Page 31 of Haven't Killed in Years
“And then what?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, not feeling any of the weight that I did about the revelation.
“You need a hobby or something,” I jeered. “Not writing to serial killers or drowning cats.”
“Helpful,” he said, picking his phone back up and repositioning himself on the other side of the couch.
- - - - -
He fell asleep anhour later and I went into my bedroom. I had been too heavy-handed with the heat and now the air was stuffy. I wanted to open the window, but I knew what would happen. The breeze would cause noises. The blinds would slap against the window. The curtain would drift against my dresser. Worst case, it would force my door open a crack. Each sound would jolt me awake, stopping my heart, forcing me to accept it was the end for me.
If I opened the door, it would dissipate the suction caused by thebreeze, but I could never sleep with my bedroom door open, even with Porter on the couch. I’d basically be allowing some murderer or rapist to get all the way through my home and to my bedside before I finally woke up because his stomach grumbled or his breath was wheezy or he put his hand over my mouth. A closed door wouldn’t stop him, but it would give me enough time to try to defend myself.
The silver lining was that I always thought like this. The fact that someone was out there killing people and frequenting my doorstep hadn’t caused any significant escalation. I was trained for this. Something bad was always about to happen. I wanted to tell my brainI told you so.
It was almost easier now. It was tangible. There was less shame to the anxiety. I stared at the ceiling, running worst-case scenarios, my already-elevated body temperature rising. This was what all great minds did when trying to solve a problem. Do you think Albert Einstein or Sherlock Holmes slept easy?
There was a new message, a question that needed an answer:WHO’S NEXT?
Believing the people around me were involved kept me from having to worry they were in danger. Elyse, Dominic, Jake—they were all suspects. They had all been at the restaurant with me, but if one of them had hopped in a car the second after I left and drove straight to my apartment while I was on the train back to my car, they might have made it in time to write the message before Porter showed up. It was a tight window. Maybe the message was written on my door before dinner. Jake and Elyse had been late. Maybe that was why Dominic had invited me. Maybe it was all three of them working together and therefore all three were safe from being the proverbialNEXT.
It was Porter I really had to worry about. I had to keep him away from Abel; I had to keep him away from all of them. When thiswhole mess was over, my life would go back to normal. Porter was mynormaland I was grateful I could hear him breathing through the thin wall separating me from the living room. I would have to keep a tight leash on him going forward.
- - - - -
When I woke up,Porter was gone. So much for the tight leash. I opened the front door to make sure there weren’t any more arms or messages. Mrs. Magnus’s cat sat on the top step, spread eagle and licking itself. At least Porter hadn’t killed it on his way out.
Seventeen
Days later I stillhadn’t heard anything from Porter and I was in the car with Dominic bound for East Buford, Pennsylvania. He had discovered there was a behavioral school there and wanted to follow the lead.
“Did Abel ever say anything about this place?” I asked.
“No. He has no idea where she ended up. Once he signed those papers, he lost all his rights.”
“Why would he do that though? Doesn’t seem like him from what you’ve said.”
“He doesn’t like to talk about Marin, but he has mentioned a few times that he thinks she’ll come back to him. He’s not worried.”
Gross. And so typical of my father’s ego. It’s so invasive and destabilizing for another person to believe they have such control over you. Even if it isn’t true. Even if it is.
Hearing that should have been a catalyst for my own empowerment. Instead, I felt immaterial.
“Even if you’re right,” I said, “and James Calhoun brought Marinto this place, they aren’t going to tell you. There have to be confidentiality rules out the wazoo at a place like this.”
“How good are you at lying?” he asked.
“Average,” I lied.
“We’re going to pose as a couple with a messed-up kid. I’ve scheduled a tour already.”
“Well, first maybe settle on a better diagnosis thanmessed-up.”
He gave me one of those get-over-yourself looks before ignoring my input. “At some point I’ll slip away and sneak into the records room.”
“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be completely honest with me.”
“Okay,” he said.
