Nowhere Girl (35 page)

“I'll call you.”

“Okay, but you know how I get. If it's an emergency, you should probably call Gabby or David to come get me.”

“Right. The phone is evil during the binge.”

“You got it,” I said. “Good luck with the TSA guys.”

*   *   *

No one was at the Stop & Shop that early in the morning, and with the place to myself, I stocked up. Today would be a cooking day. While my characters showed me scene after scene and the energy was building in my hands to sit down and transcribe every word of dialogue and description they gave me, I would be making meals I could easily slide out of the fridge, stick in the microwave, and then eat at my desk, reviewing the last chapter before plunging into the next. Roasted chicken, pesto lasagna, sandwiches, and gnocchi.

And then I was home, in the quiet house. By noon, I was done cooking and at my desk, and the fury began. Circadian rhythms be damned; this was a time when I slept in short bursts, I turned off the phone, never checked e-mail, and as far as the outside world was concerned, I'd died. I didn't even go out to get the mail.

That first night, I was up until 4:00
A.M.,
slept for three hours, and was typing again at seven with another scene knocking in my head. Most of what I had planned to write went right out the window, and what came in was a sort of symphony of characters all winding around each other's lives and telling me their deepest secrets and letting me know the exact trajectory the novel needed to follow.

By the third day, I had a problem. I loved Isabelle. She was the murderer, of course; I'd known that from the beginning. My first female killer. A jealous, young girl, the victim's best friend—none of the readers would have any clue until the end. She was sharp and witty and fun. She wasn't beautiful, but I usually didn't create beautiful people, and she seemed to whisper in my ear whenever I was writing one of her scenes. But it worked. She was a likable character, and readers would love her. Then it'd be even more surprising that she was the one who'd killed Susannah. It was Isabelle's love for Susannah that stumped me. I wasn't sure I could throw her in jail for the rest of her life. Maybe an icicle would fall on her head while she stood at the bus stop or she'd discover she was about to be caught and run away. While I pulled a portobello sandwich out of the fridge, I tried to figure that out, but nothing came to me.

*   *   *

After the fourth day and night of writing almost nonstop, I sat straight up in bed. Someone, I thought maybe it was Isabelle or Savannah, told me to go see Larry Cauchek. It was 8:00
A.M.
, I'd slept four hours, and I called Brady. It went straight to voice mail, which usually meant he was working.

“Hey,” I said to his recording. “Can you get me one more sit-down with Cauchek? Call me back, please.” Then I went to the kitchen and made a smoothie. At nine o'clock, I texted him.

By noon, I hadn't heard from him, so I called Patrick. When he answered, I said, “I need to see Cauchek.”

“Well, hello, Cady,” Patrick said. “How are you?”

“I'm totally insane,” I told him. “Can you please get me in with him? It's important.”

He laughed. “The answer is no.”

“Because you can't or won't?”

“What happened to your guard buddy? Did he finally realize how dangerous it was?”

“I haven't been able to get a hold of him.” I was standing in my kitchen trying to cut a piece of lasagna, which I'd abandon in a heartbeat if Patrick said yes.

“And you need a sociopathic killer why?” I heard a car honk, the sounds of traffic.

“Please, Patrick, my book is due soon, and I need to see Larry.”

“You can't write it without the most loathsome serial killer in the country?”

“No, actually. I can't.”

I thought he might keep fighting me, but instead, he said, “I'll meet you there at three.”

I hung up and saw that I had a message from Brady. “Hey, Cady.” His voice sounded bright. “Sorry I missed your call. I was in the attic finally unpacking boxes. You won't believe some of the stuff I found. The nineties was a bad time for fashion.” Then he laughed and told me to call him later.

On the way to the prison, I thought about Savannah having a secret boyfriend. I hadn't told anyone, and I felt like I was lying to Patrick by not telling him. I decided I'd fill him in right after I was done with Larry Cauchek.

“I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away, love,” Larry said to me.

Patrick sat at the head of the table; he didn't leave the room like Brady had. He leaned back in his chair and then let its front legs fall heavily on the floor. The noise echoed in the barren room. Larry pretended Patrick didn't exist.

“We both knew I'd be back.” There was no point in trying to bullshit someone like Cauchek. “But I'm tired of this charade, Larry, and I know you're probably tired of it too, given that you're properly shackled to the table and can't do unspeakable things to me. So why don't we get on with it?” I wasn't sure what I was going to say, really, or even why I was here. I was trying to channel Isabelle or Hopper or even Susannah in hopes one of them would tell me what needed to be done.

“You've got nerve, love. I'll give you that.” Larry Cauchek had very few facial expressions, but now he looked at me under his lids as if he might tear me apart with his incisors.

I blurted out, “Is he sorry for what he did?”

“Oh, love, you had to start with a toughie, didn't you?” He shifted in his chair and leaned back, relaxed, two friends chatting. “Does it matter?”

“You can't be serious.” I'd done an admirable job not letting him fluster me the last two times I was here, but now I could feel myself unraveling. “I want to know if Savannah's life meant anything to him.” Until I asked the question, I hadn't known which would be worse—if her killer felt remorse for what he'd done or if he was incapable of the most basic human emotion.

“Oh, love, they all mean something to us. Every. Single. One.”

I flashed Patrick a warning so he wouldn't throttle the guy. I understood Larry Cauchek. In his own taunting way, he was trying to give me the answers I needed.

“Was Savannah targeted, or was she in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I asked.

“Neither,” he said. “I've read the case report.”

“What?” Patrick startled. “Don't listen to him. He's fucking with you.”

Larry opened his hands on the table, palms up. An offering. “Believe what you will, Cady. But I have seen the report, and I do know that your sister meant something to him.”

“How could you possibly—”

“There's a whole big world out there. And even I'm allowed visitors.”

Larry Cauchek had a following. People on the outside, fans, groupies, people who researched, studied, and discovered the things that kept him going. With no possibility of parole, he'd never be able to kill again, but maybe he had followers on the outside who did it for him.

“Fine,” I said flatly. “I get it. The serial killer guru gets some sick fuck to do his dirty work. Tell me something to make me believe he cared about my sister.”

“No sign of a struggle?” Larry's eyes went wide. “My girls always struggled.”

“Okay,” I said. Suddenly, I was so tired. I wanted to go home and sleep, but I knew this was my last chance with Cauchek. Something told me I would never come back to talk to him again. “So he's not a sociopath?”

Cauchek eyed me. “You're hoping he is.”

I stared back. He'd hit something. What did I hope for? That she had died knowing no amount of begging or crying would have saved her? That he, whoever he was, crushed her throat as easily as the rest of us swat a fly? Would it have been less terrible if the killer was capable of empathy and regret? Someone who actually could have been stopped if only she had begged enough?

“Here's the truth.” Larry made a steeple with his fingers, a weak gesture because of the restraints. “Killing without remorse is a rare, coveted gift I have. The man you are seeking does not possess such an ability.”

“What else do you know?” I stared at him.

“You think maybe your sister's killer cared about her.”

I waited for him to say more. “Yes,” I finally prompted. “We now think he did.”

Larry stared down his nose at me. “Oh, love, don't be daft.”

I was so frustrated I wanted to cry. “What are you saying?” I could hear the desperation in my voice.

His tone had the patience of a schoolteacher. “Go on. You're almost there.”

The notebook. The secret boyfriend. How content she had seemed in the months before she died. How she often held her breath like she had something to say but then would change her mind at the last second. “What?” My insides were frozen. “No.” I had trouble speaking; I was afraid of the words. “No one she loved would do something like this to her.” I was shaking so badly I couldn't hold my pen.

Larry reached forward as if to comfort me, but the shackles held him back. “Oh, love, you're so close.”

Patrick caught my eye and mouthed, “You okay?” But I didn't know how to answer.

“Remember,” Cauchek said, his voice amicable, “nothing is ever as it seems.”

I stood up and took one last look at the bleached-out room. “Thank you,” I said. Then the guard opened the door and let me out. I didn't know what Larry was trying to get me to understand, but if I moved the pieces around enough like a jigsaw with no picture on the box, I'd figure it out.

“Good-bye, my love,” Larry called after me. “I'll meet you in your books.”

 

CHAPTER

40

“What was that about?” Patrick asked when we were in the parking lot.

My stomach growled. “That was my brilliant decision to talk to that psychopath one more time.”

We stood by his Suburban. “Not that. I don't mean this the way it sounds, but you two seemed to have … shared a moment.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets, and my stomach growled again. “I know Cauchek is a despicable person, but I really think he was trying to help me. You guys keep saying Savannah's attacker may have loved her. What if she loved him too?”

“Why don't we talk about it over lunch? Can I take you to Iano's? We'll grab a slice?”

I was starving and a little lonely from sitting in my house by myself writing. “Sounds good. But Patrick?” He glanced up at me with those kind eyes. “I have to tell you something, and you have to promise not to be mad.”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his little finger. “I pinkie promise.” I hooked my finger through his. His skin was warm and soft.

So on the way to Iano's, I told him about finding Savannah's diaries while I was looking for the funeral guest book. I apologized for not bringing the book to him sooner and for not telling him that it seemed like Savannah had a secret boyfriend. We were half a block from the pizza place when I finished talking. “Do you think her having a boyfriend changes anything?”

“Do you?” he asked.

“That's the thing.” I could see up ahead that the parking lot was full, and I was glad. I didn't want to get out yet. “Whoever this guy was, I think he really loved her. And I've been kind of happy lately, thinking that she wasn't alone, that she may have had that one crazy true love that I'm still looking for.” He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. “I just wish I knew who it was and why she never told me about him.”

“Do you have any guesses?” The parking lot was crowded, so Patrick kept driving around the block.

“Savannah was, um, how should I put this?” I tapped my knuckles against the window. “She was a little more advanced than the rest of us. A little more adventurous. So the only thing I can think of is that maybe it was someone she shouldn't have been with—like a teacher or someone married, and that's why she never told me.”

After circling the block, Patrick gave up and dropped me off and turned right on Washington to find a place to park. I stepped in the crowded restaurant and stood behind a woman who was snapping at the kid behind the counter, trying to get his attention. It took me a second to realize it was Emma. When she turned, her perfect cheerleader smile melted away.

“Hello, Emma,” I said. “How are you?” I didn't care how she was, but I thought I should be polite. For David's sake.

Emma flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I'm fine, Cady. I was just picking up my order. A salad, of course; I don't eat pizza.”

A bored teenager behind the counter called Emma's number, and she paid for her salad and picked up the bag it was in. She came at me like she might strike me.

“I know you've been spending time with that redheaded cop who worked for my father.” I didn't move, so she had to edge past me, toward the door. “The truth is, Cady,” she said—and I saw now that her perfect face was drawn, as though someone were pulling the skin down by invisible strings—“it doesn't matter what he's telling you. We all know your secret.”

I took a step toward her. “What secret?”

“Savannah.”

I got too close to her. “God, Emma, are you on something? What are you talking about?”

She leveled her gaze directly at me. “Cut the crap,
Cady
.” She said my name like a bad word. “My father knew it, I know it, and everyone in town knows it: Savannah was no Virgin Mary. She brought it on herself. Did you ever think that maybe what happened to her was her fault?” And then Emma, in her yellow gingham dress, left the restaurant.

I stood there, stunned while the hostess told me it was a twenty-minute wait. I went to find Patrick and tell him we had to eat somewhere else and I could see Emma digging through her bag. I'd stocked my house with so much food for my writing binge that we could have gone there to eat. Patrick was walking toward me, and I met him in the middle of the parking lot.