And it’s obvious Bertram isn’t going to drive anywhere until I answer him. I’m once again reminded that he isn’t the one facing a murder charge. I am.
“Your sister,” I tell him. I think it’s time for a full recap. Maybe he can make sense of it. “She contacted us—me—because she’s accusing you of stealing her app. She hired me to expose you, so I’ve been pretending to write a story about your success to try to gain information. I was able to track down the names of your exes, Annie and Skylar. But Annie has been impossible to find. I thought she might have gone missing, but it’s as though she doesn’t even exist online. And Skylar is dead. Erin insists that you’re to blame for all of it. I thought that if I could prove you did it, I could put you in jail. But you didn’t do any of it, did you?”
Even as I tell the story to Bertram, the pieces fall apart. Pieces that I was so sure about days ago.
But Bertram seems to have retained only one key detail. “My…sister?”
“Yes. Erin,” I say gently. “But, Bertram—”
“She’s been living out in Seattle for years,” he says. “We haven’t spoken in months. Why would she want to take credit for my app? She’s never been remotely interested in software development.”
That may be true, at this point. It could have been pure greed that motivated her. But it doesn’t matter now. “It gets worse. Erin is the one they think I’ve killed.”
With frenzied speed, I tell him everything that happened since she hired me. The strange behavior that night she answered the door, while Bertram was confirmed to be doing a live stream. And the blood all over her apartment now. The police chasing me away from the scene, clearly thinking I had something to do with it, because who would stumble upon a blood-filled apartment andnotcall for help? So now Waylen either thinks I killed Erin, or he’s done it himself. I’m not sure which is worse.
Bertram’s eyes are glassy and far away as he considers this. He shakes his head. I watch as he pulls out his phone and dials his sister, listed in his contacts only aserin. I watch the color drain from his face as it rings and rings, and then goes to a generic robot-voiced mailbox.
“Where was she staying?” he demands of me now. “We have to go there.”
“It’s swarming with police,” I say.
He shakes his head. “This isn’t like her—we weren’t in touch often, but we got along. She wouldn’t do somethinglike this.” Even before he’s gotten the words out, I know what he’s going to say. “Annie must have blackmailed her.”
My stomach feels queasy. I wish Mr. X were here. He would tell me if my instincts are off. My theories are going in so many different directions that I don’t even know if any of them are plausible.
Annie. Why do all roads always point to Annie, the one person in Bertram’s past who is impossible to find, save for one blurry paparazzi photo?
Bertram doesn’t wait for me to tell him where his sister has been living. After a brief search for something on his phone, he starts to drive at breakneck speed, his tires squealing.
“Where are you going?” I cry.
“You said her place is swarming with police and you’re wanted for her murder.” His jaw is clenched. “It wasn’t hard to do a basic internet search.”
“You can’t go there!” The desperation in my own voice terrifies me. I grab the wheel, but it’s locked in his iron grip.
“Then what’s your suggestion?” he fires back. “You tell me that my sister is dead”—he blows through a stop sign, pressing hard on the gas—“and that you’re the last one to see her alive. You tell me that you’ve been working for her tospyon me, and you blame all of it on your husband, while he blames all of it on you! Which is it?”
I have a flashback of my aunt and uncle—the only time I saw them after the fire—shouting, demanding to know what happened, demanding that I speak. I can see the raised palm of my aunt’s hand as she rears back to slap me.
Never again, I’d told myself after the trial. I’d grow upand go somewhere far away, where nobody knew what happened. I’d never be accused of doing something horrible again.
But here I am.
When Bertram finally comes to a stop—at a line of cars idling at a red light, I open the door and undo my seat belt.
“Where are you going?” he asks me. “The police are looking for you. If you stay with me, I can protect you.”
“No, you can’t,” I tell him. “They’ll find me.”
“Get back in the car,” he insists. I want to—how to tell him that? I trust him. So far, he’s only tried to keep me safe. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. It’s me. “I don’t want Annie to hurt you, too. Whatever is going on, I can get to the bottom of it. We’re trusting each other, remember?”
“I can’t go back there,” I tell him. Already the flashbacks are taking over and I can smell the smoke. It isn’t just Erin’s apartment, but the memories. I can never go back to that place again.
Bertram’s phone rings, and we both glance at the screen as it lights up. Bertram’s shoulders ease, and he ignores the angry honking of the cars that now have to navigate around us with the light turning green. He holds up the screen to show me the blond woman with a shy smile, holding up a handful of paintbrushes.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Erin,” he says, relief flooding his voice with that one word. “She’s calling me back.”
