up.
Had the TV turned itself on? No, that wasn’t it. A radio? The only stereo she had was here, in the bedroom, and it was off. She walked to her bedroom door, ear cocked, and finally realized what it was she was hearing.
It was a ringtone. The tinny opening notes of “Für Elise” were playing from somewhere in the dark apartment. She was calling Mae’s cell phone, and somehow, Mae’s cell phone was here.
Carrying the handset with her, Joey followed the sound through the kitchen, flicking on the lights as she went, her eyes peeled for any sign of Mae’s red Nokia. Right as she reached the living room, the ringtone stopped. In her hand, she could hear Mae’s voice coming through the receiver, distant and small. It’s Mae. You know what to do after the beep. She switched on the living room lights. And then she dropped the cordless, jumping so far back that her ass hit the bookcase behind her.
Blood, everywhere.
Dead girl, on the sofa.
Joey squeezed her eyes shut. Counted to three. Opened them again. The scene hadn’t changed. There, lying on the sofa, head resting on a throw pillow, right leg dangling off the edge, left arm splayed above her head, was a girl wearing torn sweatpants, torso exposed.
Mae.
At least … Joey thought it was Mae. Her T-shirt was sliced open vertically from collar to hem, and it fell open like an unbuttoned blouse to expose the cuts and slashes all over her stomach and across her breasts, some long, some short, some shallow, some deep.
And her face … oh God, oh Jesus, her face. It was cut so badly that even from eight feet away, Joey could see bone. Whoever had done this to her hadn’t just wanted to kill her. He wanted to desecrate her. This was the work of a sociopath, someone in a deep rage, with no impulse control, and a propensity for violence.
Like Vinny.
Like Ruby.
Joey blinked and saw Charles Baxter. Then she blinked again and saw Mae. A scream welled up in her throat, but before it could materialize, Mae moaned.
Joey gasped so hard, the air scraped her throat. Holy shit. Mae was alive. Snapping out of her shock, Joey rushed toward the sofa.
“Mae,” she said, leaning over her friend. “Mae, I’m here. Can you hear me? It’s Joey.”