Chapter Sixty-Three. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
Betty is asleep on the couch, her features slack, her head tilted back on a cushion. Sandra headed upstairs to her small office a little while ago, trailed by Hank. As tired as I am, I can’t rest.
I scroll through my phone and see Alex’s disappearance has made national news.
“Police reportedly have no solid leads in the case,” a reporter says in a reel shared to Instagram as she stands in front of the sorority house.
“Alex Finch was last seen buying an energy drink at the CVS on Kinwood Street, then getting into her car and heading back toward this Tri Delt sorority house on Marquis’s campus.
She disappeared somewhere along the way. ”
I’ve seen enough true crime shows to know the stats for abductions. With every passing hour, survival becomes less likely.
I stare at Alex’s photo on the screen, remembering how she’d stood in front of Josh’s house, demanding to be seen. The world can swallow up young women; it happens all too often. It claimed Betty’s friends, too.
My body is too jittery to remain still, so I stand up and walk over to the bookshelf, looking at the titles.
Sandra and I have overlapping tastes—she also likes mysteries, nonfiction, and self-help books.
For a moment I wonder how it would feel to live in this big, beautiful home surrounded by trees.
Lonely, I decide. But Sandra had loneliness as a companion all during her early life; she must have made peace with isolation.
I squat down to look at the knickknacks on the lowest shelf. They’re whimsical pieces of art—a pink polka-dotted snake coiling up into a reverse funnel, a calico cat unspooling a ball of yarn, and a yellow ceramic dog lifting his leg against a mini fire hydrant.
My thighs are straining again so I reach out to hold on to the smooth, sturdy wood composing the side of the bookshelf, preparing to hoist myself up. And then I see something that makes no sense at all—a small brass plaque affixed to an inside shelf.
I’m frozen for a long moment. When I finally rise, I’m looking directly into the Ring camera. The one Sandra could be watching from upstairs right now.
I’m being paranoid again, I tell myself—just like when I imagined the sisters had set a trap for me, and that Sam knew I was in his basement. Sandra is a busy professional; she’s answering emails, not monitoring Betty and me.
I turn around and walk back to the couch, easing down next to Betty. I must’ve gotten something wrong, I think. The brass plaque doesn’t mean anything—if I even did see it. I’m so tired I don’t trust my own eyes. There could be so many simple explanations.
Betty fidgets in her sleep. “Please don’t,” she breathes.
I pat her arm, whispering, “You’re safe.” I know she must be in the throes of a nightmare. But it feels as if she’s speaking directly to me, telling me once again to stop talking myself out of what my primal brain suspects. Even if it makes no sense.
The hair rises on my arms as I stand up and walk to the bookshelf again.
I bend down and this time I look more closely, forcing myself to see it clearly. Before I couldn’t glimpse the words on a small metal plate on the inside wall of the lowest cubby; I only knew the object shouldn’t be there. Now I see the logo clearly.
The bookshelf isn’t custom-made. The name of the furniture store Ethan Allen is branded onto the plate.
I straighten up again, this time swiveling so I don’t face the camera. I hurry to Betty’s side. I’m reaching for her shoulder to rouse her when Sandra’s voice comes from behind me.
“Did you two have a nice rest?”