Chapter Sixteen
Gently, I pick up his heavy arm and reposition it, then crawl out of bed, readjusting my clothing.
I grab my purse and go for his nightstand, pulling the drawer open and shining my phone flashlight inside.
If he wakes up and questions me, I’ll just say I was looking for lip balm.
Sure enough, there is some lip balm, a roll of breath mints and some loose change, along with a few condoms, which makes sense given his dating habits.
Next, I check under the bed, but besides a pair of slippers and some dust bunnies, there’s nothing to see.
His closet squeaks when I open it, but the whiffling snore now emerging from Liam reassures me I’m safe.
Pulling out my UV flashlight, I click it on and shine it throughout the closet, then the bedroom.
Even if he cleaned this space up with bleach, it’s nearly impossible to remove all traces of blood. But nothing illuminates.
I pull it out further, heart pounding. More of the painting reveals itself, and suddenly, I know.
It’s Zoe’s. I’ve never seen this one before, but her style is unmistakable to me. Still, just in case, I crouch to examine the front corner – and there’s the definitive evidence. Her signature, a scrawled ZD in the left-hand corner.
Disappointment crashes through me, then anger, then fear. Because this painting feels like definite proof of Liam’s guilt. How long ago did he buy this? While she was still alive? Did he purchase it to lure her in? A, hey, I just bought your painting, I’d love to hear more about it over dinner …
I realize I’m gripping the canvas. I don’t want to let it go. But I can’t just sit here spiraling. Pulling out my phone, I take a few pictures of the painting, even though the angles aren’t ideal, praying the little bursts of flash don’t wake Liam.
Then, I creep out of the bedroom and close the door quietly behind me.
Back in the living space, I turn off the lights and perform a sweep with my UV light, crouching to make sure I cover every inch of floor surface.
Still no blood, but really, that means nothing.
I already know the victims were smothered.
And he could’ve put down a shower curtain before lopping off their feet.
Stashing it back in my purse, I flip on the lights again.
I check the bathroom next. Prescription Lexapro is the most interesting thing I find, a pretty standard anti-anxiety and anti-depressant.
Its main usefulness is that it verifies his legal name, Liam Porter.
Do psychopaths get depressed? I do a quick search on my phone – and yes, apparently they can, though the article also notes that psychopathic serial killers are unlikely to. Hmm.
In the kitchen, I open every cabinet. Standard dishes, stainless steel cookware, spices.
The inside of his fridge is like an advertisement for a fridge – beautifully labeled and stacked clear containers, all marked with the contents and the date.
Grilled chicken. Hummus. Coleslaw. Tilapia.
A big tub of sauerkraut. Nothing remotely suspicious, though if he’s a gourmet cook as he very much appears to be, could that be the way he drugs them?
Through the food, such as the chocolate cakes he was going to offer me tonight?
I save the freezer for last, because despite its standard size and its inability to hide an entire corpse, it’s certainly big enough to hide a foot – or two. I open it and a blast of cold hits my face.
And – what am I even looking at? Behind a few bags of frozen vegetables and H?agen-Dazs ice cream is a wall of stacked Ziploc plastic bags. I pull one of them out. Ground meat. I pull out a couple more. All ground meat, pinkish-brownish and frozen solid.
The bags are even more suspicious now that I’m looking closely.
They’re neither dated nor labeled, which seems completely counter to everything else Liam stocks for consumption.
And why are there so many of them? I mean, this freezer is crammed.
No single guy in finance stocks this much ground meat. Unless, of course …
Zoe. Did he grind her up and divide her into bags? This is only twenty-ish pounds, though. Oh my God, is he pulling a Hannibal Lecter? My gag reflex activates and I swallow down bile.
It doesn’t fit the pattern, I remind myself. The other two bodies turned up mostly intact. But maybe he’s changed his strategy? Do serial killers do that?
Either way, I can’t be sure unless I get a sample of it. I could take a whole bag, but it will leave a noticeable gap, and I’d prefer Liam not know I’m on to him.
I move a bag to the sink and run some hot water over it, just enough to loosen some of the meat at the side.
I count to thirty. Then, grabbing a paring knife from the knife block, I scrape out a sample.
Ew. It’s squishy in my fingers. But where to put it?
Gah, I should have thought of that first!
That’s when I hear noises from the bedroom.
Fuck! Move, girl! Slimy meat patty in one hand, with my other hand, I open and close drawers, one after the other, searching for a bag, no longer worried about noise.
There! A sandwich bag! My hands are shaking as I rip it open with my teeth and palm the meat sample in.
I don’t have time to fully close the bag before I thrust it in my purse.
I grab the original big ziploc and fling it back into the open freezer, slamming it shut behind me.
Then, I practically sprint toward the front door, tear it open and slam it shut just as I hear Liam’s sleepy voice calling out, ‘Margot? Margot, are you still here?’
I run down the stairs, taking them two by two, keeping my contaminated hand elevated, because gross. I don’t breathe easy until I’m hopping on the bus to head back north to my place.
The single seat behind the driver is free, and I fold myself into it, grateful for the tiny bit of privacy as I rummage for my hand sanitizer and practically squeeze the whole thing out on to my hand.
Then I text George that I’m headed home safe, with our code word bumfuzzle that ensures it’s really me.
I lean my head against the bus window, feeling the rattle and sway, the comfort of movement.
I don’t know how to process everything I’ve learned tonight.
He bought Zoe’s art. Then he hid it in his closet.
But during our kayaking date, he feigned ignorance when I dropped Zoe’s name.
If he was innocent, he would have owned up to knowing her, or at least her work.
You don’t buy an expensive piece of original art and forget the artist’s name.
Should I call Barnett? Is this enough to get him off his ass? No. A painting in a closet will sound just as far-fetched to him as a tattoo and a vibe.
The next logical step is to go to the gallery that sold that painting to Liam. Could they know something? I text Arjun directly. Hey A, what’s the name of the gallery you helped Zoe get into?
As I hop off the bus and make the short walk home, my mind replays the evening and it strikes me what a chameleon Liam is.
Our first date, he was the attentive question-asker.
Our second, he took a turn for disarmingly candid.
On Navy Pier, he was tender, romantic, a little silly – until his dark side flashed through.
Kayaking, he was avoidant as hell. In his apartment, with the ganache and the whiskey and his whole ‘you look better without makeup thing,’ he’s back to that perfect boyfriend material template.
Is any one of these versions the real Liam?
Or does he keep it all hidden … until he strikes?