Page 86 of Haven't Killed in Years
I took a step back and looked away. I needed to process that for a hot second. Who was Wesley? And why did Natalie think I would know who the hell she was talking about?
“Why would a reporter come toyou?” I asked. “How did he even find you? I haven’t seen you since we were teenagers.”
Natalie grimaced. I didn’t know those were minefield questions, but it was clear I had stepped into something there.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to keep her stable enough to get more out of her. I wasn’t sure how to explain that I had no idea who she was talking about in a way that didn’t discharge the fireworks. “And he’s trying to help me?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re trying to find the killer.”
I nodded, knowing I needed to allow for a quiet pause before my next words. Being reactionary wasn’t going to help keep a lid on her. “And you trust him?” I asked. I couldn’t tell her what to think. That wouldn’t work on her.
She looked at me funny. She was wondering why I would even ask that. I had to plant the seed of doubt before I tore up the lawn.
“I have to tell you…” I paused again. “I’ve never met anyone named Wesley. And I haven’t talked to any reporters.”
I watched her fingertips come together as I had so many times before. “He said he talked to you.” She studied my face. “Why would he lie about that?”
She was begging for an answer that made sense, but I knew the answer that made sense was going to upset her. “I’m just…” I hesitated to get it out. “Is it possible…maybe…that he’s…involved in some way with those murders?”
Trying to ask in a nonthreatening, borderline-cutesy way didn’t help. Her eyes narrowed as they reddened. Then she hung her head, rubbing her fingertips back and forth, and I knew her brain was in overdrive now. If only there were a button to put it back in sleep mode.
“Natalie…” I tried, flirting with the possibility of approaching her.
She glanced up and whispered, “I think I messed up again.”
I stepped toward her, but she lunged forward and shoved me in the chest. I stumbled over the parking barrier behind me and fell to the ground.
Then she was gone, sprinting away, out of sight before I could get back to my feet.
I knew that shove. I’d taught her that shove. It was her way of staying in control. She didn’t want to lose it; she didn’t want to hurt me either. Natalie wasn’t the mastermind behind all this, but whoever Wesley was might be. Some random guy I’d never even heard of. Great.
Forty-Nine
Gwen
I drove around the streetssurrounding the motel for what felt like two hours when in reality it was about fifteen minutes. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the motivation to find Natalie; it was that it was dark and she was clearly hiding or already gone. I wasn’t going to suddenly spot her on a park bench and tackle her.
Instead, I pulled back into the motel parking lot. The door to her room was still ajar and the prospect of finding something in there that could help me locate her seemed more reasonable than sniffing around the neighborhood like a hunting dog.
The room was tidy but lived-in and I wondered how long she’d been staying there. A notebook rested on top of the nightstand, which was the obvious place to start. I flipped it open and knew right away that it was her journal. She used to keep a journal when we were together. It was my idea.
From the first page, it became clear Natalie had been stalking me, and I mean really stalking me. My foray in sitting outside herhotel room for a couple of hours was not even in the same stratosphere. I was pretty sure she had been watching me every day. I felt bad. What a horribly boring person I must have been to stalk.
I riffled forward in time in the journal, flipping to the last pages. I wanted to read all of it. I wanted to read about everything she had done and I wanted to read everything she thought about me while doing so. I wanted to sit for hours and hope to find answers. There were a lot of answers I wanted, but really only two I needed. Who was Wesley? And where was Natalie?
When I read an entry where she complained about the water temperature in the garage pipes making it hard for her to shower at home, I knew no matter how badly I wanted to keep reading about myself, I needed to find wherehomewas.
I went to the small desk that was also food storage and yanked open the top drawer. There were several pieces of opened mail inside. I guess people from your fucked-up childhood who suddenly reemerge amid several murders still have bills to pay. I guess they also don’t necessarily go paperless.
Good old-fashioned mail was the best clue to where Natalie had gone. There was an address right on the front. Obviously. That’s how mail works.
- - - - -
It was a decenthouse. Much bigger than any place I’d ever lived in, and I wondered how she could afford it until I spotted the two mailboxes and remembered the garage pipes.
There were no cars in the garage and I made my way to the staircase, headed straight for an enclosed space, something I’d been so adamant about avoiding a couple of hours earlier. At least I still had a kitchen knife in my pocket.
When I reached the door, I knocked. I was, in theory, trying tocatch her, but I didn’t want to scare her and I didn’t really know what else to do.
