39
ANSON
The sun had dropped by the time I stopped walking.
Charleston was known for its tepid climate, but any heat that might have built up during the course of the day had vanished, and I found myself shivering as I stood on the far end of Euclid Lane.
If asked, I couldn’t tell you how long I had walked.
I was certain it had been hours, but how many, I had no idea.
I’d eaten nothing but a candy bar purchased from a corner QuickMart earlier, and my stomach was on the verge of gurgling again.
I didn’t lose time—there was no blackout like with the wall back at the cafeteria—instead, my mind was occupied with thoughts of the people on that wall and the various means by which they connected to Stash and the Quick.
I couldn’t possibly know the intricacies of that, not without research, but I could speculate.
I imagined most of them arrived at the Quick in much the same way Vincent, Paul, the Kid, and I did.
Stumbled into it by word of mouth. This safe haven hidden in plain sight.
Introductions to Stash would have come in much the same way—a simple meeting sometime after arrival through whoever introduced the latest visitor to the Quick.
Most likely a hurried introduction, as Stash always seemed to have someplace else he needed to be.
Was that all it took? A simple shake of the hand, and Stash knew whether or not you’d be going up on that wall?
Whether or not he’d do something that would put you up on that wall?
Of course, that was all speculation. I had no proof he was responsible; there was only my gut.
I expected Father to point that out to me, but he remained silent, and that too spoke volumes.
Euclid Lane.
When I closed my eyes, I saw it clearly.
Twill opening the wallet she lifted from the homicide detective hovering over Andy’s body. The quick flash of the detective’s driver’s license inside.
Gracie Moss. 57 Euclid Lane. Charleston.
I remained hidden at the far end of the street among a copse of willow trees until a late model dark green sedan pulled into the small but well-maintained bungalow at 57.
Detective Moss climbed out with an armload of files and a large mobile phone perched precariously on her shoulder, held awkwardly by her tilted head.
She spoke in an urgent but hushed tone, not loud enough for me to make out the words.
A moment later, she vanished inside, and various lights came on, illuminating the interior.
My hand was in my empty pocket, reaching for the knife that should be there, but wasn’t.
I hadn’t thought to pick up a replacement, but I made a mental note to do so.
There were several stands within the market under the Quick that sold weapons.
While it wouldn’t be my knife, it would be a knife, and that was better than nothing.
When certain I was alone, I left the trees and followed the sidewalk to the detective’s house.
When I reached the row of hedges that separated her property from the neighbors, I ducked behind the bushes and followed them to her small but tidy backyard.
There was no swing set. No toys. That told me she most likely didn’t have kids.
I saw nothing that screamed husband, either.
Aside from a few potted plants in much need of water, the yard contained nothing, and I got the distinct impression that the detective lived alone.
When she parked, she pulled down the center of the driveway, leaving no room on either side for a second car.
She was an attractive woman. After seeing her back at the alley, I couldn’t deny that.
If she was alone, it was by choice. Probably some conscious decision to put career first, personal life second.
Her elongated shadow passed across sheer white curtains drawn over a back window.
A moment later, another window with frosted glass came to life.
Most likely a bathroom. I waited a few seconds, and when the light remained on, I went to the back door.
Although it was locked, the window to the right of it was not.
I raised it slowly, as quietly as I could, and slipped inside.
I found myself in a modest kitchen fitted with the usual appliances.
The limited counter space was uncluttered with the exception of a day or two’s worth of mail stacked in the corner, and what appeared to be the contents of her pockets—coins, a few crumpled bills, an elastic hair tie, and a few copies of her business card.
I scooped up one of the cards and pocketed it.
To my right, a refrigerator hummed. An arched doorway led to the living room across from where I stood.
I closed my eyes and went perfectly still.
Listened.
If she was still on the phone, she was not speaking. I heard no movement. No squeaking of floorboards. No rifling of papers. There was only the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock somewhere else in the house.
Careful in my movement, I made my way to the living room.
The folders Detective Moss had carried in were stacked precariously on a dining room table along with dozens of others.
Her purse was there too, and so was her gun, still in the holster.
She apparently just shrugged it off. I suppose when you live alone, you can do such things as leave a gun in the middle of the room, but it still seemed odd to me.
She’d discarded her shoes, too. They were in the middle of the floor, halfway to a narrow hall off the living room, most likely leading to her bedroom and the bathroom I’d seen from outside.
I heard the quick groan of pipes, then the sound of running water coming from that direction.
A shower.
I drew closer to the table and began thumbing through the folders.
We were all there—Twill, Paul, Vincent, Ruddy, Stash, Pudge.
The stack she’d brought in only added to the dozens already on that table—other residents of the Quick I recognized by photo if not by name.
My folder was the third one down, and while there wasn’t much, there was enough.
There was information on the fire in Simpsonville, the bodies found in my house, and limited information on both of my parents.
Both were marked “deceased,” which caused my heart to thump.
I recognized the photograph of me from one taken at Camden Treatment Center, where I was placed under the watchful eye of Dr. Joseph Oglesby before being moved to Finicky’s.
Although Dr. Oglesby’s notes weren’t there, she’d written his name on the front of the folder, underlined it twice, and circled it.
If she hadn’t reached out to him yet, she clearly intended to.
I went back to Stash’s folder.
His real name was Leonard Benson, forty-three years old.
Apparently, he held a degree in socioeconomics from Stanford, but his last listed employment was with the call center for an insurance company in customer service—hardly his desired profession.
He’d left there six years ago, and according to a printout from the IRS, he hadn’t filed taxes since.
His file also contained a criminal record.
He’d been arrested three years ago for assault.
A bar fight at someplace called Hannigan’s, about half a mile from the Quick.
According to the arresting officer’s report, Stash had spent the better half of an afternoon on a stool alternating between beer and whiskey, growing belligerent (officer’s word).
When the bartender cut him off and eventually asked him to leave, Stash refused and made a grab for a bottle behind the counter.
That prompted an altercation with the bartender, who was quickly joined by a bouncer and several patrons.
They subdued Stash until police arrived.
He was arrested, charged, and booked downtown.
At some point, Stash told the arresting officer he was drinking because of a “marital disagreement” (again, the officer’s words).
All must have been forgiven by morning, because Meagan posted bail.
A judge ordered Stash to pay five hundred dollars in restitution and perform one hundred hours of community service.
He did so at a homeless shelter not far from the Quick.
There was also an arrest for shoplifting two years before the bar incident, and although the records weren’t in the file, a note in the top corner indicated a sealed juvenile record also existed.
As with Dr. Oglesby’s name, Detective Moss had circled Meagan’s name on the arrest report.
If she pulled a file on Meagan, I didn’t see it on the table anywhere.
A yellow Post-it note stuck out from Pudge’s file, and when I opened to the marked page, I found he had been arrested, too.
Although he had been a juvenile, Detective Moss had somehow pulled the full report.
The word “violent” was stamped across the top in red letters, and when I read on, I understood why.
Pudge (real name Leroy Boyle) had nearly beaten his stepfather to death after the man punched Pudge’s mother in the gut.
“Violent” was an understatement. Pudge had thrown the man from a second-story window, then went downstairs and repeatedly smashed the man’s head against the ground until four neighbors managed to pull him away.
The fact that the man lived was a miracle.
His stepfather spent two weeks in a drug-induced coma as doctors waited for the swelling to go down, then nearly a year in rehab.
Although Pudge was charged criminally, a judge reduced the sentence and committed him to a psychiatric facility for treatment based on the professional analysis of—
When I read the name, I did a double-take and found myself reading it again:
Dr. Joseph Oglesby.
Pudge spent nearly a year at Camden, two years before I would walk through the door. I wondered if—
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The detective’s voice came from behind me, from that narrow hall, the shower still running somewhere deeper in the house.