Chapter 81
Three Years Ago
Ivy drove as fast as she dared, her father’s ominous words repeating over and over in her head.
The work . . . the work is what matters . . . Dr. Neely . . . he’s going to do something . . . find his laptop . . . the laptop, Ivy . . . the laptop . . .
She didn’t notice the fire, not at first; it wasn’t visible from outside. But, to be fair, she hadn’t really been looking.
Ivy opened the front door and immediately felt the heat. It was like a wall. Her eyes watered; her skin immediately became slick.
“Dad! Dad!”
She saw the flames now. Mostly white and yellow. High heat.
The kitchen.
Jesus, it was hot. So fucking hot.
“Dad!”
She found him. Ran to his crumpled body. Inhaled smoke, broke into a coughing fit. Dropped down.
“No . . .”
He was gone. Face was practically melted off. Blood dripping from his forehead. Boiling. Blood on a rook paperweight off to one side.
Sobbing, she checked for a pulse. Pulled her hand back. Her father’s skin was as hot as a stove element.
“No! Please . . .”
Her own flesh was starting to crisp.
From somewhere above, she heard a thump. Eyes shot up. It came from the second floor.
The laptop, Ivy. Find Steve’s laptop.
The words so vivid that it was like the dead man in her lap was saying those words rather than her remembering them.
Ivy reluctantly lowered her father’s head to the hardwood and went up the stairs. The flames that engulfed the kitchen had yet to reach the top floor, but the smoke was thick.
She covered her nose and mouth with the neck of her shirt, but this didn’t do much. Every breath was like inhaling acid. Put her on the verge of a coughing fit.
Steve was on the upper landing.
Like Gene, he was face down. His skin was even more scorched than the man’s downstairs. But he was still alive. Unbelievable.
The thump she’d heard was Steve collapsing on his stomach.
“Where’s the laptop?” Ivy demanded. “Where’s your laptop?”
The man couldn’t answer. Was barely breathing. But he’d come upstairs. There’d been a confrontation on the floor below, and then Steve, instead of running out, had come here.
The laptop.
Ivy left the man where he lay and went to the first room she found. A bedroom.
No laptop.
She went to the next room. Black smoke everywhere.
Moved her hands around blindly, knew she was accomplishing nothing other than getting closer to asphyxiation.
If the laptop was here, she’d never find it. If it was here.
Her father’s laptop wasn’t—he’d told her as much on the phone. Told her where he’d stashed it. Trusted her with it. No one else. Not even his wife.
Hid it in plain sight.
Ivy retreated back to the man in the hall.
Steve’s skin . . . it was so bad. Like crispy pork. Nose completely black.
The laptop . . . the laptop . . . find Steve’s laptop . . .
Ivy did her best to drag Steve carefully down the stairs without hurting him too badly. But when she started coughing and horking up thick strings of phlegm, she gave up. Just pulled.
Somehow managed to get him onto the front lawn—no idea how.
She put her hands on her knees, tried to clear the tears from her eyes. Tried to stop coughing.
Find Steve’s laptop . . . save the work . . .
Steve was still alive. Barely. Might not make it.
Gene’s laptop wasn’t here. Ivy would bet her life that Steve’s wasn’t either. Steve was the only one who knew where it was.
If he stayed alive . . . he wouldn’t tell her. Why would he? The man had already killed Gene—her father had warned her about him, about what he might do—and Gene’s head had been bleeding. Steve would probably kill Ivy too, if he thought she had her father’s laptop.
Ivy’s mind was swimming. Inhaling all that smoke had cut the oxygen to her brain.
If Steve wakes up . . . if Steve wakes up . . .
He was likely to be as confused as she was now. And if she was the first person he saw, she might be able to take advantage of this.
An insane idea. But that’s how Ivy felt right now—insane. One minute, her father had been yelling at her over the phone. The next, she found him dead.
Ivy gagged and vomited. This stripped her of more oxygen. Didn’t make the idea that had popped into her head go away, though. Did the opposite.
Made it real.
But how would she be by Steve’s side if he woke up? The police would investigate, keep her away from the man who killed her father.
Unless . . .
There was no denying the resemblance between Steve and Gene—both tall and thin. Steve’s hair had gone salt-and-pepper; Gene’s was pure salt. But now, neither had any.
The laptop . . . Steve’s laptop . . . save the work . . . promise me . . .
Ivy wasn’t thinking straight.
She ran back inside. Found her dad. Grabbed his left hand. Touched his gold wedding band. Cried out. It melted the skin on her fingers. Grabbed it again, took some of Gene’s flesh with it. Some of her own, too. Hurried out. Placed it on Steve’s finger, weeping the entire time.
Ivy Reeves called 911 twenty-seven minutes after her father had interrupted her dinner. After she reported the fire, she called Abby.
“Hey, bitch? What’s up?”
“I need you to listen to me—there’s something I need you to do. You can’t ask questions, but I promise to fill you in later. It has to be quick. Like, now quick.”
“Everything alright?”
“No, definitely not.”
And Ivy Reeves doubted things would ever be ‘alright’ ever again.