Chapter 43 #3
A few minutes later, I hear Alex and Sunny leave.
I’m glad to be alone. I need to think. What Noah told me runs round and round in my head.
Is it possible my father murdered women on his road trip after he graduated from college?
And then, would he be stupid enough to portray those murders in his books?
I shiver at the thought. But I need to know more.
I remember the boxes he was carrying out of his bedroom before Detective Bellman searched the house.
I’m pretty sure he brought them back after the cops left.
I need to see for myself what he’s hiding in his room.
I wait until I give Sunny and Alex enough time to get on their way.
I don’t want them to turn around to retrieve a forgotten wallet or phone.
The grandfather clock chimes downstairs as I pace the hallway.
When I can’t wait any longer, I make my way to Alex’s bedroom door.
The mothball smell greets me as I open it and walk through.
I wonder where the boxes are. I don’t see them in the room or the closet.
I turn toward the door that leads to the turret room.
That’s the last place to look and I open the door.
Inside, the turret room is dark, damp, and chilly, like the heat doesn’t reach here.
I turn on my phone flashlight. The tall windows are covered with shades and there doesn’t look like there is anything here.
Huh. Just a small, round, empty room. There are decorative wooden panels on the walls, and I’m about to leave when I notice the edge of one of the lower panels isn’t quite flush with the rest of the wall.
I set my phone on the floor and drop to my hands and knees.
I work my fingers around the panel and pull.
It gives way and I land flat on my backside.
I place the panel to the side, feel for my phone.
I shine the light into what looks like a dark passageway.
It’s just big enough that I can crawl through.
I feel dust and cobwebs sticking to my hair and arms as I crawl.
The passageway ends in what looks like a closet.
Boxes are arranged in a row. Labels on their sides denote the years.
I locate one that says 1991–1996. That covers when he was in Truckee and when Carol was here as well.
Slowly, I pull the flaps aside and shine the flashlight on the contents.
File folders. No big deal. I pull out the first folder and open it.
Catch my breath. It holds what look like crime scene photos, bloody bodies, knives, rope.
Where did he get these? The cops? The internet?
Or did he take them himself? I close the folder.
There’s a wooden box in the bottom under the folders.
I open it, and a musty smell emanates from the contents.
I shine the light inside. Women’s jewelry.
A necklace, a charm bracelet, assorted other tarnished metal things—and a lock of hair tied with a piece of twine.
I can’t breathe. My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest. Red hair.
1991–1996. I grab one of the photos, look closely.
There’s a bracelet around a dead woman’s wrist. A four-leaf clover pendant attached.
I rifle through the wooden box and there it is!
These are trophies.
Everything falls into place. My father not only killed Carol Lawson, but it appears that Noah is right. She wasn’t his only victim. Maybe there’s something in the box that belonged to Janice Dixon. And maybe the cops have found something and are on Alex’s trail.
I hear a car coming up the macadam road.
I hastily put the box back, stuff the file folders on top, and close the flaps of the cardboard box.
I’m choking on my breath. I think I’m going to be sick.
My stomach contracts and I shove my hand over my mouth.
The car stops, engine turns off. I have to get out of here.
Hurry. Hurry.
I push the box back into line and crawl as fast as I can back out into the turret room.
Downstairs, a key jangles in the front door lock.
Tears dot my face as I replace the panel, trying to replace it just as I found it, but I don’t have time to be sure.
I shut the turret room door and dash out of Alex’s room, gently closing the door behind me.
I run for Mary’s room as Alex’s laughter drifts up the stairwell.
I’m in my room, gasping for breath. My father doesn’t just write about murderers, he is one.
That’s the only explanation. And I know that killers come from every background.
I’ve read about psychos who have committed escalating violent crimes leading eventually to multiple murders.
Men who were known to the police for years before their killings were finally uncovered.
But then there are others. Charming, smart, accomplished men.
Men, who when they were finally exposed as cold-blooded killers, left astonished and devastated families in their wake.
My father hid behind his wealth and celebrity until I showed up and things started falling apart.