They're Gone Page 6

  “Tens of thousands.”

  The world kept falling away from Deb. She turned from the sink and faced Levi.

  “That much?”

  He nodded. “It’s not uncommon for men to form an attachment, to give money for groceries, rent, clothes, bills. Especially if the professional relationship lasts and becomes personal.” Levi paused again, seemed to weigh his words. “But I can keep you informed of anything I find, once we have information privy to share.”

  “I don’t want to know … I don’t want to know any of this.”

  Levi pulled a card and pen out of his pocket, turned it over, scribbled on the back. “This is my cell phone. You can contact me whenever you’d like. I’ll be in touch, but know that these investigations can take a while.”

  “Is there danger?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Is there any danger? From the woman killing these men?”

  “We don’t believe so. But keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

  Anything unusual.

  Nothing would ever be usual.

  Nothing would ever be the same. Grant had changed the world and left Deb behind to stagger through unbalanced. With nothing to grasp.

  “Please,” Levi finished, “feel free to contact me if anything comes up.”

  He left.

  Deb stayed in the kitchen, looking at the table and chairs and drawers and sink and cabinets as if she’d never seen them before.

  CHAPTER

  10

  THE KILLER WAS there as Agent Levi Price left Deb’s home. Price stopped like he wanted to say something, then kept walking to his car.

  The killer wanted to go inside, wanted to rush into Deb’s house, but had already been inside her home.

  Many times.

  Deb had never known. The killer was quiet about it. Even standing next to Deb while she slept, her face in pain. Like she was dreaming about Grant.

  Had stood over Kim too. That was harder because Kim closed the bedroom door; Deb left hers open. Kim’s doorknob had to be held tight, slowly twisted, pushed open without letting the door creak or catch. Just to make sure the girl was home and wouldn’t show up while the killer was staring down at her mother.

  Kim slept naked, but the killer barely looked at her.

  Didn’t care about Kim, only Deb.

  The killer could watch Deb endlessly, lost in love and beauty, but had other things to do in the house.

  Two nights ago the killer spent hours in the basement, until morning’s pale winter sun. It didn’t seem like Kim or Deb had been down here since Grant died. Grant must have been the only one who used this storage space, the only one who had ever placed anything in the file cabinets. But nothing incriminating was here. Grant had been smart enough to burn his paper trail of payments.

  The killer went through files all night, accidentally fell asleep, ended up trapped all day in the basement, unable to leave while Deb cried relentlessly for her dead husband above. Desperate to eat, forced to piss in an empty clay flower pot. Finally slipped away when the sun slipped out of sight.

  Like any seduction, there was a point beyond return, a chance to be caught down here, murder as the only escape.

  The killer had a gun but didn’t want to use it.

  And never against Deb.

  But love unrequited is a powerful, unquenchable thing. Soon the killer would have to show Deb the depth of those feelings, how they clung like an anchor in the seabed floor.

  And hope that anchor stayed firmly in place.

  Unmoored, everything would be lost.

  Everything, including Deb and her daughter, would be swiftly, violently destroyed.

  CHAPTER

  11

  CESSY PAID THE Uber driver, stared at that man’s house across the street. The man who had texted her.

  This was too much like her mom’s life, the bad life. Sitting in a car outside of someone’s apartment or house. Entering a strange home owned by a threatening man, a man on his own property.

  And men are dangerous when they feel powerful and secure. When they feel ownership.

  Hector hadn’t hurt her until she was his wife.

  Cessy stepped out into the cold gray evening. The house was in Silver Spring, a small suburban Maryland city just on the outskirts of DC, an hour from her apartment in Baltimore. The houses here were old, some close to a hundred years or more, and the business district wasn’t more than a block away from the residences. To Cessy, the close proximity between residential and professional neighborhoods added a schizophrenic quality to the community. Cities were meant to be confusingly combined. Not suburbs.

  Cessy walked up his porch, knocked on the door as the Uber driver drove off.

  It only took a few moments for him to answer.

  “About time.”

  He was still the same beefy blond guy who’d come to her apartment a week ago, but now he was wearing a T-shirt and jean shorts and looked slightly ridiculous.

  Cessy couldn’t recall a man wearing jean shorts who wasn’t a toddler.

  It helped settle her nerves.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He looked surprised. “I never told you?”

  Cessy waited.

  “It’s Barry.”

  “Barry?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone named Barry.”

  And Barry, she didn’t add, was about as nonthreatening a name as you could get.

  He smiled. Instinctively, Cessy smiled back. The shared moment dispelled more of the tension. Not completely, but Cessy welcomed any sign of warmth.

  “Shut up,” Barry said playfully, “and get in here.”

  Cessy was hesitant to go into his house, but she had come to talk to him.

  She followed Barry inside.

  He closed the door behind her, his arm brushing her body.

  “You live here?” Cessy asked. The house was big, but bereft of furnishings. Large, empty rooms with hardwood floors and white walls.

  “I got a couple of houses,” Barry said loftily. He paused at the base of a small staircase leading upstairs. The house was a split level, and each stairway only consisted of a handful of steps. “You coming up?”

  Cessy crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to talk about what Hector owed.”

  Barry sighed. Cessy glanced into the kitchen, saw a table and a chair. So the house wasn’t completely empty.

  “You suddenly came up with fifteen thousand?” Barry asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  Cessy thought about her answer.

  “Not even close.”

  She thought about it a little more.

  “Actually, just no. I didn’t.”

  “So we do my other arrangement,” Barry said, and he climbed a stair. “Pay it off in sweat.”

  “You were serious about that?”

  He eyed her. “Absolutely.”

  “What happens if I don’t break a sweat?”

  “Still counts. Besides, I’ve never been with a Mexican chick. I’m curious.”

  “I’m Panamanian.”

  He shrugged. “Like it matters.”

  “Give me another way.”

  Barry cracked a knuckle. “This is the other way.” He turned, ascended the rest of the stairs.

  Cessy followed him, tried to keep calm. Tried to make sure nothing was between her and the front door if she had to run, relieved that the first and second floors were only separated by a small jump of stairs.

  Had it been a traditional lengthy staircase, she wouldn’t have followed him.

  At least, she realized, that’s what she was telling herself. Rather than admit that she was already under his control, already acquiescing to his demands.

  That she was scared of what would happen if she didn’t.

  The second floor was a row of closed doors and an open bathroom at the far end. Cessy followed Barry to the closest room, a large master bedroom, empty except
for a mattress in the middle.

  “You’re kind of a minimalist, huh?”

  “I told you, I got a couple of houses. Haven’t decorated this one yet.” Barry rubbed his hands together.

  And suddenly Cessy realized how careless she’d been. She’d been so caught up in thoughts about Barry and the money that she hadn’t considered other men might be here.

  Cessy stepped back into the hall.

  “Hey!”

  She ignored Barry. Walked down the hallway, opening doors and glancing inside. The rooms were empty.

  “What are you doing?” he called out.

  Cessy headed back toward the master bedroom, talked as she walked, trying to establish some control over the situation. Over herself. “I don’t exactly feel comfortable. You know, in a house I’ve never been in with a man who threatened me?”

  “It’s just me here, Cessy,” Barry said a little sadly.

  At his tone, Cessy wondered if she was judging him too harshly.

  And then Cessy dismissed that notion, wondered why she always did that. Why she was still willing to give men—particularly damned, damaged men—the benefit of doubt. Willing to make excuses for them.

  She remembered the times Hector had asked for her forgiveness, especially when the abuse first started, and she gave it.

  And the times he didn’t ask. And she gave it anyway.

  Cessy wondered if all women felt that way as she walked into the bedroom. Or if she was just projecting after Hector

  Barry had his shirt off, his pants were around his ankles, and he was holding fuzzy blue handcuffs.

  Cessy stopped in the doorway and stared.

  It was a lot to process.

  Barry grinned.

  “You ready?”

  Cessy stayed in the doorway.

  “What … what’s happening here?”

  “Time to start working off your debt.”

  Barry stepped out of his pants. All he was wearing were black socks and tight white underwear. His chest was hairy, surprisingly so to Cessy. For some reason, it was natural to imagine someone muscular as hairless.

  “I told you,” Cessy said after a long moment, “I want a different way. I shouldn’t have to pay Hector’s debt. I shouldn’t have to … I’m sorry, why do you have handcuffs?” She stared at the blue fuzz. “And what did you do to Grover?”

  Barry ignored the Sesame Street reference. “I like to be in charge,” he said. “Especially with whores.”

  “I’m not a whore.”

  Barry grinned. “Afraid you’ll like it too much? Turn out like your mom?”

  She didn’t let the jab affect her. “Yeah, that’s it. Come on, Barry. There has to be another way.”

  “The men I work with don’t negotiate. Hector tried. You saw how that turned out for him.”

  “The people Hector worked for killed him?”

  Barry didn’t reply.

  “Who are they?”

  Barry absent-mindedly played with the handcuffs as he spoke. “They’re killers. And they’re everywhere.”

  Cessy didn’t know what to say.

  “Fuck me once and what you owe is cut in half. Seven five. I’ll cover the rest.”

  She blinked. “Really?”

  Slowly swinging the cuffs. “Promise.”

  It wasn’t a bad offer, Cessy had to admit. Even if she couldn’t afford seventy-five hundred.

  But something deep inside Cessy thoroughly rejected Barry’s suggestion, refused to even entertain it. Revulsion that came from somewhere Cessy had never realized—sharp memories of her mother; the sorrowful women she and Rose worked with; the brutal names Hector had called her. She’d never accept those identities, never walk that broken glass path, never again be what someone else wanted.

  She’d find another way.

  “Nah,” she said. “Hard pass.”

  Cessy had seen quite a few different expressions on men’s faces over the years, but the darkness and hate that crossed Barry’s face startled her.

  His rage was so palpable that her will nearly wavered.

  “One time,” he said, gesturing at Cessy in his underwear and socks, the handcuffs like excited open mouths flying through the air. “One time and you’re basically free. And you won’t do it.”

  “I’m sorry. But there must be—”

  Barry lunged forward and smacked her across the face with the handcuffs.

  Cessy took a step back, stunned, her face stinging.

  She hadn’t realized there was metal under the blue fuzz.

  Barry brought his fist down on Cessy’s head. She fell to the floor and sat, her hand touching something wet. She squinted up, saw Barry’s twisted face, saw the metal handcuffs rushing toward her head.

  Cessy lifted her hands, felt the steel slam into her fingers. Her foot shot out and caught Barry just under the knee. He yelped and fell.

  Cessy pulled herself to her feet, lunged to the door.

  The chain connecting the handcuffs wrapped around her neck.

  Her fingers scrabbled at it, trying to find some space between her throat and the chain. She reared up, still on her knees, felt Barry behind her. Heard him grunting, her own tortured inhales.

  Cessy pushed back, drove him into the wall. He didn’t let go. The exertion only forced the chain tighter around her throat. She struggled until she couldn’t breathe. Panic set in.

  Her legs kicked and her arms flailed but Cessy couldn’t get away. Her body flopped and she felt his head against hers, and she leaned forward and snapped her head back. Hard.

  Cessy felt Barry’s nose break. The chain loosened. She pulled it away, threw it, and ran from the room.

  She ran, holding her neck, wondering if it was damaged, if she’d ever be able to breathe regularly. Barry was shouting, swearing.

  She reached the stairs, grasped the bannister, and was suddenly in the air. It took Cessy a moment to realize she was falling. Her knees landed on the first floor and her hands reached out and braced her before her face could smack into the hardwood. She stood slowly, knees in pain, trying to figure out what had happened. Looked up, saw Barry watching her from the second floor. Realized she’d been pushed.

  He cursed again and raced down the steps, the handcuffs back in his hand, waving back and forth. Blood from his nose masked his face.

  Cessy limped into the kitchen, saw the chair. She picked it up. Swung it into Barry as he ran through the door.

  The impact shook her arms, her entire upper body.

  But Barry fell.

  Cessy lifted the chair and brought it down on him. He raised a hand weakly and she brought it down again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Cessy finally dropped the chair, sank to the floor. She couldn’t look at Barry’s body, or the blood on her hands and shirt and face. She put her elbows on her knees, her head in her palms. Stared down into the kitchen tiles.

  Cessy didn’t know what had happened. Everything was blurry.

  She had no idea if Barry was still alive.

  The only thing Cessy knew was that she was in more trouble than she’d ever been.

  They’re killers, Barry had told her.

  And they’re everywhere.

  PART TWO

  EVERYWHERE KILLERS

  CHAPTER

  12

  CESSY WAS ABOUT a block from Barry’s house, walking fast, when she realized she needed to go back.

  She couldn’t remember anything about the state of the house or the condition her fight with Barry had left it in.

  Or what evidence of hers remained behind.

  And, like the last time she’d been in this type of situation, Cessy knew the importance of clearing evidence.

  She bit her lip, turned, started walking back. Kept her head down. Wished she had a baseball cap, sunglasses, a hooded sweatshirt, anything to hide her identity.

  And anything to hide his blood.

  From anyone who saw her, and from herself.

  She
walked up the sidewalk to the porch, saw that she’d left the front door open.

  Or had she closed it?

  Was someone else inside?

  Had Barry woken and come out?

  Cessy really wanted to turn around, head back down the sidewalk, call an Uber and go far, far away. Leave this night behind and never think about it again. Push everything away. But she’d run away once before, and it hadn’t worked.

  The past is your shadow, and it never truly leaves. You can never run away from yourself.

  Cessy walked inside. Closed the front door behind her.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  Cessy waited for an answer, didn’t receive one.

  The house was quiet.

  Cessy took a step toward the kitchen, then another.

  Another.

  She peeked around the wall and saw Barry lying in the corner.

  She walked over to his body, nudged it with her foot.

  Nothing.

  Cessy knelt and pressed the back of her index and middle fingers against the side of his neck.

  And felt a pulse.

  * * *

  It took an hour after she called, but Anthony Jenkins finally rang the doorbell.

  Cessy was sitting in the empty living room. She stayed sitting as Anthony walked in.

  “Whose house is this?” he asked. “It’s nice!”

  “The kitchen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go see the kitchen.”

  Anthony looked puzzled but did as she asked. Cessy looked back down at her hands, at the blood caked over the side of her thumb. She listened to Anthony’s footsteps recede, stop for several minutes, then slowly return.

  “Cessy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a dead guy in the kitchen. You know that, right?”

  “He’s not dead. I keep checking.”

  Anthony glanced back into the kitchen. “He looks dead. Who is he? And why’s he holding fuzzy blue handcuffs?”

  “His name’s Barry.”

  “Barry what?”

  “I don’t remember.” Cessy bit her lip. “I don’t know if he told me.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I hit him with a chair.”