Rachel never causes trouble. Not for anybody.
As I look around, my vision grows increasingly blurry. The stragglers outside are growing in number, gathering into a small crowd that is heading toward me.
TJ comes running out his front door, toward my house. I can barely move at all now. Whatever energy I summoned in order to get outside and down the street is gone. I have nothing left. It takes effort just to breathe.
TJ kneels beside me. “Alice, what are you doing? What happened to you?”
I stare at him. He is desperate with worry, I realize. I know exactly how he feels. When I speak, my mouth is dry. It takes all my effort to pronounce my next words. “Sean Morelli took my sister. She’s in his basement.”
TJ’s face crumples. “What?” He turns to our approaching neighbors and screams, “Somebody call the police!”
To me, he says, “Alice, you’re shaking.” I can barely keep my eyes open. Each breath is so painful that every passing second feels like an eternity. There is a fiery pain spreading through my chest. I can feel my heartbeat slowing.
TJ smacks me lightly on the cheek, trying to rouse me. “Alice. Hey. Alice!”
I manage to speak again. “She’s in the sub-basement,” I say. “Go.”
“Alice.” He smacks me again, a little harder. My eyes open and close, open and close, open and close. I try to move my mouth to form words, but I don’t have a voice anymore.
All the way down the street, I can see somebody jogging toward us. There is a large dog at his side.
My heart flutters as he gets closer. He pushes past my neighbors. He’s coming straight for me.
I am not afraid anymore. I feel calm and sleepy. As the jogging man climbs our porch stairs, he reaches behind his back and pulls something from his waist. His dog sits on the sidewalk, calmly observing the unfolding chaos.
TJ turns to look over his shoulder. “What the hell?” he asks, jumping to his feet, taking a few panicked steps backward. “Oh, Jesus. Oh my God.”
The man points a handgun at the space above my head. “Stop,” he says. “Everybody calm down.”
I can feel myself descending into unconsciousness. The periphery of my vision is starting to blur into nothingness.
With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small silver badge, holding it outward in his palm so everyone can see it.
As my eyes fall shut again, a fuzzy pause surrounds me. After a moment, his voice high and incredulous, TJ says, “Holy shit. You’re a cop?”
I wish I could see them, but all I can do is listen.
“Yeah,” Homeless Harvey says, breathless. “You need to get off the porch.” I can hear police sirens approaching from a few blocks away.
“What’s happening?” It’s TJ.
“Somebody set off the hostage code from this address. I have to get inside.” To me, Harvey says, “Miss, are you okay? Miss?”
I remember his straight, white teeth. It seemed so odd that a homeless man would have such good dental hygiene.
I am slipping away. The sounds around me grow fainter, turning into indecipherable murmurs, dissolving into nothing. In my mind, the last thing I see before everything goes blank is the steep hillside beside my parents’ car, the big rock in the valley below with its plea scrawled in cursive spray paint: I loved you more.
Epilogue
Death is a funny thing. It comes for every last one of us eventually, no matter how we might try to avoid it. Despite its inevitability, we are all so afraid of what might happen to us once we’ve passed on. Why? I remember being young, maybe seven or eight years old, and asking my mother what happens after we die; it must have been obvious to her how much the idea frightened me, because she put her arms around my shoulders, brought her face close to mine, and explained that I already knew the answer—I just couldn’t remember it.
“Imagine you’re a grain of sand floating in the ocean,” she said, “and one day a wave washes you onto the shore. It’s a whole different world, like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You stay there for a while, but eventually the tide comes in and carries you back to the sea. What’s scary about that? You aren’t going anywhere you haven’t been before.”
Her reasoning didn’t bring me much comfort. “I’m still scared. I don’t want to die.”
She smiled at me. “That’s not why you’re scared, honey. Being dead isn’t anything to be afraid of. Dying is what’s worrying you.”
I told her I didn’t understand the difference.
“Every person who ever lived is united in death,” she said. “The hard part is dying, because each one of us has to do it alone—just like when we’re born.”
Her words sent a flutter of excitement through my body. “That’s not true. I wasn’t born alone.”
I expected her to explain why I was incorrect, but she didn’t. She smiled instead, and pulled me closer to her. “You’re right,” she whispered. “My girls are special.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Neither of you will ever be alone. No matter what, you will always have each other.”
This morning was my sister’s funeral, which was followed by an informal gathering for friends and family at my grandmother’s house. I’ve managed to slip away from everyone else for the time being, and I am sitting at her kitchen table, thinking about that conversation from so many years ago. I’m surprised by how much comfort it brings me. The grief I’ve been feeling for the past few days is still present, so consuming and fierce that right now it feels like it will never release its grip on me. And even once it subsides—which seems unimaginable—I know it will stay with me, to some degree, for the rest of my life. There are so many emotions today, and each one feels so distinct and wicked, so powerful, that I can’t imagine trying to resist any of them. I am weak and brokenhearted, and I’m more lonely than I’ve ever been in my life.
Lonely, yes. But not alone. That would be impossible.
When our parents died, my grandmother held a similar gathering in this house after their funerals. I can remember sitting on the living-room love seat, my sister by my side, the two of us silently holding hands as we watched my parents’ friends and relatives wandering around the big house, nibbling from Styrofoam plates of finger foods and making awkward conversation with one another. I remember people stealing glances at the two of us, looking on with such pity. We stayed close to our grandma for comfort that day, hiding behind her as she introduced us to the aunt and uncle we’d never met, even though they’d lived only a few miles away our entire lives.
Right now, the kitchen door creaks open, and I turn in my seat to see Kimber stepping into the room. Her long hair is pulled away from her face in a ponytail. She wears a white dress shirt and black pants, along with a somber but nervous expression. Her face is clean and free of makeup. The skin around her eyes is spotted with tiny red dots that are the result of burst capillaries; I’m sure she’s been crying just as much as the rest of us in the past few days. I can also see faint, feathery scarring on her jawline, which is usually covered in foundation: marks that map the crawl of fire as it tried to consume her whole so many years earlier.
She sits across from me at the table. There is an empty water glass beside me. I’ve probably refilled it half a dozen times this afternoon so far. I feel incredibly thirsty, like my whole body is dried out, like I’ll never be satisfied no matter how much I drink.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Kimber says. “I’ll understand. You should probably stay here.”
“No,” I say, “I want to come.” The truth is that I don’t want to do much of anything, but it will be a relief to get out of here, even if it’s just for a few hours.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I do my best to smile at her. The gesture sends an achy pain shooting through my cheek. My face is still bruised. My wrists and ankles throb constantly; even the prescription painkillers I got in the hospital don’t make much of a dent.
But I’m here. I’m alive.
> Two nights ago, Charlie left Sean’s house knowing that something was wrong, that he needed help. My cousin programmed the hostage code into the alarm system, and then he hid in the secret stairway, waiting.
The call came in to the police dispatcher, who contacted the closest officer on duty. My neighbors watched as Homeless Harvey pounded on our door, finally kicking it open as his dog barked frantically from the street.
Once he was inside, he found our house empty. Charlie was nowhere in sight. Within a few minutes, the place was swarming with cops, searching the house to look for my cousin. He stayed in the secret stairway for two hours, listening as the searchers called his name, not making a sound. It wasn’t until my aunt and uncle came home that he finally surfaced to explain what had happened that night. He was so afraid that he hadn’t done enough to help, but that wasn’t the case. The hostage code summoned the police to our house. There was nothing else Charlie could have done for us.
After speaking with Sean Morelli for a few minutes, Officer Martin felt satisfied that he was just one of our friendly neighbors with nothing to hide. Before he left, though, he knelt down to pet Sheba. He held out his hand, encouraging her to shake, and Sheba extended one of her front paws, resting it in Officer Martin’s palm, just like she’d been taught. When she pulled it away, she left behind a smear of blood.
Before Officer Martin had a chance to react, Sean managed to overpower him and take his gun. He dragged him into the house, beat him unconscious, and tied him up. Then he got in his car and fled. Highway patrol caught up with him a few hours later. He must have understood it was over for him, because he didn’t put up a fight. He didn’t even ask for a lawyer, not until after he’d already said way too much.
“If you’re sure you want to come,” Kimber says to me, “we have to leave now.”
I nod. “Okay. I’m ready.” When I stand up from the table, my legs ache.
We make our way toward the front of the house. We don’t say much to the people we pass. They don’t seem to mind. They understand. Like everyone else here, they’re trying to manage their own grief; I’m sure they can’t begin to imagine how I’m feeling right now.
My aunt and uncle are on the porch with Charlie, our grandma, and Homeless Harvey. Except he’s not Homeless Harvey anymore; his name is actually David Munroe. He’d been working undercover on the trail for over a year. Apparently there was a lot of drug activity going on near the methadone clinic. He was only a few blocks away when the hostage call summoned him to our house, effectively causing him to blow his cover.
But it was worth it. The events from last week have allowed the police to solve eight murders that took place on outdoor trails in four separate states over a period of fifteen years. They have solved the mysteries of what happened to Rachel Carter and Melissa Bell of Maryland; Shannon Seaver of Virginia; Amy Sloan and Rebecca Dylan and Susan Grimes of Maine; Jennifer Weaver of West Virginia; and, finally, Jamie Slater of Greensburg, Pennsylvania.
David, along with my aunt and uncle, looks through an old sketchbook, astounded by the incredible likeness that was captured in the many portraits of Jamie Slater.
After a minute or so, he notices me standing just behind him, looking over his shoulder. He glances up at me and smiles to reveal two rows of perfect teeth. His eyes are sad. Nine girls are way too many to lose under any circumstances. But there is wonder in David’s gaze as he watches me, observing all my cuts and bruises like he’s seeing them for the first time.
My aunt stands up and approaches me. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a year. As she gives me a long hug, her body sort of falls against mine, and her arms grip me so tightly that I can tell she doesn’t want to let me go, even though she knows I’ll be safe. As we stand there together, her breathing is deep and uneven as she tries to keep herself together as best she can. Tonight, I know, she’ll go home and fall apart in private.
As she finally pulls away, she asks, “Are you leaving now?”
“Yes,” I say. Even though I know she’d rather I stayed, she understands why I feel the need to leave right now. I’m going with Kimber to her father’s hearing this afternoon. I don’t want her to be alone.
But there is deep concern in her expression. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Her voice is small and hoarse.
“She’ll be fine,” my grandma interrupts.
“Grandma’s right,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
My aunt doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t have much of a choice. I’m eighteen. I can do what I want.
As we’re about to leave the porch and head toward Kimber’s car, I glance down at the sketchbook again. David has turned the page, and it’s no longer open to a drawing of Jamie Slater. Instead, it’s a portrait of Robin. It’s similar to the painting of him that’s back at my house, in my room. He is posed the same way, staring outward with a mischievous smile on his lips.
“Who’s that?” David asks.
“I’ve been told that’s Robin,” my aunt says. She looks up at me, and I nod in agreement.
“It’s impossible,” she murmurs. But the words sound empty, like she’s struggling to believe them herself.
Again, it was Officer Martin who figured it out. When he ran a search on Robin Lang, he was puzzled to learn that a man by the same name had been killed nine years earlier in a car accident. He was the driver. During some routine follow-up with my aunt and uncle a few days ago, Officer Martin showed them the driver’s photograph. They were astounded to realize that the deceased Robin Lang appeared identical to all the drawings they’d seen over the past few months—drawings of a man they’d never met, who they’d only known as Robin.
My grandmother—who looks elderly and fragile today, her essence somehow deflated from the events of the past week—leans past my aunt to get a good look at the drawing. She goes still. She stares at it. She reaches toward the paper and brushes her hand across his eyes. “You don’t say,” she murmurs.
We all look at her. “What do you mean?” my aunt asks.
My grandma’s eyes are flat and sad, but for just a moment I see a flicker of light in them, like she’s keeping a secret that makes her happy. “Nothing,” she says. “I’ve seen him around, that’s all.”
Just before Kimber and I walk away from the house, I glance up to see Tom standing in the doorway. His parents are at his side. When our eyes meet, he gives me a tentative, sorry smile.
I’ll talk to him soon. Not right now, but soon enough. We know where to find each other.
As usual, Kimber drives slower than the speed limit. We don’t say much on the ride.
She pulls into a visitor’s space in the parking lot and turns off the car.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask her. I stare down at my hands, at the tiny yellow flower knotted around my ring finger.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“What are you going to say?”
She squints into the sun, thinking. “I’m not sure. I’m hoping I’ll know once I see him.”
“Do you forgive him?”
“I’m trying. It’s hard,” she admits. “I always felt like doing that would be the same as setting him free. I was wrong, though.”
“You were?”
“Yes. Because it isn’t like that at all. It’s the other way around. If I let go, then I’ll be free.” She pauses. “I think. I hope.”
The silence between us is thick, full of everything we’re both thinking, though neither one of us will say it.
I open my purse. Inside is the bag of black licorice Tom gave me to try to cheer me up, but that’s not what I’m looking for right now. The tiny monkey, carved from a peach pit, is tucked into the inner pocket. I take it out and hold it in my hand, staring at it. I don’t know how much time goes by, but it’s long enough that Kimber finally nudges me and says, “Rachel? Are you sure you’re up for this right now?”
I nod, still looking at the monkey. “Yes.”
“What is that?” Kimber asks.
>
I smile, closing my hand and slipping the monkey back into my purse. “It’s for good luck.”
We get out and start across the dusty stone parking lot, toward the massive brick building, its periphery surrounded by high barbed-wire fences. As we’re walking, Kimber shades her eyes and stares at the sky. There are only a few clouds, which hang low and puffy, like cotton. There’s a name for them, I know, but I have no idea what it is. If Alice were here, she’d be able to tell me.
“Rachel?”
“Yeah?” I glance at Kimber, who is a few paces ahead of me in the parking lot.
“Are you coming?”
Cirrus clouds. That’s what they’re called. Somehow, I just know.
Acknowledgments
Hoo boy, where do I even begin? I want to thank Stacy Abrams, who believed in this book from the beginning and worked so hard to help me bring these characters to life. Any thanks and recognition that I can give her seems so inadequate compared to her amazing effort and dedication. Stacy, I adore you.
To Emily Easton, who oversaw a great deal toward the end of this project and offered such wonderful insights—your attention and concern has made this book 100 percent better, and I cannot thank you enough for your persistence and dedication. I know it couldn’t have been easy to step in at such a late stage, but I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done. And everyone else at Walker—you are all wonderful, and I feel so fortunate to be working with you. Beth Eller, Kate Lied, Katy Hershberger, Laura Whitaker, Rachel Stark … you’re such a fabulous group of people; none of this would work without all of your efforts!
To my agent, Andrea Somberg—surely you know how awesome you are, right? If I had someone like you to handle every aspect of my life, people would really think I had it together! Not only are you great at what you do, you’re also one of my favorite people. Please consider me for any outrageous favor you ever find yourself in need of; I will happily oblige.