Chapter 34
What had Emmett been thinking when he submitted that health journal?
Perhaps some part of him wanted to be caught, to be taken off the streets before he could hurt someone else. To relieve himself of the anxiety that churned through him like a stomach bug, sending him running to throw up several times a day.
Frankly, Emmett was surprised the police hadn’t yet connected him to the car or the charred fragments of bone and teeth they’d found inside it.
Before dumping the car, he’d done everything he could think of to make it untraceable—removed the license plates with a screwdriver from home, destroyed anything that contained his name—but surely he was missing something.
Surely it was just a matter of time before the police came beating down his door, and then what would he say to Lizette?
He sensed she already doubted his story of having gotten into a car wreck leaving work and miraculously walked away with just a few bruises.
She bombarded him with questions the moment he walked in: Why hadn’t he texted her as soon as it happened?
Why hadn’t he called her to come pick him up? Where was his car now?
“What? You’re not even gonna have a mechanic look at it?” she said when he told her it was being towed to the scrapyard.
“I did.” Emmett opened the fridge, mostly to avoid her scrutiny. “The mechanic said it was totaled. Do we have anything to eat?”
“You said you came straight home.”
“Lizette!” He slammed the door. “I’ve just been through a traumatic experience. Why are you giving me a hard time?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand what happened.” She sighed and pulled him into a hug, not even complaining that she could feel his bones. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Want me to drive through somewhere?”
He nodded, childlike.
She picked up Mexican and they ate it on the couch watching Friends. It felt surreal, the mundane, momentary relief of it, given all that he still had to do.
Six hours later, while Lizette slept, Emmett took her keys, drove her SUV back to the island, and finished the job.
He’d only left the car parked there, in the dirt shoulder along the bay on the south side of the peninsula, where no one would notice the smell or the flies.
Upon returning, he packed in the bloody clothes, bed linens, and cleaning supplies he still needed to get rid of from earlier; doused them and the body in cooking oil and paper towels (a suitable substitute for lighter fluid, he read in incognito mode); and tossed in a flaming match before jumping back into the SUV.
The tires kicked up a dust cloud as he peeled away from the blaze in the rearview mirror.
That took care of the evidence—all but the bloodstains in his bedroom carpet, which he hid under piles of dirty laundry and got out the following day with a rented carpet cleaner.
But even then, Emmett felt far from safe.
He had half a mind to pack a bag and skip town, maybe even cross the border.
But if the police were looking his way, surely running would make him only more suspicious?
Also there was Aaron to think about, and the museum job: the promise of his new life glistening on the horizon, so close he could almost reach out and grab it.
He couldn’t throw all that away. He would carry on as if nothing was wrong. Perhaps in time he might start to believe it himself.
Assuming this doesn’t keep happening.
Pushing the thought away, he texted Aaron about his conversation with Rick and his immediate separation from Target. Perhaps there was a chance Emmett could start at the museum immediately. The sooner his life got back to normal, the safer he’d feel.
A minute later his phone buzzed, but the message was from Lizette.
WTF is this??? Are you lying to me? You better not be fucking lying to me
Attached to the message was a link to a News 8 Facebook post, the preview photo showing the smoking husk of Emmett’s burned-out Taurus.
Fuck!
The phone began to vibrate. Lizette was calling. Dread trickled through him, greasing his insides like an internal hemorrhage, but there’d be hell to pay if he ignored her.
He answered. “Okay, just listen—”
“Emmett.”
“I can explain.” But how? How could he justify it—a body found in his abandoned car the same night he lied about having been in an accident—without telling Lizette the whole truth?
“I’m coming home,” she said.
“Wait—”
The line went dead.
Twenty minutes later Lizette stormed into the apartment, her voice booming down the hall to Emmett’s bedroom: “Emmett Gregory Truesdale, ven aquí now!”
He groaned low under his breath, needles of fear pinning him down to the mattress.
The door flew open. That Lizette hadn’t even gotten dressed properly—still wearing Armando’s band tee from the night before, face bare, hair up in a tornadic bun—told him he was right to be afraid. “Out!”
He followed her into the living room, his heart hammering.
“Sit.”
Emmett dropped onto the couch. She faced him. “Talk.”
“This—this is going to sound insane,” he murmured.
“I don’t fucking care.”
“You’re going to hate me.”
“Only if you lie to me again.”
“Just promise you’ll believe me, okay?” His voice buckled under the weight of his fear and anxiety. “I just need—”
“That’s not even a question. I believe you. Just tell me.”
Emmett breathed in, then let it all out.
Once he started purging, he couldn’t stop. He told her about the lost hours and his strange cravings, the times he’d woken up covered in blood and the disappearances that followed, the body in his trunk and his voracious animal binge of it.
Lizette remained uncharacteristically quiet, communicating her understanding through muted nods and swallowed shivers. She seemed to be holding something back. It made Emmett more anxious than the over-the-top reaction he’d expected; at least then he would know what was going through her head.
“What’s wrong with me?” he sobbed.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Lizette said, though it seemed to cost her some effort. “It’s the drug.”
“You think?”
“Obviously it’s the drug.” She paced around the room. “I should’ve realized something was up when you brought home that fucking carpet cleaner. Emmettito, why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve figured something out, gotten rid of your car.”
“They’re gonna figure out it’s mine. I’m dead.”
“Maybe not. Did you remove the plates?”
“Of course, but aren’t there other ways to trace it to me?”
“The VIN. It’s on the inside of the door and I think somewhere on the engine, but—”
“Fuck.” Emmett gripped his head. “I completely forgot about that!”
“But the article said they couldn’t find a VIN on the car. It melted off in the fire.”
“Okay, but what about DNA? Fingerprints?”
“If the fire was that bad, it would’ve destroyed everything.”
“You think that’s why they haven’t come after me?”
Lizette didn’t answer. She stood before the window, staring vaguely out to the street.
Emmett walked up behind her. “Lizette?”
She flinched around, spooked. “What?”
Emmett’s tears rushed back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“What now?”
“You’re scared of me,” he said. “You think I’m a monster.”
“No I don’t.”
“You’re going to turn me in. I never should have told you!”
“Emmettito, listen to me.” She touched his shoulder, turning him to face her.
“You’re my best friend. I love you no matter what you do.
” She hesitated, swallowed. “I’ll be honest, this is a lot to take in.
The idea of you eating a guy is pretty fucking foul.
I mean of all the crazy diets you’ve done over the years, this is by far the worst one. ”
“Stop,” he spluttered. “It’s not a joke.”
“I know. I know. Especially if this is… something you can’t control.” A whisper of unease glimmered behind her eyes.
Emmett noticed now how much space she had left between them.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think maybe it’s best if I stay at Mando’s, just for a few nights—”
“No, please,” said Emmett desperately.
Her hands pulled away as he tried to grab them. It felt like a tiny knife to his heart.
“I’d never hurt you,” he pleaded. “You have to know that.”
“I know you’d never do anything on purpose—”
“No. It doesn’t work like that, I don’t think. That guy, and the Future Makers lady—they were assholes. Do you remember all the stuff they said to me? I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
“So you only eat people who insult you?”
“I don’t know,” Emmett said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know, I—”
“Hey.” This time it was Lizette who took his hands in hers, drawing him into her dark-brown gaze. “Mírame.”
“What?”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. I’ve killed people.”
“It sounds like they both deserved it. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have started with murder. Maybe broken their kneecaps.”
“Stop trying to make me laugh,” he said, halfway between a chuckle and a sob.
“I’m so serious. I’m your homegirl, your ride-or-die. You know that. If you go down, we’re going down together.”
“So you’re not going to turn me in?”
A laugh broke through her serious expression. “I am, like, so offended right now.”
Fresh tears ran down Emmett’s cheeks. It was hard to believe he could be accepted this fully by anyone but his mother. But if anyone had ever shown him it was possible, it was Lizette.
Finally she went to grab her purse. “I need to head back to Mando’s. I left Tubbs there.”
“Are you coming back?”
She paused at the door; her head swiveled around, her smile loving but burdened. “Yeah. Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
Emmett hated that she needed time, but it was the least he could give her. “Okay.”
“Just please. I don’t want to come back to find a half-eaten corpse in my bed or some shit.”
“I’ll contain them to my room.” It surprised Emmett that he could joke at a time like this, and how grounding it felt. He didn’t deserve it, or her. “Promise.”