Chapter Twenty-Seven
“He won’t come back for us, will he?” Carrie asks. Her high voice shakes, like the rest of her.
Jules sits quietly, processing, as the taste of bile rises in her mouth.
Lucy’s eyes are welling, unusual since she usually plays it so tough.
It’s funny because the three of them seem so different: a goth girl, a church mouse, and a fashion model.
But if you look closely, behind Lucy’s scowl and ghost makeup, behind Carrie’s prim demeanor, they bear a resemblance.
The long necks, their bone structure. It sends a chill down Jules’s spine, the thought that he has a type.
Jack grips his coffee mug with both hands, leans forward.
“I’m telling you because I want you to be safe.
” He takes a sip of coffee, probably the one cup he allows himself a day.
He has one of those notches in his chin that her sister Clare calls a “butt chin.” It only serves to complete his serious G-man look.
“The Subject is ritualistic,” Jack continues. “Today, May the first, means something to him.”
“Ya think?” Lucy says, sarcasm dripping, which Jack ignores.
“It’s never made sense,” Jules says. “Why would he kill some of his victims and let some of us go? And why come back now?”
“The profilers think it may be a game. Or maybe there was something about each of you that he decided to spare you.”
Carrie is breathing heavily now, like she might hyperventilate.
“Let’s everyone take a deep breath.” Jack demonstrates in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“How can you say that?” Lucy challenges.
“Because I’ve had a team keeping an eye on you.” He looks to the corner of the diner. They all follow his glance and a woman nursing a cup of coffee gives them a subtle nod. Her gaze moves to a man sitting at another booth who taps a finger on his nose.
“So, what? You’re going to follow us around all day?” Jules asks.
Jack smiles. “Something like that. We were hoping you all might consider staying at a hotel we’ve booked. Just for tonight. As a precaution.”
He waits as they all process this.
Carrie speaks first. “I can’t. My father, he’ll ask questions.”
“You still haven’t told your parents about what happened?” Lucy asks.
“Hey, lighten up,” Jules says.
Carrie bravely reported her abduction and assault to the police, but still hasn’t told her parents. That’s more than Jules can say, hiding it from everyone except her half-assed anonymous letter to the police. She couldn’t even do that right since Jack somehow traced the letter to her.
“I just don’t get you two,” Lucy says. “Pretending it didn’t happen.”
This stings because it’s true. “And hiding behind dark eyeliner and a bitchy persona is better?” Jules immediately wishes she hadn’t said it. And it’s again a great irony because Jules has been role-playing too. Modeling has afforded her that luxury.
“I can’t claim to understand what you’re all going through,” Jack interjects, trying to defuse the tension. “But I hope you’ll remember that people deal with trauma in different ways, and there’s no right way.”
“I’m sorry,” Jules says to Lucy. She’s known these women for less than a year and hardly ever sees them, yet she feels closer to them than anyone.
Since Death Day, she’s drifted away from her high school friends; Miranda and their clique are off at college.
And you don’t really make friends in modeling.
You have colleagues, acquaintances. Rivals.
The hardest part is that to the outside world, it appears like you have it all.
All the stars: Star-studded events. Michelin-starred restaurants.
Five-star hotels. But the trappings mask a smothering loneliness.
Lucy looks at Carrie, who is staring at the table. “Sorry I was a dick.”
Silence ensues as they all collect themselves.
“No chance you can stay at the hotel tonight, Carrie?” Jack says at last.
She shakes her head. “But don’t worry. We have a lot of security at the house.” Carrie lives in a gated mansion with on-site guards funded by parishioners of the megachurch.
Jack looks at Lucy and Jules for their assent.
Lucy says it first: “Fine, but it’d better be a nice hotel.”
Jules nods.
“You can go about your day and we’ll be close,” Jack says. “Aim to be at the hotel by dark.”
“Fine,” Lucy says again. “But let’s not pretend all this is just to protect us.”
Jack’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
“Admit it: We’re bait.”