Chapter Forty-Two

It can’t be true. Gabe can’t possibly have anything to do with this. He just…can’t.

I move closer again.

One of the pictures—a shot of a young Black woman with an easy smile—has something taped on the wall beside it. It’s a gold ring with a tiny ruby set into the center.

What the hell?

I sweep my attention over the other photos in search of an explanation. Of any explanation other than the obvious.

But I just find more evidence.

Hanging beside Monica’s picture is a necklace. A slightly discolored chain with a pendant that I recognize, because it’s the very same one that I saw around her neck in one of the photographs I found online.

“Gabe.” This time, his name is a painful, thick sound. “What did you do?”

A surreal ness settles over me. And unwillingly, I recall the feel of his lips on mine. Their warmth. Their softness. Their pleasantness. And bile surges up. I press my hand to my stomach and order myself not to contaminate the scene. I gag anyway. Professional detachment seems out of reach.

I try to back away from the hint of horror, and I stumble into the chair. My knees hit the ground. And when my hand flails to keep me from further damage, I knock into something, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses with a cracked lens lands right in front of me. I recognize those, too. They’re the ones from the boarded-up house in my old neighborhood. And now that I’m conscious of the connection, I realize they’re Jennika’s—the ones she’d worn in her favored social media picture.

But wasn’t Buddy the one who was there while I hid in the closet?

My head reels. I’d been quick to slot him into every scenario. Eagerly, even. But I hadn’t asked for confirmation about each one. It must’ve been Gabe some of the time. In the old house, for example. And he must’ve known I was there, too. The jog afterward had to have been a setup. What about the other serendipitous meetings? He was definitely outside Whimsy Café when I took Asher there. He showed up in the street right after that. And what about when I was chasing the guy at the hotel? Gabe was right there, as well.

Jesus. He was following me this whole time.

I start to push to my feet, and then stop. Because I spy something worse again—a small, plastic bag with a sealable top. And inside of that is a lock of red hair, tied with a pink ribbon. I nearly drop the bear spray that I’m still unconsciously clutching.

These are trophies. I don’t need my professional expertise to know it.

And Savannah’s bracelet.

I think of the way I’ve seen it flash on Gabe’s wrist so many times over the last few days. It was one of my best friend’s most prized possessions. Something that should have been buried with her. Now, though, I’m picturing her brother pull it off her cold, dead wrist. Did he kill her, too?

My eyes burn. Was she his first victim? Or was she the trigger for the others? His heartbreak had been so real. I’d swallowed it all.

I have to get out. No. I have to call for backup.

But where is Gabe now?

As if in reply to my silent question, my phone rings, nearly making me yelp. And with trembling fingers—I don’t dare let go of my weapon—I fumble to pull it from my pocket.

Unknown number, flashes across the screen.

I have to answer it. I know that. But my throat closes up as I tap the green button and lift the device to my ear. I can’t manage to get out a hello. The voice on the other end greets me anyway.

“Hello?” says Asher, sounding even weaker and more befuddled than usual. “Are you there? Are you okay?”

My vision wobbles, and I draw in a sharp breath. “Yes, I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Trin…your friend is at my house.”

“My—”

Oh, God.

I close my eyes. “Asher. Is he there with you right now?”

“Yes. And he says you should probably get here sooner rather than later.”

“Ash—”

The line is already dead. And for a second, I’m paralyzed. But I quickly realize that I have to act.

Sooner rather than later, my brain repeats back at me.

“Fuck you, Gabe,” I say aloud.

The vehement curse pushes me to make an effort to compartmentalize. And—thinking proactively—I snap several digital shots of the disturbing setup in front of me. Even though I’m experienced with death and the dark side of humanity, my closeness to this case makes me half avert my eyes as I take the pictures. I’m glad when the fifteen seconds it takes are over.

Next, I slam my fingers into my phone. 9-1-1. As I wait for the call to connect, I exit the tiny room. I’m expecting an immediate answer—our standard in Toronto is three rings—but I don’t get one. Instead, there’s an extended pause, a crackle, and then nothing.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say to the empty house.

I wait until I hit the bottom of the stairs before I dial again, and this time, it does ring. Six times. I’m about to give up when a very breathless dispatcher finally answers.

“Fire, police, or ambulance?” she says.

The lack of preamble—probably combined with my currently unstable frame of mind—throws me off, and I don’t answer the way I’m planning to, let alone the way I’m supposed to.

“Police,” I blurt instead.

“One moment.”

I want to be incredulous. There’s no way this can be the standard for service. And I know for a fact that Whimsy has its own dedicated dispatch line with two operators on at all times. But I just plain don’t have the minutes necessary to dwell on my disbelief. I click the phone off again. The 9-1-1 service will hold my call in the queue. They’ll phone me back, and if I don’t pick up, they’ll do their best to trace my location and send someone to investigate.

I hope.

I don’t dwell on what might happen if they don’t follow what I would expect to be protocol. Instead, I focus on getting out to my car and getting to Asher’s house.

Seven or eight minutes, I tell myself. That’s all this will take.

But as I step out of the house, I’m momentarily distracted. The air has a mildly acrid smell, and in the not-too-far distance, I can hear the wail of sirens. I’m almost certain that I can see the heaviness of gray smoke on the other side of town. Something serious is clearly going down. It explains the emergency services struggle. And it doesn’t bode well for my chance of getting some assistance. But I push aside the worrisome thought. I need to get to Asher, and if I really, truly have to do that on my own, I will.

I hurry down the driveway, climb into my car, and whip through the residential area as fast as I dare. Now, I’d welcome the intrusion of being pulled over. But I’m still unreasonably relieved when I get to a more open area of road. I hit the gas. I don’t look back. Not until I’ve reached the halfway point of the familiar, winding road that leads up to Asher’s place. There, I pull over to the side of the road for a thirty-second brainstorming session.

But as I contemplate what the best plan of action might be—if there is such a thing in a situation like this—the sprawl of Whimsy catches my attention. From my current vantage point, I can see it all. Including what appears to be a five-alarm fire, engulfing the scenic bridge that connects the town to the lakeside resort. I swallow nervously. Yes, I’m most definitely on my own. I stare at the flames and the flashing lights for another heartbeat, then turn my attention up the hill instead.

In an ideal world, my approach would be a subtle one. An utterly unexpected one. But I have to assume that Gabe forced Asher to make the call, and he knows that I’ll be coming. So what’s the alternative? I can’t go in shooting. I don’t even have a gun. All I’ve got are the bear spray and my wits. The former won’t do much good if Gabe is armed. What I need is a way to reason with him. To come to him on his level. I’ve talked criminals out of making bad decisions in the past. And those were people I didn’t even know. People whose backgrounds I had little information on, and who most definitely weren’t the older brother of my childhood best friend. The last part gives me pause.

Savannah’s brother.

It might not work. If he killed her, he might not have any remorse. But on such painfully short notice, it’s the only thing I can think of that might drag him back into humanity. And I only need to do that for long enough that I can take him down.

I let out a breath and think of Savannah and her smiling face. “I don’t want to use you as a pawn, my friend. But I know that wherever you are, you don’t want Gabe to keep doing this either. So I’ll do what I have to, and I know you’ll understand.”

With that decided, I shift the car from park into drive, and I hit the road once more. I write a speech in my head. An impassioned plea. I doubt that I’ll even have to fake the tears that I want to go with it. My heart is heavier than it’s ever been.

The remainder of the trip passes almost too quickly. In what seems to be no more than a moment, I’m having to slow the car as I approach Asher’s driveway. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe to find Gabe standing on the porch with a gun to Asher’s head. Instead, I see nothing. And I’m starting to feel like that’s a theme.

Fully aware that I’m presently exposed and potentially a target, I come to a halt. I’m wary. But I have questions tumbling around, too. Where is Gabe’s truck? Why call me here at all? And if it’s just to kill me, then why am I not on the receiving end of a bullet right this second?

“Only one way to get answers,” I say in a low voice.

I cut the engine and tell myself that no matter how things are about to go—no matter how painful and dangerous and utterly heartbreaking it might be—I need to get out of the car. I swing open the door, set my feet on the ground, and make sure that my hands are on display. The bear spray is tucked into my waistband, ready to go. Even if I assume that I won’t be given a chance to use it, I won’t go without some semblance of a fight. And I only make it a couple of steps before I hear Asher’s uncertain voice, drawing my attention to the fact that the door is partially ajar.

“Trinity?” he says. “He says he wants you to throw your weapon onto the ground. He says he knows you’ve got one hidden somewhere.”

Shit.

I take a steadying breath before answering. “Does he want to let you go and tell me that himself?”

There’s a silent pause, and I picture Gabe leaning in and instructing Asher on what to say. A few seconds later, my former teacher speaks up again.

“Your friend says, ‘fat chance,’” he tells me. “And that once you’ve dropped it, you can come around to the back of the house, and we’ll meet you there.”

A half dozen more curses flood my mind. My hands want to close into fists. I hate this feeling of powerlessness. But I make sure that my reply reflects none of that, and I address Gabe directly.

“Let him go!” I call out. “I’ll come around back. I’ll do whatever you want. But Professor Phillip doesn’t need to be hurt!”

There’s more silence, of course. Protracted, this time around. And I anticipate an argument at the end of it. For Gabe to point out that it will open a window for his hostage to call the police. Not to mention take away his leverage. Instead, I’m surprised.

Asher—clad in his dirty, mismatched clothes—comes stumbling out of the house. He trips down the stairs and lands flat on the ground a few feet from me, his face hitting the dirt in a way that makes my eyes water.

Automatically, I rush forward to help him. But he comes to his knees and puts up a hand.

“Stop,” he sputters, then expels a mouthful of debris. “Your friend doesn’t want you to touch me.”

He swipes a hand across his lips, and I see that they’re bleeding a little. He has a mottled bruise decorating his left eye, too. My stomach roils at the evidence of recent abuse.

“The person who did that to you is not my friend,” I state vehemently.

“Well. That’s good.” His expression goes blank for a second, and then he blinks at me. “He’s not very nice.”

I choose not to verbally address my feelings on the matter, and instead ask, “Did Gabe say anything about what he wanted you to do? Can you leave?”

He pushes to his feet and nods. “He said I should go. Because no one would believe me anyway.”

It could be much worse, I tell myself. Asher’s lack of credibility actually might be the thing that saves him.

I eye the house. I can’t see any sign of Gabe, but I’m sure that he’s watching.

Three more seconds tick by before I gesture to my car. “The keys are in the ignition. I want you to drive into town. Go straight to the police station. I don’t care if they don’t believe you. Make enough noise that they have no choice but to come out here and check, okay?”

“Okay,” Asher agrees, and he starts to turn toward the vehicle, but then stops again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The weapon.”

“Right,” I mutter, drawing the bear spray out and setting it resentfully on the ground. “Go now, okay?”

“Stay safe!” He says it so cheerfully that I almost want to laugh.

But as I take a few steps closer to Asher’s house, humor—even the dark kind—slides to the furthest crevices in my mind. I don’t know what Gabe wants from me. Or from this situation as a whole. But I know he won’t go gently. Despite the inevitability of a confrontation, I move cautiously by habit. I slink along the property, making my way to the rear of the squat building. When I reach the corner, I go so far as to press my back to the wall and listen before remembering that my presence is expected.

You mean demanded?

I order my subconscious to be quiet; I take a breath and make a move forward. I’m prepared for an ambush. For the click of a gun and a deadly warning. But again, I get nothing.

What the actual hell?

I almost want to give my head a scratch. The backyard—which is marked off from the surrounding wooded area by a dilapidated fence—is all but empty. There’s a small storage shed in the farthest corner. There’s a cement birdbath off to one side. But definitely no Gabe.

I turn to the rear of the house. And I spy a possible anomaly. It’s a pair of cellar doors. The kind that lead down into an underground room. And they’ve been left flung wide. Not only that, but a light is visible from inside the opening. It draws me forward.

I get all the way to the doors themselves before I sense that something isn’t quite right. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’m about to turn around. One of my heels digs in to do it. But I don’t get that far. Something cracks me in the back of the head, and pain explodes through my skull. Pinpoints of light flood my vision. And all of that’s bad. But what’s worse is the way I fall.

Down, down I go.

It takes only seconds, but every surface of my body hits some part of the stairs, and as I land at the bottom, my vision explodes in blackness. For a moment, I think I’m unconscious. Then I hear a noisy slam from above, and sense kicks in, and I realize my eyes are just closed. I’m in a world of pain. I’m curled up on my side. My muscles burn, and I can’t move. The wind has been knocked out of me. My tears refuse to be staunched, and they pour out from under my tightly squeezed eyelids. My head is spinning, and I’ve never felt dizzier in my life. But unexpectedly, through the throbs and stabs, I swear that I hear my name.

“Trinity?”

It’s Gabe. Even though his voice has a faraway quality to it, I’m sure it’s him. And something in his tone confuses me. But my temple is pounding too much to makes sense of the source of the confusion. All I can do is whimper.

A hand finds my wrist. It’s warm and gentle, and contrasts sharply with everything else I feel. I want to lean into it.