“Are you trying to cheer me up?” I ask dryly.
“I’m saying that I’m the same way. I get it.” She sighs but doesn’t release me from her arm. “I don’t know how to have close friends, either. In fact, Todd and I have talked about moving back to California in a year or two. But this thing we’re doing needs to be a partnership. Fifty-fifty. That means spilling the beans, sister.”
We can never tell anyone, do you hear me?Mr. X—my brother—said those words to me after the fire that killed our parents. We were standing in the cemetery, and I turned my head to look at the CPS car that was parked at the edge of the grass. I knew that I was only being given a few minutes to attend the funeral before they would take me away again.
I want to go with you, I told him.I don’t want us to be separated again.
He stooped to my height. The summer sun made his blond hair so bright that it was reflective and painful to look at.It’s going to be okay, but only if we never, never trust anyone but each other.
That was it, and then our time was up. A social worker led me back to the car. A parole officer came for my brother, and I could hear the clink of the shackles at his ankles and wrists as he was taken back to jail.
My mind jolts back to the present, where the car smellslike Elodie’s sugarplum hand lotion. In a different world, where I wasn’t so warped by the things that had happened to me, maybe she and I could be friends. Then again, in a different world, I wouldn’t be here doing this. We’d have to bond over cookie recipes.
Still, I need to give her something. I weigh it carefully before I speak.
“Bertram gives me friendly-next-door-neighbor vibes. You know on the news when some guy kills his whole family, and all the neighbors talk about what a nice guy he was and how he always waved? That’s him. Usually, I can tell when someone is suspicious, but he’s throwing me way off.”
Elodie nods. “He’s a creep for sure.”
“But whatkindof creep? It worries me that I can’t tell.”
“Did he say anything to give you a clue?” Elodie asks. “Think.”
“He told me that someone is following him. Actually, he said that Annie is stalking him. But when I called his bluff and suggested going to the police, he kept insisting that she knows how to stay hidden. And apparently she does, because we still haven’t found her ourselves.”
Elodie balks, and at my startled expression, she eases up. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just, killing your girlfriend and then blaming her for her own murder is like, chapter one in the Creepy McCreeperson handbook.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But…it just isn’t adding up.”
“Yes, it is,” Elodie insists. “Don’t feel bad. I could almost buy his bullshit, too. But that’s how he’s been so successful at getting away with murder and stealing his sister’s app.Annie Clarke isn’t stalking him. She’s probably buried at a construction site somewhere, and our job is to figure out how he did it.” She nods to Erin’s condo, far below our parking spot.
Everything Elodie says makes perfect sense. I’ve already thought the same. What are we missing?
I pull up my phone and type Bertram’s name into Google, looking for any new articles, as though they will contain some kind of hidden clue. Despite Elodie’s logic, I can’t explain my apprehension. I can’t justify why my instincts are telling me Bertram may be telling the truth. I can’t find any evidence that he’s the monster I thought he’d be.
The top result is a YouTube link forBusiness Insider’s channel. I tap and it takes me to a live stream. The host is on one side, talking against a living room backdrop. And to the right is Bertram, his back against the fireplace in his sterile penthouse apartment.
Elodie huddles against me to look at the screen, and I wonder if Californians are more comfortable with physical contact than us New Englanders. “Is that live?” she asks.
“Seems to be.”
“No way it’s prerecorded?”
I turn the volume up. “Looks like they’re answering live questions from the comments right now.”
We watch as Bertram chats in real time. Elodie even throws a comment into the quickly churning comment section, and while it doesn’t get addressed by the host, many of the other comments do.
“A frustratingly solid alibi,” she mutters, and thenglances at Erin’s condo. “But if he’s not there, why wouldn’t she feel safe telling us what happened?”
“Unless it wasn’t him,” I say. “Maybe she has a more complicated life than we realized. Maybe she’s not such a recluse.”
Continuing to watch Erin’s home for the next hour yields no results. The live stream ends with Bertram cheerfully thanking the host for his time.
“Well, this was a bust,” Elodie says.
“I’ll see what I can squeeze out of Bertram,” I say. “What’s your plan?”
Elodie seems to remember something that makes her grin. “I slipped an AirTag on Erin’s car, so I’ll keep an eye on where she goes today.”
