Chapter Fifty-Six
Jules’s heart is pounding like a techno beat as raw terror rushes through her.
“Get back!” She couldn’t bring her gun or pepper spray on the plane, so she holds up her fists defensively.
Trent Vanderman looks shocked that she’s in his house. He holds up his palms, like he’s in retreat, not a threat.
“What are you—?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He throws down his arms as if defeated. “What do I have to do to prove I had nothing to do with your sister’s disappearance?” He storms out of the bedroom.
Jules should run. Get out of here.
But she needs answers. She needs to be brave. Find her strength. Be like Lucy.
When she arrives in the living room, Vanderman, who wears shorts and flip-flops and looks like an aging movie star, is opening the refrigerator. He pulls out a beer. Pops the cap.
Jules stares at him. Run. Get out of the house.
Vanderman holds up another beer, an offering. When she doesn’t respond he places it on the granite counter, takes a seat in the living room.
Run. Get out of here.
But instead, Jules walks over slowly, keeping her eyes on Vanderman, and grabs the bottle, pops her own top, and stands in the living room facing him. Far enough so he can’t lunge. Far enough to dart out the smashed patio door if needed.
She begins: “You knew me, my sister, and Carrie. That can’t be a coincidence.
” Jules has been obsessed with Vanderman ever since she saw him at the megachurch, saw Carrie’s father giving him the VIP treatment.
Vanderman’s connection to three May Day victims can’t be a coincidence, screw what Jack thinks.
Vanderman throws up his hands, confused.
“We’re all victims of the May Day Killer.”
“What?” He looks stunned now. “I didn’t know— I’m so sorry.”
There’s something weird about when someone’s telling the truth. It looks different. It sounds different.
And the look on his face, the sound of his voice, has the ring of truth.
If he isn’t May Day, he’d have no way to know that Jules or Carrie were assaulted. Their names were never released to the public.
“I—I’m so, so sorry, Jules,” he repeats.
“You had pictures of teenage girls,” she challenges.
“Says my ex-wife who was trying to extort a settlement in our divorce.” He stops, his expression devastated. “And she won. I lost everything. My job. My reputation. All from an accusation.”
“You haven’t lost everything,” she says, looking around the lavish home.
“Jules, I worked at a high school. Tried to do something good for the world. Make up for some of the crap my family has done. Do you think living in this house makes up for losing my life?”
“I saw you. The day I was taken. The day I was…”
He shakes his head like he has not one clue. No memory of seeing her at Hagers liquor store that day. And why would he if he wasn’t involved?
He’s either a brilliant actor or he’s telling the truth.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you. To your sister. But I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then why did Clare write ‘pedophile’ next to your picture in her yearbook? Why did she say you were fucking Amy, her best friend?”
Vanderman lets out a long heavy exhale. He chews on the inside of his cheek as if debating whether to share something.
“What?”
“Your sister, she and Amy got in a fight, she started the rumor because Amy apparently had a crush on me. Clare had, well, an unhealthy fixation on me. She somehow slipped Polaroids of herself in my office drawer … I reported it immediately. The school did a full investigation. The FBI also looked at everything after you made your accusations against me.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. Talk to the FBI or whoever you want. The damage is already done to me.”
Clare was a hothead. And it explains why Clare and Amy never resumed their friendship. Jack has been adamant that Vanderman had nothing to do with Clare’s disappearance or anything else. And maybe he didn’t give Jules details because it made Clare look bad.
The devastation churns in her stomach with the recognition that he’s telling the truth. That her one clue, her one possible lifeline to Clare, is gone.