Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Elodie answers on the first ring. She’s on edge because the Skylar situation is freaking her out.
“Margaux!” she cries, by way of greeting. “I thought something happened to you.”
“Actually, I—”
“Listen,” she carries on, talking in that hyper way she does when she’s got an idea. “We need to talk to Mr. X. I know you know more than you’re telling me about how to get ahold of him. We’re in over our heads on this, and the deal was that he’d be watching out for us. This is getting unsafe.”
“You’re right,” I tell her. “I know where he is, but I can’t tell you yet. I promise I will—” Once he’s dead and his secrets don’t matter to him— No, Margaux, don’t go there. There’s another way out of this. There has to be.
“Listen, Elodie.” I keep my voice calm. “We’re both in danger.”
“Like—right now?” she asks, bewildered.
“Right now,” I say. “Go to the school, get our girls. You might get a call from Waylen, but don’t answer it.”
“The girls?” Elodie rasps. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out if it was really Bertram who killed Skylar.” Am I remembering the anger in Waylen’s grip as he tried to keep me in the house? Was he screaming, or was he just concerned? Are my instincts about anything right, or am I losing my grasp on reality?
“As opposed to who?” Elodie is asking. Of course she won’t just concede all the control to me. “Is there someone else?”
“No! I— Maybe there’s another explanation.”
I can still smell the smoke from the nonexistent kitchen fire. I wake up from dreams sometimes with it in my nostrils. It never truly goes away. No matter how fast I drive, I can’t evade my past.
“Take the girls somewhere safe,” I tell her.
“Somewhere nobody knows about.” My heart breaks for Collette, who will be so scared and wondering where I am.
She asked me if we could go to Oregon together, just to see the graves of grandparents she’s never met.
Why didn’t I see it sooner? Just us, she said.
Not Waylen. She wants to be away from him. She’s been too scared to tell me.
“Where will you be?” she demands. But I hear her keys jingling and I know she’s doing as I ask.
“I’m going to see Erin,” I say. “Whoever killed Skylar is the one who hurt her. Who else could it be? I need to figure out what’s going on, and she’s the only one still alive to talk. Get the girls somewhere safe. Do not tell me where you are. Don’t tell anyone, do you hear me?”
“I know a place,” she says.
“Stay with them and wait for me to call you,” I say.
“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 ago about 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.
We are all the tip of our own iceberg, with secrets that range from little white lies to crimes that can get us put away for life. And you can never truly be sure.
No, this blood doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about humanity. But it may have told me something I was afraid to admit about my own life, about the father of my child, and the game we’ve been playing since the day we met.
He couldn’t have done this.
It was Bertram. It has to be.
My husband was sleeping beside me all night. Yes, he tried to scare me off the trail with the rental car. His possessiveness has a bit of an edge. But he’s so sensible, his moral compass so strong that there has to be a limit.
“Everyone is capable of anything,” my brother’s voice says.
I expected Bertram Casimir to be a simple case, but his whole story is like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
As though reading my thoughts, my phone rings, making me jump. Bertram.
“Hello?” I’m standing in the living room now, and realizing that it’s too pristine.
The carpet—old and faded after years of tenants—has been freshly vacuumed.
Neat horizontal lines in the nap show that every inch was covered.
There’s the faint smell of disinfectant.
The couch cushions are damp, as though they’ve been recently steam-cleaned.
“Are you all right?” Bertram asks. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning. Listen, I know your marriage isn’t my business, but I’m worried that Annie may have gotten to your husband.”
“No, my marriage isn’t any of your business,” I say. I’m noticing how bare the apartment is. Was it always like this? As I backpedal to the front door, I drag the edge of my shoe against the carpet to erase my footprints. I wipe the prints off the doorknob with my shirt.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, Margaux. Everyone in my life gets caught up in this. It’s why I’m so selective about who I speak to.”
“Then why are you speaking to me?” I try to keep my voice neutral. I don’t want him to know what I’ve just witnessed. Did you do this, Bertram?
My heart is pounding, though I appear calm as I walk back toward Waylen’s car.
“I’m worried about you,” Bertram says. “I—”
I shush him, and he stops speaking. There’s a police car turning into the complex. Okay, I tell myself. That’s not too unusual. But then the driver locks eyes with me as I grip the handle of Waylen’s car, and the lights and sirens come on.
“Margaux?” Bertram says.
Waylen called the cops on me. He broke the cardinal rule of our line of work—even though he gave up this life, he still knows what something like this can mean for me.
For our family. And it isn’t just about the fact that I stole his car—technically.
He must have told the police that I was a danger to myself.
That’s why all the fanfare. The officer gets out of his car, hand on his holster. “Are you Margaux Blue?” he asks.
“Margaux.” Bertram’s voice is urgent now. “Is that a police siren? What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I’ll call you back,” I say.
And then I run.