Chapter Thirteen
Baxter
It was hard to believe I was doing this, but now I was back in Finchley, there was nothing to do but bite the bullet and get it done.
After all, what was one more breakdown in front of Lake if I couldn’t cope when he’d already witnessed one?
Witnessed it and still thought I was worth his time.
He was either a saint or a masochist, and I hadn’t yet decided which was more likely.
“The coffee shop was over there on that corner,” I said.
It was a women’s hairdresser now, advertising a discount for OAPs in big red letters on its window.
In my mind, everything had stayed frozen in time, so discovering the last place I’d ever bought coffee now only offered cuts and styling was jarring.
Lake was a silent shadow by my side as I walked the length of the pavement, the cab having dropped us off a couple of minutes earlier. “I’d been in two minds whether to drive to my date,” I said. “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t, whether I’d still have been attacked.”
“I guess that depends on a question I haven’t asked you yet.”
“Which is?”
“Were you a random target, or were you their intended victim?”
“I don’t know.” It was something I’d asked myself countless times, but that didn’t mean I knew the answer.
All too soon, the multistory car park loomed in front of us, my heart kicking into a frenzied gear. Lake put his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I do. And I’d rather not do it on my own.”
Lake nodded, saying nothing more as we kept walking.
Or at least nothing more out loud. The same couldn’t be said for his thoughts.
“What am I thinking, letting him come here? I’m not a therapist. I have zero knowledge beyond what I’ve read in a book about handling traumatic events.
What if this makes it worse? What if making him talk about it, making him face it, is completely the wrong way to go?
I should have spoken to a psychiatrist and gotten their opinion.
Or is it a psychologist? It would help if I knew the difference. ”
I pulled Lake to a stop. “I’m an adult,” I said. “I can make my own decisions. You’re not forcing me to do anything, right?” I waited for Lake to shake his head. “And whose idea was it to come here?”
“Yours.”
“Right. I’m not going to set foot in there and have a complete psychotic break.” At least I hoped I wasn’t. “Do you want me to sign something absolving you of all responsibility?” Lake shook his head again. “Okay, then.”
Being on foot rather than driving helped. It created distance, a barrier against fully reliving that day. At least, that’s what I told myself as we went inside. Although I had cause to reconsider that as we took the stairs up to the fifth and final floor.
“The car park was pretty full on that day,” I explained, mostly to fill the silence. “It annoyed me having to go right up to the top. I was already running late.” My laugh came out bitter. “Instead, I didn’t turn up at all. I bet Jamie was furious.”
“Jamie?”
“My boyfriend at the time.”
“Have you looked him up since you’ve been back?”
“To say what? Hey, I know I’m nearly a couple of decades late, but how about that dinner? My treat for getting murdered and standing you up.”
“I’d be curious.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The large sign painted with the number five at the top of the stairwell had turned my legs to jelly, my heart pounding like a drum. Any faster and it would beat right out of my chest. It felt like an out-of-body experience as I forced myself to push open the door.
This was where I’d spent most of my nights since returning to life, which made the concrete pillars and painted stripes eerily familiar. It smelled like most parking garages—of oil and damp. Not coffee, thankfully. That really would have pushed me over the edge.
My legs didn’t feel like my own as I forced them to keep moving.
This wasn’t so bad, I decided after a few steps.
Not pleasant by a long chalk, but doable.
I revised that opinion halfway across the vast space as I neared the area where it had happened.
Fear wrapped icy fingers around my heart and squeezed, stealing the breath from my lungs and leaving me trembling in its grip.
“It’s stupid to be afraid,” I said.
“It’s not,” Lake replied gently. “There’s nothing stupid about emotions. There’s no switch to turn them on and off.”
If only there were. I would have paid good money for it. My phone rang, the harsh tone echoing in the stillness, and I jumped. “Calisto,” I said after glancing at the screen.
“Maybe you should answer it.”
I shook my head. “Not now.”
The call grounded me strangely. It reminded me that these memories were in the past, at a time when Calisto had still been a child. I slid my phone back into my pocket, squared my shoulders, and kept walking.
“I parked here,” I said, staring at the space. The floor was only half full, and no one had chosen that spot.
“What car did you have?”
I knew what Lake was doing. Mundane questions. Anchors. “A yellow Toyota.”
“Ha! That’s funny.”
“Is it?”
“Glenn’s got a yellow car. A Porsche.”
“It definitely wasn’t a Porsche. And it had seen better days.
” I frowned. “I wonder what happened to it?” It didn’t matter.
I focused on the space, picturing the car there.
My nightmare never started this early. It always dropped me straight into the stabbing.
As a result, everything before that was a great deal more fuzzy.
“I put my coffee on the roof while I was locking the door.”
“Was there anyone else here?”
“A car was leaving just as I drove up. Two more followed me in.” I turned slowly. “There could have been someone hiding. There’re plenty of places.”
“That works if it was random,” Lake said. “But not if it was premeditated. They couldn’t have known which floor you’d park on.”
“True.”
“Tell me about the cars that followed you? Color? Type? Where did they park?”
“I don’t know.” Frustration bled into my words. Sick of saying I knew nothing, I closed my eyes and thought hard. “One was silver, I think. A hatchback. The other was… dark. Smaller. Maybe a Renault Clio or a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Dark as in black?’
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Where did they park?”
“You think one of them was the killer?’
“If they followed you, it would make sense.”
“Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We can’t rule anything out.”
I pointed down the row. “The silver car parked over there.”
“Did anyone get out?”
“I think so, but I can’t remember who.”
“And the smaller car?”
“I don’t know.”
Lake stepped into my line of sight. “Okay. You’re doing really well, Baxter.”
I attempted a laugh. It sounded dry and brittle. “I’m not, but thank you for trying to make me feel better.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? You haven’t run away screaming.”
“Not yet. But let’s not tempt fate.”
“Where did you go next?”
I walked forward a few steps. “I got my jacket out of the boot. Then I went back for my coffee.” I winced. “In retrospect, I wish I’d left it on the roof. I might still be able to drink the stuff.”
“Keep talking me through it.”
I was delaying, and we both knew it. Sweat cooled on my brow, and I wiped it away with my sleeve. “I headed for the stairs.” I turned toward them, each movement an effort. Lake followed at a distance.
“I heard footsteps behind me.” I frowned.
“That’s the first time I’ve remembered that.
The footsteps sounded hurried. I went to turn, but they barreled into me before I could.
” My body jerked as the memory hit. “I remember thinking how clumsy someone had to be not to avoid me with all this space. I still had hold of my coffee. I tried to keep walking, but it was as if someone had attached lead weights to my feet. I made it three steps, I think. Then I fell.”
I crumpled to the floor. Lake surged forward, then stopped himself. I kneeled there, knowing what came next and hating it.
One second. Two.
Then I let myself slide sideways until my head touched the concrete. Cold. Unforgiving. Just as it had been that night. It wasn’t quite right, though. I shifted until I was facing the right direction. “He ran that way,” I said.
“Not toward the stairs?”
“No.”
“Maybe back to his car. Which makes it the dark one.”
It was hard to focus. I could smell the coffee.
Coffee and blood. I knew neither was real, but my brain didn’t care.
I forced myself to concentrate on the figure I’d seen through half-slitted eyes.
“All black. Jumper and jeans. No coat. Boots. He had the knife in his hand. Covered in blood. My blood. Why didn’t I remember that before? ”
Lake came to stand in front of me. He wore boots.
Boots and faded blue jeans that hugged his calves and thighs.
If I had one wish, it would be for all my future nightmares to end with him standing there—solid, real, and dependable.
Strange to think of a man I’d only known a couple of days that way, but true.
He held out his hand. After a moment, I took it and let him pull me up.
He was stronger than I’d expected for a historian.
The strain of the day had me stepping into his arms. Or at least that was the excuse I gave myself.
There was a beat of frozen uncertainty before his arms enfolded me.
He was warm and reassuring, smelling of cologne and something distinctly him, not coffee and blood.
I rested my head against his shoulder and breathed him in. He accepted it politely, the slight stiffness of his body giving away that he wasn’t entirely comfortable. It reminded me of kissing him, and of him kissing me back. I hadn’t been drunk enough to forget it.
“I think,” Lake said eventually, “that you’ve remembered all you’re going to remember.”
I made a muffled sound into his shoulder that could have meant anything. “One more minute.”
“One more minute,” he agreed. He let out a sigh, but it wasn’t a sigh of frustration, more of letting tension leak away.
His hand settled at the back of my head.
Gentle at first. Then firmer when I didn’t pull away.
“I know today’s been hard. As much as I can ever understand something like that.
But you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here. ”
I turned my head slightly so that my words were clearer. “Why?”
“What?”
“I was just a guy you met at a bar. One who insisted on coming home with you, tried to seduce you, had a mental breakdown, and then made you sleep on the floor.”
“You didn’t know I was sleeping on the floor.”
“Not an answer,” I chided.
He was quiet for a moment. “Why can’t people just help people? Why does it have to be such a big deal?” There was something plaintive in his voice that suggested he’d used that line to defend himself before.
Because most people aren’t that nice. I didn’t get to say it before a car horn blared, and we jumped apart. The driver of a red Peugeot gave us the finger as he drove unnecessarily close.
“Nice,” I said. “Friendly.”
I took one last look at the patch of concrete that probably still held traces of my blood, then turned away. I hoped seeing it now might give me a break from seeing it in my dreams.