“I’m on it. And, Margaux…”
I’m just about to hang up. “What?”
“I’m going to be really pissed if you get yourself killed.” It’s the closest she’ll ever come to admitting that she likes me.
“Ditto,” I say, and then hang up.
If I want to be safe from Waylen’s tracking, the best way to do it is in his own car. He wouldn’t think to have placed an AirTag here. It’s been so long since I’ve driven it that I’ve lost the muscle memory for it and I keep confusing the turn signal for the high beams. He’ll check the school first. Only a parent is authorized to take Collette out of class, but Elodie has her connections.
Mr. X calls just as I’m pulling into the parking lot in front of Erin’s condo. “I’m safe,” I say, by way of answer.
“Really? Because my phone says you’re at Bertram’s sister’s,” he snaps. “I didn’t think I needed to specify that it’s time to abandon the mission, Margaux. Get somewhere safe.”
Forget the mission? He’s not thinking clearly. He’s heavily medicated, in more pain than he’ll let on. Nothing is more important than learning the truth—he knows that. “Erin is the only one who will have answers,” I tell him. “If Waylen hurt her, or—or if it was someone Bertram hired, she’ll talk. I’ll make sure she knows she’s safe with me.”
“Take Collette and get to my house.” He isn’t even listening to me. “All of my work will be for nothing if you get yourself killed now.”
I shut the engine. “What do you mean?”
“Come on,” he says. “You’re not dumb. Do you really not see what this has all been about? It’s about absolving you of your guilt.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I say.
“You aren’t seeing reason,” he argues.
“I’ll call you back.” I hang up.
I stride toward Erin’s door with the confidence of a woman possessed. Something happened to her, and this time I’m not leaving until I find out what it is.
I knock. No answer. I knock again. “Erin,” I call through the door. “It’s me. I’m alone, but I need to speak to you.” Nothing.
I try calling, and her number goes right to voicemail.
No, no, no. Damn it, she’s dead. Someone got to her. Last night, Waylen was asleep beside me, wasn’t he? I think about how restful I felt when I woke up, how calm, for once not plagued by nightmares or fitfulness. More than eight hours, during which I can’t account for my husband’s whereabouts. Has Erin Casimir been lying here dead while I’ve been out Christmas shopping and accusing her brother of murder?
“Erin!” I pound desperately on her door. In a moment of panic, I try the knob, and to my surprise it turns. I bolt inside as though I’ve arrived in time to stop whatever has already happened here.
I make it two steps inside and then I stop in my tracks. The air is stale and cold. The heat has been turned off. I try the light switch. Nothing.
Heart pounding, I venture into the kitchenette, where Erin prepared tea for Elodie and me during our interview.I recall now how stilted she was, how closed off. Was she in danger even then?
“Erin?” My voice is softer now, and far away, as though someone else is speaking. There’s a heady, metallic smell to the air. The kitchenette is tidy, but something feels off about it. There’s a mug in the sink, and the leaky faucet is drip-drip-dripping against the brim, making a faint, echoing beat.
I move down the narrow hallway. Her bedroom is tidy, even though the bed is unmade. There’s nothing but a dresser and a laundry hamper. There were no trinkets in the living room, no excess. Erin leaves a small carbon footprint. Even the way she sits, moves, and speaks has the mark of someone who wants to leave as little trace in the world as possible.
I stop just before the tile threshold into the bathroom. There’s a drop of blood right where the carpet ends. A cut from a glass she broke, or menstrual blood, or a nick from the razor when she was shaving her legs.
But when I look up, I see what deep down I already knew. This was no small accident.
Blood is smeared all across the tiles on the floor, the wall. Red handprints grapple at the edge of the porcelain sink.
The shower curtain is ripped open. A pink ring stains the sides from bloody water that has since been drained.
My breath hitches. I stumble back.
There’s no body. I force myself to keep looking, but all I see is blood and a clump of Erin’s dark hair.
It isn’t the carnage that frightens me. I learned long agoabout the terrible things that happen in this world. I’ve even learned that anyone can surprise you. The sweet old lady who keeps offering you lemonade and complimenting your garden shot her husband and keeps his body in the freezer as she collects his retirement checks. The handsome young man all dressed up and nervous for his first date is stealing millions from crypto investors.
