“I went by the shelter to check if they’d found a home for Maverick, and one of the people in charge mentioned that Jess and Jamie volunteered there at the same time and they were friendly.”
“Maybe I misunderstood him—because he had no reason not to tell me he knew her.”
“Okay,” I say, mollified.
The call over, I make a cup of tea and pace the house with the mug in my hand, letting Sam’s news about Percy and the imminent ruling sink in—along with those unsettling words of his:I just can’t be sure.
Is it possible that I’ve been going down the wrong path ever since Maverick appeared in the driveway? Maybe no one wandered those amber-hued rooms intending to take Jamie’s life, or decided to do it on the spur of the moment. Maybe Jamie took his life because of me—or for some other reason I’ll never know.
I shake my head. No, I don’t believe that. Something had to have happened with Jamie at the party, just like Dan said, something that triggered fury at him or a fear of what he might do. It could have even appeared small and inconsequential to everyone there, except the killer. I have less than a day left here, but I have to figure out the answer—no matter how hard it tries to squirm from my grasp.
FOUR YEARS AGO
It wasn’t until the next day, around lunchtime, that he realized he’d fucked up.
After he got back from dumping the stuff in Massachusetts, he stayed close to the house, doing yard work all morning and reassuring himself he had nothing to worry about. Though he wasn’t exactly relaxed—how could he be?—he wasn’t freaked out, either. The local news outlets he’d checked online were treating it like the fucking crime of the century, but from what he could tell, the cops didn’t have any idea who’d done it or even where to look.
They weren’t going to find any clues, either. The girl and him had made their plans in person, not by text. He’d barely been on the fairgrounds, and there were no CCTV cameras hooked up there—he’d noticed that as soon as he’d arrived. If anyonehadspotted him, the brim of his baseball cap had been low enough on his face so that his features hadn’t been visible.
And in the end, he hadn’t even had sex with her. He’d thought about it, but by the time he got her pants down, blood was everywhere, and he couldn’t stand the thought of it.
When he went back into the house to fix a sandwich, he realized he was reeking of sweat, so hestripped down and turned on the shower. He let the water get super hot, figuring a second scalding shower within twenty-four hours wasn’t a bad idea.
He felt the sting from the spray the second he stepped into the tub. The problem, he could tell, was on the far side of his right arm, high up. He stepped back from the spray and used his left hand to twist the bicep around. There was some kind of scratch there, maybe five or six inches long.
At first he assumed that he’d scraped himself doing yard work, but then, with his gut starting to churn, he realized it was from last night. Everything had happened so fast that he must not have noticed it at the time.
Cursing, he stepped back under the spray and quickly lathered himself with the bar of soap, going over the injury a few times, even though it hurt like a bitch. He climbed out and dried off as fast as he could, being careful to avoid his arm. The last thing he needed was someone noticing blood on a towel, even if the blood was his.
Dropping the towel to the floor, he stepped over to the sink and examined the back of his arm in the mirror. The scratch was ugly and bright red, and easily seven inches long. She’d clearly gotten him with those fucking nails of hers.
He’d watched enoughCSIto know what it meant. It meant his skin was under her fingernails.
For now, at least, he was okay. He’d never beenarrested, which meant his DNA wasn’t in the fucking system. But if they ended up connecting him to her and took a swab, or they went through his trash, looking for soda cans or pizza crusts, they’d put it together. And he’d be toast.
31
IDON’T FINISH THE TEA, FEELING TOO WIRED TO DRINK IT, LETalone sit quietly with my thoughts. After replying to a batch of emails that have gone unanswered for several days, I do my best to power through my back-to-back client Zooms. They’re not quite a bust, but it’s hard to imagine either client concluding that I’ve inspired them to bold new heights in their jobs.
At least I have the fair to look forward to. Ava had texted earlier to meet her at the ticket booths at six, when the fair opens for the night. But just after I finish packing and changing into jeans and a T-shirt, another text from her arrives, saying apologetically that she has to cancel. Vic’s come down with a terrible stomach bug, and not only does he need to stay home, but she doesn’t want to leave him on his own.
After texting back that I understand and wish him a speedy recovery, I wonder if it’s all for the best, that maybe what I really need is a quiet night at home. I spend the next hour doing some busywork for my job and then open my iPad to read. But within minutes I’m nearly jumping out of my skin, hating the idea of being cooped up in this house tonight, with nothing for company other than all the new questions I have about Jamie’s death. Plus, there’s hardly any food left. In a split second, I decide to head to the fair on my own.
I stuff the contents of my purse into a cross-body bag, grab a cotton sweater, and lock up the house. By the time I pull into the fair’sparking lot, there must be close to a hundred cars on-site already. I find a place far down the lot, park, and follow several families making their way to the ticket booth.
Once I reach the gate area, I can tell by the number of people ahead of me that I’ve got a good ten-minute wait to buy a ticket, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to see people so excited and little kids jumping up and down in place, desperate to finally be inside. I always loved these kinds of fairs when I was young and went each summer with my parents. As I’d told Ava, Jamie had shrugged off my suggestion to go to this one last August, which had surprised me. After all, he was the kind of guy who loved anything that guaranteed an old-fashioned kind of fun, even clichéd touristy activities—like heading to the top of the Empire State Building or taking the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan.
“Wait, you really don’t want to go?” I remember asking.
“Nope,” he’d replied. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not, but it’s not like you. You don’t even want to win me a giant giraffe?”
“I do,” he’d said, finally smiling. “But okay—true confession time. When I was about ten, I went with my parents and a bunch of family friends andtheirkids, and I ate a ton of crap—one of those giant turkey legs and then donuts and a big grape Slurpee—and then I got on the Tilt-A-Whirl and threw up right on the ride. I don’t think they could use my compartment or car or whatever you call it for the rest of the night. And then after hours they probably had to have someone clean it wearing a hazmat suit.”
I’d laughed out loud as he told me the story and let him off the hook. And then the next day he gave me a stuffed giraffe he’d bought at FAO Schwarz.
Finally, I advance to the ticket booth and pay my fee, then pass through the gate. All of a sudden, I’m a girl again, walking along acarnival midway with my hand in my dad’s. I feel like I’ve been beamed back,Outlanderstyle, partly because of all the flashing colored lights and the clanging, whirring, chugging sounds of the rides, but mainly because of the smells—the sharp aromas of corn dogs and fried pickles and the cloying scent of caramel apples and endless mounds of cotton candy.
