3
Not police.
The relief that ran through Jem was like Icy Hot, that first flush of cool, and then waves of heat building until he was flushed, almost sweating.
Police meant jail.
Jail meant Decker.
Four walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of instant potatoes and commercial cleaner.
It was like stepping back from somewhere inside his head—back into here and now, back into their home, back to Tean. Everything came into focus: the living room, Scipio’s low growl, the puddle of light around the lone lamp they’d left burning. And Tean, watching him, a question in his eyes.
Jem nodded, although he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Tean frowned, but he said, “Scipio, sit,” and then he pushed open the storm door.
The woman who stepped inside had a smear of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, like her hand hadn’t been steady when she’d been putting it on.
She cooed at Scipio, though, and said, “Oh, hi!” like she’d run into somebody she knew, and Scipio stopped growling and started thumping his tail against the floor. “Can I pet him?” she asked.
“He’s not going to leave you alone,” Tean said.
“That’s okay; I love dogs.”
While the woman knelt and petted Scipio with more of those cooing noises, Tean circled around her to stand next to Jem.
“She wants to talk about River,” Tean said. The deep shadows in the room buried Tean’s eyes, leaving nothing but a distant glimmer Jem couldn’t read.
Not that Jem needed to read them; he had a pretty good idea how Tean felt.
The doc still had nightmares about the night he’d seen River Jordan killed in front of them.
She was an independent journalist who had been looking into the Rydel Owens murders, which Jem and Tean had helped solve.
Maybe solve wasn’t the right word. But they’d saved Daniel after he’d gotten himself kidnapped, and they’d rescued an agent from the State Bureau of Investigation.
But the bad guys—a gang of lunatics who wore rubber wolf masks as they killed—had escaped.
Somehow in the process of her investigation, River had drawn the killers’ attention to herself.
They had started to stalk her. And when River had tailed Jem and Tean to a remote ski lodge—where a blizzard had snowed them in—the pack of killers had followed as well.
They had killed River and almost killed Tean. And then they had escaped again.
“Okay, okay,” the woman was saying, laughing as she got to her feet. “That’s enough.”
Scipio, however, kept nuzzling into her hands for more pets.
“I warned you,” Tean said. The tone was light, but Jem could hear the strain beneath it.
“It’s fine,” she said. She laughed again. “I really don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Jem said, “I didn’t get your name. Jem Berger. And this is Tean.”
“It’s good to meet you.” She had a firm handshake, and she made eye contact and smiled. “Amy Graham.” She waited a beat, and when they didn’t say anything, she said, “Crime Moms.” And after another beat, with some of her smile fading, she said, “River and I co-hosted it.”
“What’s that?” Tean said.
Jem had to hide a smile at the flicker of disappointment on Amy’s face.
“Well, it’s a podcast,” Amy said. “It’s very popular. We ranked—”
“Can we help you with something?” Jem asked. “It’s late. And please don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re not interested in being interviewed.”
“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, no! That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because— Can we sit down?”
Jem gestured her to a chair, and he settled onto the sofa. Tean stood behind him, one hand on Jem’s shoulder. His fingers curled around the collar of Jem’s shirt; Jem didn’t think the doc even knew he was doing it.
And then no one said anything. Amy’s smiles and laughter and cooing noises had all faded. She sat with her knees together and her hands in a knot, and she stared at the coffee table, her mouth moving like she was practicing smiles. Finally, with a watery breath, she said, “I’m trying not to cry.”
Tean got her tissues. Then he took his place behind Jem, and his fingers curled under Jem’s collar again.
“Thank you,” Amy said, but she didn’t press the tissues to her eyes; she wadded them in a fist so tight that her knuckles were white.
“Is this about River?” Jem asked.
“I—I don’t know.” And then her breath hitched, and she said, “Yes. I think so.” She smiled as tears started to roll down her cheeks. “I feel like I’m going crazy, actually.”
Tean’s hand tightened around Jem’s collar.
“Did something happen?” Jem asked.
She laughed again, but it was more like crying. “That’s the thing.” But she sat up straighter, did a quick dab with the tissues—wouldn’t want to ruin all that contouring—and her voice firmed up. “You aren’t familiar with our podcast, I guess.”
Jem shook his head.
Tean’s voice was almost a whisper. “No.”
“Right. Well, I’m going to tell you a little about it.
For context.” That wide slice of a smile flashed out again as more tears fell.
“It’s a true crime podcast. And it’s been a hit.
We started out with a broader focus. I have a degree in criminal justice, and River was interested in prison reform—” She stopped.
“That’s not really important. The important thing is that we realized pretty quickly that the episodes that did the best were the ones where we looked at real crimes.
River was always so smart about stuff like that, so she suggested we switch to true crime, and it’s been a hit. ”
“I thought River was a journalist,” Tean said.
“She was. A good one. But she was independent, understand, which meant she had a lot of different projects. And all that stuff—researching, interviewing, investigating—it was perfect for looking into real crimes. She could get an angle nobody else had. She could find something new. One time, the stuff we turned up even led to a conviction.”
We, Jem noted. And he didn’t miss the way her voice got bright.
“I’m telling you this because when people find out about the podcast, they make assumptions, or they make jokes, or—or whatever.
‘I bet you hate walking through a parking lot at night.’ Or ‘You probably have a lifetime supply of Mace.’ Or ‘Doesn’t that stuff freak you out?
’” She tried for the big smile again, but this time, it collapsed.
“Having my best friend murdered, yeah, that freaked me out.”
It was like a light went on at the back of Jem’s head. He leaned forward. “They don’t believe you.”
He wasn’t even sure what it meant. Not entirely.
But he could feel it, the same way he could tell, sometimes, when he was running a game, when he was riffing, what someone wanted, or what they were thinking, or what they wanted him to say.
It was something just below the surface of his brain—his gut, or whatever you wanted to call it. And he was right.
Behind the heart-shaped glasses, Amy’s eyes got huge.
“Who doesn’t believe you?” Tean asked. “What does that mean?”
“Everybody,” Amy said. “The police. My friends. My dad.” She laughed, but her fist tightened around the tissues again. “Take your pick.”
“What happened?”
“I know this is going to sound crazy.” And for a moment, she was about to cry again. But somehow she didn’t, and she said, “I know. I really do. But someone is following me.”
Tean’s hand, still wrapped around Jem’s collar, was tense now.
Jem ran the backs of his fingers across his beard. Then he said, “Shit.”
“Who’s following you?” Tean asked.
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t even know if I’m being followed, not really. It’s—it’s little things. There was this black truck—”
“Fuck me.” The words escaped Jem. He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“What? You know whose truck it is? It’s them, isn’t it?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Tean said. “We need to slow down. First, tell us what happened.”
Amy’s gaze stayed fixed on Jem for another long moment, like she might be able to see the truth in his face. Finally, though, she said, “I saw this truck a few times. Following me. I mean, I figured out it was following me.”
“You’re sure it was the same truck?”
“It’s older. It’s not in good condition. I’m not a car girlie, but I could tell it was the same one.”
“All right.”
“And one night, it was following me, so I drove to a police station and pulled in. I went inside and told an officer, and he went out and looked. Nothing, of course. They were nice about it. They even had a woman drive me home.”
“And?” Jem asked.
“And that was it. I didn’t see the truck again.”
“But something else happened.”
“This is where it…it gets strange. I started seeing people. The same people. Like, at the grocery store. Or walking on my block. And yes, my grocery store is in my neighborhood, and yes, it makes sense that I’d see the same people.
I know. Everybody has a rational explanation for it.
But—” She cut off, a helpless note hanging in the air.
“But you know something’s fucked up,” Jem said.
“Yes! Yes, exactly! And it doesn’t matter who I tell, they all think the same thing.”
“You’re a young woman,” Tean said. “You host a true crime podcast. Your friend was stalked and then murdered.”
“So,” Jem picked up, “you’re either imagining it, or you want attention.”
“Oh my gosh.” She laughed and pressed the tissues to her eyes.
“Nobody has told me I wanted attention, but you’re right, obviously that’s what they think.
” She shook her head. “The police asked a bunch of questions, but as soon as they found out who I am and what I do, they stopped caring. They didn’t say that, but I could see it.
My parents think I’m having a nervous breakdown; my dad said I was too stressed, and he told my brother this wouldn’t be happening if I’d gotten married.
My mom said she put my name on the temple prayer roll, and she bought me a rape whistle. ”
“What do they look like?”