Chapter 43
I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. I NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE, SO I slip into my running gear and head outside.
I’m hoping my car is back soon. The texts warning me to leave have my stomach in knots.
As of this morning, I’ve gotten no answers.
Were the texts from Aubrey? I think of her as I run past her house.
It sits dark and quiet. Dale’s car is gone. I hope she’s all right.
Alex is standing in the foyer when I walk through the door, his brow furrowed. “I called Detective Sanchez. I thought if you talked to her here, you’d be more comfortable. She’s on the way, Emma. You need to get cleaned up.”
“I thought we were going to wait a day or two?”
“No time like the present,” Alex says, his gaze shifts to Sunny, who stands in the doorway to the dining room. He squeezes my arm, his eyes boring into mine. “This is your chance, Emma.” He drops my arm and turns on his heel, disappears into his office.
I run the shower until the water is hot, and step in.
What do I do? I could tell her that I remembered Carol, her screaming anyway.
But what if that’s not enough? What if Detective Sanchez is not ready to arrest him even when I tell her that it sounded like someone was being murdered?
If she doesn’t arrest Alex, take him away, then what?
I shiver to think what might happen to me.
I’ll have to play along. When I have my car back, I’ll get out of town. Then I’ll call the cops when I’m somewhere safe and let them know what I really remembered.
I hear voices from downstairs as I leave my room. Detective Sanchez watches me with dark eyes as I descend the staircase. She’s talking with Alex. Sunny sits on the sofa, phone in hand. I stop on the last step, trying to catch my breath.
“Ms. Shrader,” the detective says. “Please have a seat.”
I walk past her and sit on the sofa, on the other end from Sunny. Alex deposits himself in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace.
“I’d like to talk to Ms. Shrader alone,” the detective says.
“Of course,” Alex says, standing. He gives me a hopeful look and a smile before he and Sunny head to the kitchen.
Detective Sanchez pulls out a notebook and sits in the chair Alex had just vacated. “Now, Emma. Your father said that you have something to tell us that is germane to the investigation into the disappearance of Carol Lawson.”
“Yes.” Sweat is dripping down my back.
“What? What do you know?” She leans toward me.
“Well, I was here that day, the day that Carol was here. I was here with my mom.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows arch. “How old were you?”
“Just three. I don’t have much memory of it, and it only occurred to me now …” I’m rambling. I wipe sweat from my forehead.
“You just now remembered?”
“Yes.”
“You saw Carol Lawson here?”
“I might have.”
“You might have.” She digs her phone out of her pocket, clicks, and points the phone in my direction. There’s a picture of Carol on the screen. “Did you see this woman in this house on July 7th, 1995?”
I lean forward. “Um. I don’t know,” I mumble. “I was just three. I think so.” Come on, Emma. You can do better, but I’m a shaking mess.
She nods, bites her lips as if she’s so disappointed in me. “Right.” She scribbles in her notebook. “But if what you’re saying is true, that would make you probably the only witness, besides Mr. Spencer, who is still alive. Are you sure you don’t remember anything about that day?”
I know that my body language is screaming, “I know something!”
“Just vaguely. I remember the house and a doll I played with.” I listen for Alex and Sunny in the kitchen. Can they hear me?
“Emma?” Detective Sanchez says. “You sure you don’t remember anything about Carol that day?”
Alex is standing in the arched doorway. Detective Sanchez throws him a stern look.
“Sorry. I left my phone in my office. I’ve got a call coming up,” he says, and hurries by. He shuts the door, but I know he can hear me behind the office door.
I cough, wipe my eyes with my hand. “I saw Carol leave. She was okay.”
“That’s all? She left. She was fine?”
“Yes.” My gaze drops to the floor.
“You sure? You were three years old, Emma.”
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
“What else do you remember about her? About that day? Any details would be helpful.”
I rack my brain trying to remember something, anything that will give some credence to this memory that doesn’t exist. But I just can’t. “That’s it, I guess. She left the house, and she was okay.”
Detective Sanchez stands, huffs out a breath like I’ve wasted her time. She doesn’t believe me. She knocks on the office door. Alex opens quickly, his phone in his hand. “Mr. Spencer. We’d like to talk to you again down at the station.”
“Certainly. I’ll call after I take a look at my schedule. That okay?” he asks, trying to pull his face into pleasant lines.
“Fine,” she says, but there’s something in her taut smile that makes me think she has something up her sleeve. I hope so.
Alex follows her into the foyer. He lets go a shuddering breath after he closes the door behind her. “I was counting on you, Emma,” he says, anger and disappointment in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be more help. I did tell her that Carol was fine.”
He snorts. “Well, you won’t win any Academy Awards for that performance.” He squeezes his eyes. “Let’s see what they want when I talk to them. There’s still time for you to do the right thing. You’re a writer. Come up with some real details, something more convincing than what you told her.”
Sunny walks in from the kitchen. “She’s gone?”
“Yes,” Alex says.
“What did you tell her, Emma?” Sunny demands. “Nothing helpful, I assume?”
“I need to get some writing done,” Alex says, and heads for his office.
I walk past Sunny and head back upstairs.
I go through Mary’s room one more time, making sure I’ve collected all of my things, so that I’m ready as soon as my car is back.
I try to keep my mind a blank, to keep from falling apart.
I pace back and forth in the little room while it feels like electric shocks are coursing through my body.
The house is quiet. The detective left a while ago, and it’s afternoon.
I hear a car out front, so I walk into the hall and listen.
Alex comes out of his office and heads outside.
I creep down the stairs and look out one of the tall windows in the front room.
There’s a dark car in front of the house.
A man is standing beside it talking to Alex.
The man looks familiar. Tall, muscular, a cap on his head pulled low.
But I recognize him. It’s that cop, Tilden.
The one who questioned us when Simon was killed.
He’s in civilian clothes, but it’s him. Why is he talking to Alex?
Alex hands something to him and Tilden quickly pushes it into his pocket. Money? A payment? The cop gets back in his car and speeds away.
I tiptoe back upstairs before Alex gets to the door. The picture of Alex talking with Officer Tilden runs through my mind. Is Alex paying him for information? I shudder. Can I trust the local cops if I need to call them? The simple answer is, I can’t.
I sit on Mary’s bed, trying to catch my breath, trying to calm down. My phone rings. Noah. Thank God.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“California. Listen, Emma. I’ve discovered a few things you need to know.”
“Like what?”
“A woman named Janice Dixon disappeared from Truckee, California, in June of 1991.”
My heartbeat starts to ratchet up. “That’s when Alex would’ve been there. That’s when he met my mom. Is that why you’re out there?”
“Yes. I’m tracing Alex’s path, starting from when he met your mother.”
“Why?”
“Just listen. Janice’s body was found, but the case went cold.”
“Maybe just a coincidence.”
I hear Noah take a deep breath, like he’s in a hurry. “Emma, listen. Janice was buried beneath a large pine tree. She was placed carefully, posed. Her head pointed west. Her arm was raised above her head as if she was waving goodbye.”
“Why is this important, Noah?” I stand and pace.
“You’ve read your father’s books, right?”
“Some of them.”
“Have you read the first one, Killer on the Trail?”
“Yes.”
“He must have a copy there at the house. Open it to chapter six. Read that chapter again.”
“Are you saying that the murder in that book mimics the murder of this woman in Truckee?”
“Yes!”
“Maybe he just read about the murder and used it.”
I hear exasperation in Noah’s voice. “The book was published in 1996. Emma, Janice Dixon’s remains weren’t found until 2003.”
I slump down on the bed. My pulse pounds in my ears. “Oh, my God. Maybe it is just a coincidence,” I say, hoping against my better judgment. “How similar were the two murders?”
“Read the chapter and see what you think. I’ll send you my notes on Janice Dixon’s remains. You’ll see what I’m talking about. And I’m currently looking at other murders he’s portrayed in his books and trying to match them up with missing and murdered women.”
My mouth falls open. “Are you saying that the victims portrayed in my father’s books were based on real women and that … he’s responsible for their deaths?”
“I’m afraid that might be the case.”
I try to swallow, but my throat feels like it’s closing up. “He’s written twenty books, most of them with multiple victims …”
“I’m not saying every character represented a real woman. And maybe he used one murder to create multiple characters.”
“I can’t believe this,” I say, gulping tears. “Are you sure?”
Noah sighs. “It’s a theory at this point. But you should get the hell out of there.”
“I don’t have my car, Noah. He disabled it somehow and had it towed to his mechanic.”
“What the fuck? Really?”