“How are you?” I ask her. “Really?”
I catch the shake in the breath she takes in, and it hurts me. “Okay,” she says, and I hear the lie loud and clear. “The TBI is taking the case, I just got word.”
“And you’re just going to step off?” I ask. I know better. Her silence confirms it. “Kez—”
“Can’t just walk away from this, Gwen. Those little girls . . .”
It is about the little girls . . . but it’s more than that, and we both know it. The child she’s now carrying was a joy, and it’s become a reminder that life is so terribly fragile, and tragedy so unspeakably final.
I understand why she’s obsessing; I’d probably do the same. But it’s risky. Kez has done plenty of things on her personal time that a larger police force than Norton’s might find questionable; pursuing her own investigation will be something massive enough to put her job in danger if she doesn’t get buy-in from her chief, and we both know that. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation won’t welcome her poking around, either . . . any more than it will welcome Gwen Proctor, the ex-wife of a serial killer, PI license or not. But I wasn’t planning to ask their permission, and I’m guessing Kez isn’t going to either.
“So what’s your plan?” I ask.
“Thought I’d head up that road in both directions,” she says. “There have got to be a few places out there. Maybe somebody saw something.”
“And maybe you should let the TBI do that?”
“They’re doing a grid search of the woods around that pond today,” Kez says. “Just talked to Prester, and he’s going on out there. I tried to talk him out of it. Best I could get him to agree to was to split the hours, so I’ll take over as soon as I finish doing this check.”
“You want company?” I ask her. “Kez. You need it. Especially if you’re knocking on doors out there all by yourself.”
“I’d love some. But you have to hang back. House rules.”
“I’ll meet you at your office,” I tell her. “Give me forty-five minutes.”
“Okay,” she says. “Drive safe and text me from the parking lot because you know the looks I’d get if you came inside.”
“Oh, I know. I’ll be careful. Mind if I give you some unasked-for advice?” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“Take some deep breaths. Clear your head. Then get your boss on board. I know you want to dive right into this thing, but fact is, it looks to me like it’ll be a long, tough haul. Conserve your passion. You’re going to need it.”
“Oh,” she says, “I got enough passion. Believe that.”
I do. There’s a hardness in her voice I’ve never heard before. This has got its claws deep.
She hangs up with a quick goodbye, and I give up on the sleep-inducing background check and get my things together for the drive. I’m actually grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge to take on the road when the doorbell rings. I go to the security camera feed to see who it is.
The feed shows a delivery driver holding a handheld device, looking impatient. Behind him on the street looms a dark-colored van, no logo. I stare at him for a moment. No emblem on his shirt, but he’s got some kind of ID badge clipped on. I liked the old days, when the only delivery people came in clearly marked vans, with recognizable uniforms. It’s too easy for someone to gain access these days; all they need is a clipboard and a box.
I ask the delivery person, through the doorbell microphone, to hold up the ID to the camera. It does look legit. So I go to the front, turn off the alarm, and open the door. Situational awareness, as always; I’ve automatically identified how far it is to the nearest weapon, and I brace myself in case of attack. That’s what PTSD does to you; it makes you constantly evaluate your chances of survival against the normal as well as the unexpected. It’s exhausting. In my case, it’s also been pretty necessary.
The driver just shoves the device to me and says, “Sign here, please.” I take it and scrawl something with my finger that doesn’t remotely resemble a signature, but he doesn’t even glance at it, just hits a button and hands me a slender, folder-size cardboard envelope. He’s halfway back to the van before I can turn it over and see that it’s not addressed to me . . . or, not to Gwen Proctor.
It’s addressed to Gina Royal, my old name. No return address visible.
I feel a hot and cold wave splash through me. It leaves me furious. My first impulse is to yell at him to come back and refuse delivery, but then I get control of that instinctive flinch. Better to know than not, I tell myself, and grab a picture of his license plate before I shut the door. I engage the alarm and settle on the couch. I turn the envelope over and rip the easy-open tab straight across, then carefully, with the envelope facing away from me, open it wide and shake out the contents.
What falls out is a smaller white paper envelope. It lands facedown. I check the package, and there’s nothing else in it. I set it aside, take a breath, and flip the envelope over.
I know this handwriting. It makes me go feral inside, rolls in my stomach like a ball of razor wire. He’s dead. Melvin Royal is dead. I tell myself that, but it’s like a whisper into utter darkness. Swallowed up and gone.
I keep staring at the envelope as if that will make it go away, make it not happen, but here it is and here it will remain. I should burn it, I think. Or shred it unopened. It’s thin enough I could do that in the office without trouble. And there’s a certain freedom in the idea that’s seductive.
Melvin has nothing to say that’s meaningful to my life now.
And yet, my hands reach for it. I’m almost observing it, not directing, as I rip open the top and slide out the letter. Unfold it.
The cramped, precise writing that stains the page makes me flinch so badly that the paper makes a faint, protesting flutter. Without willing it, without wanting it, my eyes focus on the first line.
Dear Gina,
It’s always Gina.
I know this will come as a shock to you, but I’m not angry anymore.
That’s a lie; he was always angry, a beast waiting to pounce, even when he hid it behind smiles and calm words and charm. He was angry the night I killed him.
I forgive you for all the harm you did me.
I make a sound in the back of my throat, half a laugh and half a gag. Harm I did him, a monster who claimed an appalling number of lives. Manipulation and control, gaslighting, Melvin’s stock in trade. I can feel him on the other end of this letter, calculating effect.
If you’re reading this, I’ve died. Maybe that was just karmic justice; maybe it was something else. I’ve always thought that if I die it’ll be because of you. Was it?
Yes, you asshole. Yes, it was. I shot you in the face.
Doesn’t matter, dead is dead. But you know I can’t let go that easily, don’t you? I loved you once, Gina. Not that you were ever worthy of that love. But I can’t help it. We were meant for each other. Made for each other.
The poisoned honey in those words. I’d wanted to believe in him for the longest time, craved the affection he showed me, and I’d swallowed the bait every time. I’d believed I wasn’t worth much, that no one could ever love me but Melvin, that my only happiness lay with him. And here it is again: control.