I pull back my curtain. I stare at the street outside.
That’s when I see him.
Standing there, directly in a wash of light where I’m certain to spot him. Very tall, lanky build, red sweatsuit, multiple gold chains. His hair is pulled back from his face in an intricate pattern, revealing a face that is lean, callous. Cruel.
He stares right at me. I see him. He sees me.
I let the curtain drop. I tumble back onto my bed.
I think wildly, I need Piper. Where’s my attack cat?
But when I check under the bed, Piper’s gone.
I order myself not to panic. I tell myself I’m strong and capable and I’ve been in deep shit before. Then I nervously work the lock of my door, easing it open long enough for me to creep downstairs and grab Stoney’s bat. As long as I’m there, I check the front door—still secured. Then the side door—also bolted. The side door is unmarked and solid metal. No one is getting through that. The bar’s front door, however . . . Smoked glass. It can be shattered. Would probably set off an alarm, but maybe noise doesn’t matter. A determined predator on the hunt. In, out, done.
I recheck the locks, then head upstairs, holding the bat stiffly before me.
Once in my apartment, I hit the bolt lock. I gingerly move the curtain back. I see retro dude still standing on the sidewalk, staring up at me.
I should call Lotham. And say what? Livia’s evil older brother is watching me? And why haven’t I heard from Lotham anyway? Surely Boston’s finest has learned something by now. So why the radio silence?
One a.m. Two a.m. I sit on the bed facing the door, bat across my knees, phone within easy reach.
I doze off. Dreams of blood and Paul and screams so primal they shiver up my spine. I’m chasing Angelique Badeau down a long corridor, never able to catch up. Except then I turn a corner and the tracksuit man is there pointing a gun.
“Couldn’t leave it alone,” he says.
He pulls the trigger. Angelique screams and falls to the ground, a bloody hole in her gut. He pulls the trigger again and now I’m falling to the ground, a bloody hole in my gut. A third booming shot. Paul screams the loudest, blood everywhere, as he collapses beside us.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“But you killed us.” Now they’re both angry and it’s all my fault and so many things I should’ve done differently, should’ve done better. I’m falling down down down. Into an abyss of tortured souls and clasping hands and guilty consciences, mostly my own.
A cat appears, growling low. She leaps into the fray, slashing out with her claws. I feel pain, startlingly harsh, refreshingly clear, just as I bolt upright, clutching my arm against my chest. My phone is ringing.
I spy Piper, now on my bed, twitching her tail crankily as she grooms her right front paw. I glance down at my forearms to discover fresh scratches.
I don’t have time to consider the matter. Three a.m. My phone still chiming. I answer it.
At long last, I hear Lotham’s voice.
He says, “We have a body.”
And just like that, I’ve failed again.
CHAPTER 29
Lotham sits in the rear booth. He’s wearing yesterday’s snazzy ensemble with his tie loosened and dress shirt wrinkled. He looks gutted.
I pour him a cup of hot coffee. When he stares at it blankly, I head to the bar, grab a bottle of rum, and add a shot. Just because I’m an alcoholic doesn’t mean other people can’t drink.
I return the rum, take a seat across from him. I’m still wearing my oversized T-shirt with a pair of men’s boxers. They were Paul’s, once, but we’re not here to discuss that.
“Speak,” I order.
“What happened to your arm?”
I look down at the blood-crusted gashes. “Piper.”
“Did you try to spoon with her or something?”
“Or something. Speak.”
Lotham takes a fortifying gulp of rum-laced coffee. His hand is shaking. I’m not sure he notices till he tries to set the mug down and sloshes coffee over the edge. “Sorry.”
I wait.
“I didn’t even know she was missing,” he mutters at last. “Fifteen-year-old girl, and we didn’t even know she was lost till a couple of days ago.”
Which is how I learn we’re talking about Livia Samdi, not Angelique Badeau.
“Where did you find the body?”
“Franklin Park. Dumped behind a tree.”
I wince. “Harsh.”
“She was fully clothed,” he says.
I get it. There are other options. “Cause of death?”
“Bruises around the neck. Petechial hemorrhages in the eyes.”
“Strangulation.”
“Park was the dump site. Forensic gurus will have to perform some magic to see if we can narrow in on place of death. Homeless guy flagged down a patrol car. Poor man was just looking for a place to crash for the night, when he found a body instead.”
I nod. Lotham keeps talking.
“Initial analysis, wherever Livia had been staying, it wasn’t on the streets. She was too clean for that. She was dressed simply—jeans, a Patriots T-shirt, sneakers. None of the items were brand-new, but none appeared that old either. She was noticeably thin, her fingernails chewed down to the nubs, her back molars worn from repeated grinding. Definite signs of chronic stress, according to the ME, though not necessarily physical abuse. No bruises, fresh lacerations, healing fractures, that sort of thing. She looked pretty good, all things considered. You know, other than her neck.” Lotham exhaled heavily, chugged more coffee.
“Angelique?”
“Homeless man didn’t see anyone in the area. We’re still reviewing video footage now. But that section of the park is off the beaten path. I’d say whoever dumped her knew what he was doing.”
It’s such a sad term. Dumping. Like trash or unwanted goods, instead of a teenage girl.
“Livia’s family?” I ask.
“I did the notification myself. Her mother didn’t appear surprised at all. Just flat—that parent who’s always feared the worst and now doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“I know how it is.”
“J.J. was there.”
“Johnson,” I say. I don’t know why. Just to get in one last dig.
“Of the two, he was the more emotional. Initial response, stricken, followed by pissed off, followed by driving his fist into the wall.”