Chapter Forty-Three

“Trinity,” Gabe says again.

I manage to open my eyes. And for a second, my brain doesn’t register my location. The space is bathed in a sickly yellow glow. There’s a damp scent in the air. And the walls appear to be made of dirt.

Right, I remember belatedly. The cellar.

The acknowledgement provides no solace. My stomach heaves, and my eyelids flutter and try to sink shut.

“Trinity,” Gabe repeats more insistently.

And I realize that his voice is coming from a spot near my knees. Which is weird. And the oddity momentarily distracts me from the pain. I tip my gaze down. And things only grow stranger.

Gabe is there. Like me, he’s on the ground. But he’s secured—with multiple lines of rope—to a chair, which is on its side. His hands are bound together with a zip tie, and he’s close enough to have made the gentle touch on my wrist. A gash splits his left eyebrow, and a thick patch of dried blood darkens that side of his face.

This doesn’t make sense.

Everything is so blurry. My thoughts are slippery.

For the fourth time, he says my name. “Trinity.”

“Gabe,” I croak.

“Oh, thank God.” His relief is palpable. “Can you move? Are you tied up?”

“I…no. I don’t think so.”

“You can’t move, or you aren’t tied up?”

“Not tied up,” I say. “Gabe…what’s happening?”

“It’s Asher,” he replies. “I don’t know what he’s doing or why he hasn’t come down here yet, but I do know that once he does, we won’t be alive for long.”

My mind swirls as I try to grasp what he means. “Asher…”

“Please, Trinity. We probably don’t have much time. I’ll explain everything once we’re safe. Can you give me the benefit of the doubt here?”

“Okay.”

I push up, try to ignore the way the world is wobbling, and start to lean toward Gabe and the rope that binds him. But then the last hour rushes back in. I remember the room in his house. The trophies. The photos. I freeze. At last I’m able to mentally take a hold of something. Anger-tinged sickness.

“Trin?” he prods.

“I saw it all,” I say.

“What?”

“In your house. In your closet. Why, Gabe? I don’t understand. I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”

I expect an immediate denial. Or an excuse. I’ve heard my share over the course of my career. I’m extra surprised by Gabe’s response.

“I never should’ve let you get anywhere near this case,” he says, almost under his breath.

This case.

The words jog something in my still-fuzzy brain.

“Untie me,” Gabe says. “Please.”

“You didn’t kill those girls,” I reply. “You didn’t kill your sister.”

“I didn’t…” His forehead creases, and his eyes widen. “Jesus. No. Is that what you—Christ. No. I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to—Trinity. I’m begging you. Please help me get free. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.”

I believe him. Whole-heartedly. And my ache-filled, bruise-covered body wants to sag with relief. I want to let out a sob.

But Gabe speaks up again, his voice even more urgent. “We’re running out of time, Trin. Hurry.”

I drop to my hands and knees, crawl around to Gabe’s back, and get to work on the rope. A couple of the fingers on my left hand shriek with pain, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve broken a bone or two. But I press on. I loosen the first knot and move to the next. Then the next. Sweat drips down my brow with the exertion. I’m breathing heavily, too. Like I’m running a marathon rather than unfastening ties. After the fourth knot, I have no choice but to stop, let my hands fall, and draw in some air. I’d laugh, but I don’t have the energy.

“You’ve got this, Trin,” Gabe says softly.

I incline my head in a tremulous nod and get started again. I open the fourth, and finally the fifth—and last—knot. It takes a century, but I get it done. And Gabe wastes no time. He sits up, lifts his zip-tied wrists, and slams them to his knees. The plastic cable snaps. Then he does something unexpected. He leans over and gently touches my face, cupping my cheek in palm.

“Savannah’s death is not your fault,” he says.

My heart pulses painfully against my rib cage. “I told you I was supposed to meet her. You don’t know—”

“I do,” he replies. “I do know. And I’ve waited a really long time to tell you that. I saw how it tore you apart after she was killed. I felt the same way. Like it was my fault. Like I’d driven her away. But neither of us did this. And I’ll talk about it for days—for weeks if need be—I promise. We have forty more ragout dinners. Real dates if you’ll have me. But later. Because right now, we’ve got to go.” He releases my face, pushes to his feet, and holds out his hand. “C’mon.”

I let him pull me up—careful to return his grasp with my uninjured fingers—and sway a little on my feet as the cellar spins. My dizziness must be obvious, because Gabe’s arm finds my waist, and he supports me all the way to the stairs. He doesn’t let go as we make the trek up, either. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m grateful; I can admit it when I’m in need of help.

“All right,” he says at the top. “Hold onto the railing there for a second while I get the doors open, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, my throat crackling as I lean heavily to the side.

There are a few clicks as he undoes the latches, and then a rush of cool, fresh air. I draw in a breath and let Gabe pull me close again. Together, we step out of the cellar. And right away, Asher greets us, his voice smooth and sure, and sounding nothing like the befuddled old man he’s been for the last two days.

“Imagine what the two of you might’ve accomplished twenty years ago if you both hadn’t been so caught up in your own self-pity,” he says.

My gaze finds him, and it’s easy to see that he looks different. Gone are the disheveled clothes. In their place is a crisp dress shirt and a pair of designer jeans. His shoulders are straight, his pose strong and sure. His wild hair has been tamed and secured into a small ponytail. And though his lip is still cracked with blood and his eye is still black, it appears as though he’s taken the time to shave off the scruff that previously dominated his chin. And in his hands, he holds a black pistol.

I blink. This man—this Asher—is how I saw him in my head on the drive from Vancouver to Whimsy. Younger than his age. Confident bordering on arrogant. And for a moment, I don’t understand. Then I clue in.

He was faking it.

“Why?” I whisper.

“You’re a smart girl,” he tells me with a smirk. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

My head is still so foggy that I’m not sure he’s right. But as I open my mouth to tell him he’s going to need to explain, it clicks. Asher needed me to believe that he was a little out-to-lunch so that I’d help him without asking a lot of questions. He needed anyone he encountered to see this wasted-away version of himself. He was laying a foundation. Creating an alibi in the form of deteriorating mental health.

His smirk widens as he spies the understanding on my face. “See? I knew you’d get it.”

I steel myself for a wave of nausea. Two decades ago, I loved Asher. I let him in. And now this. But the sickness doesn’t rear up. When I’d found the photos in Gabe’s house—when I’d assumed the worst while wanting not to—I’d been full of personal horror. But right this second, I feel nothing aside from the usual loathing I hold for the more depraved pieces of humanity who cross my path.

I was barely more than a kid. He manipulated me then, just like he’s manipulating me now. The thought is firm, and it clears my head a little and gives me strength.

“Fine,” I say, my voice even. “You wanted me—and everyone else—to think you were crazy so that you could deflect suspicion. But why call me here in the first place, then?”

“You should direct that question to your friend over here.” Asher inclines his head toward Gabe. “I’m sure he can answer on my behalf.”

I feel like I’m being baited, and I don’t like it. But I automatically shift my attention anyway. Gabe’s expression is angry. His eyes are flashing with hate, and his mouth is set in a grim line. But there’s a hint of guilt, too, in the way he shifts his feet. And it echoes in his tone as he clears his throat and speaks.

“The son of a bitch knows I’ve been investigating him,” he says, sounding like he’s giving me more of an apology than an explanation.

“Investi—” I stop, mid-word, as I clue in.

The case. That’s what he’d said a couple of minutes earlier. It was a word I would use, for sure. But not one a layperson would typically choose. Gabe is a cop, too. Why didn’t he say anything?

My contradictory mix of puzzlement and understanding must show, because Asher nods, a pleased look on his face. “Undercover work is what he’ll tell you. Sixteen years, is it, Detective Stuart? How long was the last assignment?”

Gabe answers through gritted teeth. “Seven years, three months.”

“Amazing the info that you can garner with the right kind of pressure,” says Asher. “But you know what? None of that is even the big reveal.”

I hate the way he’s reveling in this. I want to swing back my fist and level it in his gut. I want the satisfying feeling of snapping the cuffs on his wrists and watching as a judge reads him his life sentence.

“Tell her the rest, Detective Stuart,” he says smugly. “The really interesting bit.”

Gabe’s expression hardens. But under it, his skin has a slightly ruddy hue. And when he meets my eyes, I catch a hint of embarrassment in his gaze.

“The son of a bitch found a letter I wrote to you a very long time ago,” he says.

“A letter?” I echo, unable to suppress my genuine curiosity.

“No one was supposed to read it.” Gabe’s shoulders lift in a slightly helpless shrug.

“It’s a therapy technique,” Asher offers. “Or so I hear.”

I pretend not to hear him, and I address Gabe again. “What did the letter say?”

Asher lets out a sigh, and though the sound has a bored ring to it, I suspect it’s more about the fact that he doesn’t like having the attention drawn away from himself.

“Let me summarize,” he says. “Detective Stuart is—always has been—in love with you. He wanted to tell you for the first time when you were about sixteen, but his sister found out and wasn’t too pleased. So he held off, out of respect for her. Which backfired, I guess, because—”

“Backfired?” Gabe spits. “You mean when you killed her?”

Asher is unfazed. He just shakes his head and makes a tsk-tsk noise. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s rude to interrupt your elders, Detective?”

Beside me, Gabe is shaking with anger. And I don’t blame him. But I put my hand on his elbow in a silent urging to stay quiet. I know from experience that it will be better to let Asher keep talking. Not because of my familiarity with the man, but because I recognize the narcissistic need to be heard. I don’t want Asher to get more riled up and lash out. We need time. And thankfully, Gabe seems to understand. Maybe he’s run across it before, too, in his own work. He just mutters something under his breath and allows Asher to continue.

“I found that letter right around the time you started taking my class, Trinity,” says the man whom I once thought I loved. “I was fascinated. Not just because our friend here was so earnest about it all, but because of the cosmic coincidence. The brother of Savannah Stuart, penning it to the best friend of Savannah Stuart. My Savannah Stuart.”

He looks at me, his expression the same as it used to be when he was seeking an answer from a student. And I have little choice but to play along.

“You thought I was going to figure it out,” I reply. “That’s why you took an interest in me. And why you sent me away.”

Asher’s eyes find me, and I wonder how I ever saw any kind of humanity in his gaze. How was I fooled for so long? He taps his chin, a small smile playing over his features.

“You were going to figure it out,” he confirms. “It was only a matter of time. You saw things that no one else did. Your final paper told me just how well you’d thought through Savannah’s case. And once you and big brother Gabe paired up, you would’ve been unstoppable. Relentless in the pursuit of truth. And I couldn’t have that happen.”

My mind churns for a moment. I’m stuck in a highlights reel of my past. I remember the bump of Asher’s hip against mine in the grocery store on a chance meeting near the end of the semester. I recall his recommendation of a wine to pair with the cheese in my basket, and his surprise at learning that I wasn’t old enough. I think about how I ran into him a couple of days later, when I had a flat tire in the university parking lot.

Orchestrated, all of it.

And he’s still speaking. Talking about my paper, almost marveling over mine and Gabe’s mutually chosen career paths. Launching into his own self-satisfied version of events leading to this moment. Telling me how appreciative of his call my superiors at the Vancouver PD were, how they lapped up his story about my overzealousness on the job. He even offers a bullshit apology for the subterfuge. He goes on about making sure I was in just the right room at the Queen Inn. But after a few more seconds of incredulous listening, I realize I’ve been paying too much attention to the details of his story. What I need to be doing is looking for a means of getting away. Subtly, I tune him out and scan the area in search of an escape route. Maybe something that can be used to create a distraction. Or a clear path away from the area. Perhaps an improvised weapon. But then Asher adds a statement that jerks my attention back to him.

“Savannah did it to herself, really,” he says.

And clearly—understandably—Gabe can’t let the statement go. “How the hell do you figure that?”

“She lied about her age online. She lied about her lack of family. She told people in her chatrooms that she was twenty-five and alone in the world. Think about that. You have to be able to see that she wouldn’t have fit my needs if she’d just been honest. She would still be alive today if not for her own deceptions.” Asher shrugs it all off easily—like he really believes that it excuses the murder.

Disgust writhes through me. But quite suddenly, twenty years of guilt become muted. Savannah didn’t get killed because I didn’t meet up with her. She was hunted by this man standing in front of me. Targeted. Asher is a master manipulator, and he’s the only one to blame. And it doesn’t just renew my desire to get out of there alive; it boosts it to a whole new level.

“I could have done with her what I did with the others,” Asher tells us. “But I let you find her. I let you have her body, and I let you give her the funeral you wanted for her.”

“Are we supposed to think all of that was a favor?” Gabe counters. “A kindness?”

Asher shrugs and then turns a shrewd look in my direction. “You can stop now, Trinity.”

“Stop what?” I reply.

“I know you well enough to read you,” he says, stepping closer, his eyes glinting. “I know your body well enough to see when it’s coiled and waiting. I can see every churn of that pretty little brain of yours. I know you’re trying to find a way out of this. But as clever as you are, it’s not going to happen.”

He gets nearer still, and he raises his free hand as though he’s readying to touch me. I flinch away, desperate not to let that happen, and I throw out a question that I hope will distract him.

“Why didn’t you just kill me then?” I ask.

“You had someone keeping tabs on you.” His hand drops, and his attention flicks back to Gabe. “He followed you around like a lost dog back then, and you didn’t even know it. It created a headache for me all those years ago. But when he showed up again a few months back, I realized his obsession could work in my favor.”

“He’s going to lay the blame on me,” Gabe states. “He’s going to make it look like I’m the one responsible for all his sick shit.”

Asher shrugs again. “It’s trite, I know. Kills his sister. Kills the others. You catch him, so he kills you. And I accidentally save the day. But it also fits perfectly. Our fight at Schmidt’s will confirm that we had a previous issue. I left your notebook, the folder with your old report in it, and a whole whack of my ‘research’ on the front seat of your car. It’s a perfect setup, so I’m going to overlook the banality of my own solution and use what will work.”

“He’s a cop,” I point out. “Do you really think that anyone will believe that this was him?”

My old professor arches an eyebrow and adopts a teacherly tone. “What did you believe, Trinity, when you found the so-called evidence in his house?”

I flinch again, and my face heats, but my voice doesn’t waver when I respond. “He’s literally investigating your involvement in the disappearance of these women. His superior officers are going to have questions.”

Gabe makes the smallest movement beside me, and I quite suddenly know without being told that it’s not true. His mission here is as unauthorized as my own. And it almost makes me want to laugh.

“Let me recount a little story to you,” Asher says, his voice soft and thoroughly pleased and grossly eager. “Once upon a time, about a month and a half ago, I met a woman named Jennika. She was like a prettily wrapped gift. Sweet and smiley. I got things underway in my usual manner. Charmed her. Wooed her. Brought her back here. But Jennika had a little secret. She was a black belt. And I’m not too proud to admit that she got the better of me. She ran. She fought. Hard, I admit.”

He pauses and smiles, and I wish that I could turn away. I have no desire to hear what comes next. And when I feel Gabe’s fingers brush my elbow, I know that he shares my sentiment. But neither of us has the ability to stop the flow of words. Not unless we want to be gunned down right then and there. Thankfully, Asher leaves out the details.

“I caught her,” he tells us simply. “But I left behind a piece of evidence, didn’t I, Detective Stuart? Out there by my special shed?”

“It was her glasses,” I say softly, knowing that I’m right.

“See?” Asher replies. “You are as bright as I said you were.” He wags a finger at Gabe. “And you’re almost as good. I realized a little too late that they’d fallen off her face. I came back just in time to watch you grab them from the ground. Too bad you didn’t decide to come for your visit a couple of hours sooner, or you might’ve found Jennika herself instead of just the glasses.”

“Fuck you,” Gabe snaps so loudly that I jump.

Asher just smiles a little wider. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you’d come back and taken a few things that you shouldn’t have? Not very police procedure-y of you, I must say. Smart of you to try and hide all of it in that old house, though. But not so smart of you not to realize that I’d been following you. And I’m thankful anyway. Because the whole escapade did get me thinking. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’ll keep getting weaker and my reflexes will keep getting slower. And the world is always evolving. I need to do the same. It’s time for me to cut ties with Whimsy. I’ve always wanted to travel, and I’ve never made the time.”

An awful sequence of events fills my mind. Asher, moving from place to place. Boarding planes. Finding his victims in a worldwide scope.

We have to stop him.

“And now…” he says. “Let’s get on with business, shall we, kids? I’m going to need both of you to step in front of me so we can get going.”

I’m almost afraid to hear exactly what it is he has planned. Not just because I’m concerned about my own well-being—or about Gabe’s—but because I have no doubt that whatever he does, its efficacy will be absolute. Asher is too clever and too careful and too well-versed with the criminal justice system to make an obvious mistake. And his scheme has clearly been a long time in the making.

Gabe’s hand slides to mine, and he gives it a quick squeeze. I squeeze back. I’m glad, at least, that we’ll be facing what’s coming in solidarity. But as I start to take a step forward, I see Asher’s eyes drop to mine and Gabe’s clasped palms. And with that, I also see a sliver of opportunity. So I take it.

I pull my hand free and I dive forward. My arms close on Asher’s knees. Surprise is on my side, and he doesn’t have time to react.