Chapter 28
Running Out the Clock
Mark’s front door is unlocked when I try the handle. I take a deep breath, plaster what I hope is a neutral look on my face, and step inside. The house is silent. Normally there’s music playing, but not right now.
“Hey, I’m here!” I call out as I slide off my boots and set my bag on the floor.
“Hey,” Mark replies from the kitchen. “I’m making a drink. Want one?” he asks when he sees me round the corner.
“What are you making?”
“Double whiskey,” he says, glancing up at me, his motions tight and controlled. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in over a week, but despite that, he hasn’t set the bottle of whiskey down or made any move toward me, and I hope I don’t look as panicked as I feel.
“There’s not much ‘making’ involved with that, but sure.”
He lets out a sharp exhale as he turns to grab another glass.
He fills it with ice from the freezer before pouring in a generous amount of whiskey and sliding the glass toward me.
I pick it up and take a sip, waiting to see if he’ll say anything.
He doesn’t, though, and the whiskey settles in my stomach about as comfortably as I expect battery acid would.
“So. What’s up?” I question, aiming for a level of calmness I don’t feel.
“Nothing,” he says, raising the glass to his lips. By the time he sets it down, it’s more empty than full.
I force myself into motion, leaving my barely touched drink where it’s sitting and moving to stand beside him.
“Are you sure?” I ask as I place my hand on his and slide it up his forearm, tugging him to face me.
Once he’s looking at me, I step into his space until our bodies are pressed together.
He hasn’t pulled away, but he also hasn’t made any attempt to touch me.
“Because it’s been more than a week since we’ve seen each other, and normally your hands would be all over me by now. ”
Mark’s amber-flecked hazel eyes are boring into mine as he raises his hand to my face. His fingertips skim along my jaw as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. We stand there in silence, and each second that passes seems to put more and more space between us, although neither of us has moved.
Finally, Mark blinks, and the spell is broken. “Where were you last night?” he asks, his fingers lightly curled around the nape of my neck.
“At home,” I lie, meeting his eyes, praying he’ll believe me, and knowing he won’t. “Why?”
His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches, and I know I was right. “Are you sure?” he probes.
He knows. I’m all but certain he’s worked it out, and he knows that I’m lying to him.
He’s giving me the chance to change my answer and walk it back.
In that split second, Marjorie’s words from weeks ago echo through my head.
‘Randall wouldn’t have told anyone the truth.
Ever. I guess you’ve gotta ask yourself who’s the better role model. Vaughn or Randall?’
I know what the right answer is. I know what I should do.
But I can’t. Despite my dad’s assertion that I’m too much like Vaughn, when push comes to shove, I can’t bring myself to tell Mark the truth.
I can’t bring myself to tell him I was out last night, killing Rhys Steichen.
I can’t bring myself to tell him I never told him everything about how and why we met.
And I certainly can’t bring myself to tell him I’ve killed them all.
I don’t think more than a few heartbeats have passed when Mark softly questions, “Alyssa?” It sounds like an invitation to tell him the truth. Like maybe he would hear me out. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to trust him enough to let him all the way in.
I choke out a strangled, “Yes, I’m sure. Why would you ask me that?”
He drops his hand from my neck and turns away from me, picking the glass of whiskey up and finishing off its contents. He sets it down with a hard thud. “No reason,” he says flatly. “I have to go. I’ll be back later.”
“Where? I just got here.”
“The GM called a mandatory team meeting for seven,” he tells me, still not looking at me. “Everyone is required to attend.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I’m sure I know the answer.
“No reason,” he replies, repeating his earlier words.
“Okay. When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure,” he says as he turns and heads for the door, leaving me standing alone in his kitchen.
A minute later, the front door slams shut.
I check my watch. It’s five-thirty-five.
He’ll be at Tofana Arena at least an hour earlier than he needs to be.
It’s an unspoken message stating that he’d rather be there without me than here with me.
I sigh as I reach for the whiskey Mark poured for me.
The outside of the glass is slick with condensation, and it almost slips through my fingers.
I empty it into the kitchen sink, watching at least fifty dollars flow down the drain.
“He knows,” I whisper to the empty house. “He knows.” I stand at the sink, staring at the drain as the realization hits me. I should go. I should…
I check my watch again. Only two minutes have passed since I last looked at it.
Five-thirty-seven. I’ll wait an hour and then leave.
By that point, Garret Fischer should be on his way to whatever meeting Mark just left for.
And then I can go to my office and shred every file Vaughn has given me without having to worry about being attacked.
After that, I’ll rent a hotel room somewhere until I work out how to get rid of Garret or the team leaves town again.
I sit down on the couch to wait out the clock, wondering if I should’ve told Mark the truth instead of saying I was home all night. But how could I?
It’s darker as I drive down the winding road toward my office than it was when I arrived.
And not just the night, I realize. My mood is darker too.
Aside from the first time I went to Mark’s house while I was stalking him, trying to figure out who he was, I’ve never left so quickly.
It seems like I’m back at square one. I don’t need Mark anymore—not for access to Katie’s rapists anyhow—but I can’t help but feel like I lost something tonight.
It was always supposed to be this way, but…
I consider turning around and going back to his house.
It’s not like he told me to leave. It’s not as if he said anything about not seeing me anymore.
Unless I tell him the truth, though, there’s not going to be any ‘getting past this.’ It’ll only be a sore that festers until neither of us can stand to look at the other.
And I can’t tell him. I just can’t. Marjorie was right when she said I’m not Vaughn and Mark isn’t her.
I want to cry, but I can’t even do that. I always knew this was how it would end, even if I tried to let myself believe otherwise these past few weeks. This is merely the inevitable conclusion.
The drive back to my office passes in the blink of an eye, and before I know it, I’m parked in front of the building.
There are only a few cars in the lot. People working late or overnight cleaners, maybe.
At least I don’t have to worry about Garret Fischer ambushing me as I walk into the building this time, I think as I get out of my car and head for the doors.
The main entry door is locked, but like every other tenant, I have a key, even though I don’t normally need to use it.
It takes a second to find the right one, and then I’m inside, walking down the dimly lit hallway, headed for the stairwell.
It’s faster than waiting for the elevator, and I don’t really feel like standing still at the moment.
I know the second I do, I’ll start thinking about… everything.
The building has that empty, haunted quality that so often appears as soon as the people disappear. Or maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing the building and projecting my own worries on it.
I climb the three flights of stairs wondering what Mark is going to think when he gets home and I’m not there.
Will he call, or…? Should I send him a text telling him our relationship has run its course?
No. I should call him. That would be the adult thing to do.
Or, the small voice in the back of my head suggests, you could tell him the truth.
It’s not too late. Not really. He doesn’t even know you’re gone.
You could shred the files and make it back to his house before he does. He’d never even know you left.
I huff, trying to shut the voice up as I emerge from the stairwell and walk down the corridor to my office.
It’s a bit after seven, and the only time I’ve been here this late in recent memory was the first time Mark came to see my couch.
And… I’m doing it again, I realize. I made it a whole second and a half before my mind wandered back to him.
Fuck. I should’ve told him. He already knows. I should’ve just admitted I wasn’t at home last night. I should’ve just explained I was out killing Rhys Steichen, and said, ‘Sorry about your team, but they all really deserved it.’ He might’ve understood. Maybe. Instead, I lied to him.
My mind is going in circles as I unlock my office door.
If I told him… Oregon is a two-party consent state for private in-person conversations.
Even if he recorded what I said, which I’m certain he wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t matter.
It wouldn’t be able to be used against me.
And even if he were to dump me, he wouldn’t record me confessing to their murders. I’m certain of it.
I should’ve told him, I realize, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. Maybe he would’ve ended things with me, but knowing for sure—trusting him and actually letting him make that decision—would be better than this.
I go into my office and unlock the filing cabinet, pulling the bottom drawer all the way out.
I stuffed all the folders Vaughn has given me throughout this process into the very back of it after the police showed up to talk to Katie two weeks ago.
I figured in the event they got a search warrant for my condo, it was better that the files weren’t there.
And it would be significantly more difficult for them to get a warrant to search my office considering the fact that patient records are confidential.
There are the files on Clark Thomas and Adam Klaussen as well as Mark—all from my first meeting with Vaughn, when I decided Mark was the one.
Plus, there are the files on Joey Carmichael, Matt Davidson, Brandon Miller, Rhys Steichen, and Garret Fischer, of course.
I’ve already memorized the pertinent details from Garret’s file, and the others are dead, so there’s no reason to hold on to them. Especially not now.
I set Mark’s to the side, and start pulling the pages from the others, running them through the shredder.
The blades make a humming snick as pages are pulled in and sliced to pieces.
The sound does nothing to quell my anxiety.
The thought of telling Mark everything makes me want to throw up, and the feeling continues to grow with each page I feed into the shredder.
When all the folders except Mark’s are empty, I stare at his, considering the merits of shredding it too.
Ultimately, I don’t. I remove the pages from the file, fold them, and stuff them into my coat pocket before taking the remnants from the shredder and dumping them into the trash.
Then I remove the bag from the trashcan so I can toss it into the dumpsters on my way out.
I shut off the lights and walk out of my office, locking the door behind me and resolving to go back to Mark’s.
I’ll tell him everything and show him exactly the information Vaughn gave me prior to our initial meeting.
I’ll tell him about the first day I followed him and about dyeing my hair.
I’ll tell him all of it and hope it’s enough.
It probably won’t be, but at least I’ll have tried.
This way, I won’t regret running away for the rest of my life, because I’m certain I will if I don’t at least try to fix this.
The building is silent as I walk down the stairs to the exit. I check my watch again as I near the door. Seven-twenty-eight. Whatever meeting the Black Bears are having, Garret should still be tied up in it, sitting on his hands.
I push through the door and step into the night.
There are even fewer cars now, and I detour around the left of the building toward the dumpsters.
It’s windier on this side, and I spend a minute fiddling with my keys as the wind rushes past my ears.
Finally, I find the one that unlocks the dumpsters.
I lift the lid, throw the shredded files in, and let it fall shut.
The bang it makes echoes, bouncing off the building’s concrete exterior at the same time a fist grabs hold of my hair and slams my head into the dumpster’s hard metal side.
Pain explodes through my face, and white envelops my vision as blood gushes from my nose.
I fall to my hands and knees, the grit of the asphalt biting into my palms. My mind flashes back to Rhys Steichen collapsing on the grass in front of his house last night.
A foot drives into my ribs. I’m not sure if the crack I hear is real or imagined as my arms give way and my cheek hits the ground.