“Careful,” says JB. I have his attention now.
I run my hands back through my hair. I sound insane. I’ll drive her away again. “Please. Nicole. Please just tell her I never meant to hurt her.”
Her expression sobers. She nods. “I will.”
“Tell her . . . I’m sorry.” I pause, surprised by the sudden well of emotion. My voice turns husky. “Tell her that her kindness meant everything to me. I would never . . . knowingly hurt her.”
Nicole studies me. “Is that all?”
I hesitate, then nod. “That’s all.”
“You . . . don’t want to see her?”
I put my hands to my face and rub at my eyes. “I do.” I give a choked laugh. “I want to see her so badly.”
Nicole throws her arms around my neck again. She kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll tell her.” Then she starts jogging back toward the library. “I need to get back to work!” Then she stops. “Wait. How can she get in touch with you?”
I frown. I never thought I’d be so desperate for a cell phone.
“Here.” JB hands me a small card. At first I thought it was a business card, but it’s more like an index card. All he’s written is a number.
I hold it out to Nicole. “Here.”
She hugs it to her chest. “I can’t wait to tell her.” Then she dashes back through the entrance.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask.
JB sounds bemused. “She’s something.”
“Tell me about it. Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
I’m in Lilly’s head again. We’re watching a rom-com with Alex. His arm is across our shoulders, but otherwise, it’s the most boring first date I’ve ever been on.
Except for the other person in the room.
I haven’t really seen him. I can’t force Lilly to look at him, and once Alex told her that there was nothing to worry about, she hasn’t so much as glanced in his direction. He hasn’t said a word. He’s just there.
It’s weird. Creepy. Unsettling.
She’s completely relaxed, like random strangers come into her house all the time. When Alex begins to play with her hair, we gaze up at him and smile.
At first, I didn’t mind going through the motions with her. Now, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s terrifying.
I don’t want to live through this with her. When Thomas was on top of me, choking me, it was terrifying enough. I don’t want to go through Lilly’s murder. I wish I could claw my way out of her body. I wish I could get her to wake up and pay attention to what’s going on.
I can’t. I’m stuck.
The scene shifts. We’re in Lilly’s room. On her bed. Her dress has been pushed up our body, and Alex’s hands are everywhere. Stroking, caressing, sliding between her legs. Inside, I’m scrambling away, covering my eyes.
But she’s not fighting him. She’s enjoying herself. She’s happy to be here. If not for the fact that she’s fifteen, I’d be giving her a high five and telling her to enjoy herself and practice safe sex.
She moans. I really don’t want to be a part of this.
Alex laughs under his breath. “Don’t forget. We’ve got an audience.”
Lilly sucks in a breath and turns her head.
For the first time, I catch a glimpse of the stranger. He’s handsome. Young. I’ve never seen him before.
He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. This will all be over soon.”
I sit upright in bed. Afternoon sunlight arcs across my wall, and for the first time in days, I’m alone in my bedroom.
We’ve got an audience.
That sticks in my head. I don’t know why, but it does.
“Charlotte!” My mother is calling from downstairs. “Dinner is ready!”
I rub my eyes. There’s an imprint in my cheek, and I look down at my mattress. I fell asleep on my book.
I guess I didn’t get much sleep last night.
“Coming!” I yell back. “I need a few minutes.”
My hair is a wreck. Curls everywhere. I pull it all up into a high ponytail and wash my face, then brush my teeth.
We’ve got an audience. The words won’t get out of my head.
I prick my finger with a lancet and squeeze a drop of blood onto a test strip, letting my brain work while I wait for the meter to spit out a number.
Those four words are killing me. They’re hopping up and down in my brain, begging for me to figure them out. I’m missing some key connection, I’m sure of it.
“Charlotte!” my mother calls again. “Are you all right?”
“Just checking my sugar!” I call back, because I know she’ll leave me alone if that’s the answer.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I still have Band-Aids on my neck, and they’re beginning to look a little ratty. I carefully peel them off. The marks on my neck have scabbed over.
We’ve got an audience.
Lilly saw him. I saw him too, but his image is frozen somewhere in my awareness, just beyond my reach. I can’t force him back into view.
“We’ve got an audience,” I whisper.
Then I have it. The answer comes to me so quickly that I almost knock the meter in the toilet.
Thomas said it. Two nights ago. I thought he meant the girls.
Did he mean he wasn’t alone? Did my subconscious recognize someone else in the room with us?
Is that why I’m dreaming about Lilly? Is this my brain’s way of showing me a connection?
Who’s the guy in my dream? Who am I missing in this equation? Was it the same stranger in Lilly’s bedroom, or is it someone else entirely?
What did Ben say about Lilly’s murder? They had a suspect, but they couldn’t bring it together.
We interviewed one guy from the local community college whose name matched the emails, but he didn’t even know her, and we couldn’t trace the email account as belonging to him.
Was he really innocent, or had he been there and just couldn’t remember?
And what would cause that? Rohypnol? If a girl could be conscious yet not remember a rape, could a guy be drugged and coerced into murdering someone? I don’t think so. But maybe there’s another drug?
Too many questions. I can’t draw enough connections.
Ben must be here, because I hear his voice when I go down the stairs. Danny’s working tonight, so I know he won’t be at the table. I hear an unfamiliar voice and hesitate before rounding the corner, but Ben catches me standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Who’s here?” I mouth to him. I’m only wearing a tank top and yoga pants.
“It’s all right,” he mouths back, then tilts his head to encourage me to come the rest of the way into the dining room.
I come around the corner and stop short.
Stan is sitting at the table next to my father. He stops talking and stands up when he sees me.
He clears his throat. “Charlotte.”
It shouldn’t, but this feels terribly awkward. He’s not Thomas’s father, and I’m not Thomas’s girlfriend.
Somehow, it feels just the same.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” he says, and I can tell that he is. He looks so remorseful, you’d think he had something to do with it.
“I’m okay,” I say softly.
“I never thought the boy had it in him.”
I wet my lips and glance at my father. “I didn’t either.”
My mother comes to the doorway, a casserole dish balanced between oven mitts. “There you are,” she says. “Would you mind getting the side dishes?”
I go for the green beans and the mashed potatoes, bringing them out to set on trivets at the table.
“Your ankle isn’t giving you much trouble then?” says Stan when I make a trip back for the water pitcher.
I make sure to fill my grandmother’s glass first, because I’ll hear about it later if I don’t. “It’s okay if I take it easy.”
“A
re you absolutely sure he didn’t have anything to do with that?” Stan’s eyes narrow. “There’s no sense in protecting him now.”
“No. He didn’t have anything to do with it. I was stupid.”
No one at the table disagrees with me. Well, then.
I sigh and sink into my seat at the table.
“We’ve been worried he might make another attempt,” my father says.
“He didn’t give me any indication of that this morning,” said Stan. Then he looks somewhat abashed. “On second thought, maybe I’m not the best judge of character. I think I gave him a lot more passes than I should have, what with him being her son and all.”
“You saw him?” I say.
Ben’s eyes lock on mine with laser-intense focus. I ignore him.
“Yes,” Stan says. “He came for his things. Showed up with a guy named JB Augury. Said he was crashing with him.”
JB Augury. The name means nothing to me. I frown. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know.” Stan shovels mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I was kind of hoping Tom might have mentioned him to you.”
“No. Never.”
“I snooped on Tom’s Facebook page, but he doesn’t have any friends by that name.”
I know for a fact that Thomas didn’t have any friends in town at all, so I can understand why Stan would sound concerned. Despite what happened, I’m concerned, too. As terrifying as the assault was, I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. That we’re all missing something. “Thomas said he was staying with this JB guy?”
“What difference does it make to you?” says Ben.
There’s no gentleness in his voice. Just metal barbs.
I look back at my plate. “I’m just curious.”
“I didn’t get a good feeling about the whole thing,” Stan says. “I would have felt better if he hadn’t made bail.”
“So would we,” my father says.
“Was this JB guy the one to post bail?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” says Stan. “It was through a bondsman.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Could this be someone Thomas knew from Baltimore? I fall silent for a while, half-listening as the table talk shifts to more innocuous subjects.
We have an audience.
Was Thomas alone that night? Or did he have someone with him? I turn that theory over in my head and examine it from multiple angles.
“How did he get in?” I ask.
The table falls silent, and everyone looks at me. They were in the middle of a conversation about baseball.
Ben looks like he wants to kick me under the table. “Let it go, Charlotte.”
“What, because I’m a girl I can’t try to figure it out, too?”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” Ben snaps.
“Charlotte,” my grandmother chides. “We have company.”
Like I’m the one snapping at people. “I’m just saying . . . how did he get in? The door’s not broken.”
My dad’s expression is a cross between exasperated and concerned. “He didn’t break the door.” He pauses. “We don’t know how he got in.”
Something else occurs to me. “How did he know where I live?”
Mom gives me a look. “What’s with the questions?”
Ben throws his fork down so hard that it rattles against his plate. “I don’t know what he did to her, but she’s still defending him,” he says hotly. “Let it go, Charlotte.”
“I’m not a child!” I snap at him. “I wish you’d stop worrying about me and start looking at this analytically. You’re supposed to be a cop, not me.”
My mother points at the stairs. “Go,” she says. Her eyes are hard, and she’s using her I’m-your-mother-don’t-screw-with-me voice. “Upstairs. Now.”
Ben and I both shut up and look at her.
“Which one of us?” Ben says. He might be grown up and live on his own, but he still knows the voice well.
“Charlotte,” she says. “Go upstairs.”
“Fine.” I throw my napkin at the table and storm toward the stairs.
I wish this meant I’d get a free pass from clearing the table, but I’d bet good money I’ll be allowed back down in time for that.
“Take your plate with you!” Mom yells.
Ah, yes. Always protecting the blessed blood sugar. I don’t want to push her more than I already have, so I return, grab my plate, and head back for the stairs.
Ben glares at me the whole time.
I know they love me. I know they’re looking out for me. But it’s like their worry won’t let them look past the facts. The details. There’s more at work here than just a crazy guy breaking into a girl’s house to rape her. They have to see that.
A tiny, niggling voice in the back of my head warns me that I’m still romanticizing him.
I tell that voice to stick it.
JB Augury. I wish I knew the name. It means nothing. I find it hard to believe that Thomas would find a guy to open up his home to him so quickly. Everyone around here hates him or is afraid of him.
I replay our trip to Crisfield. He’d been sketching in the car. He drew a picture of his brother. We walked through the neighborhood and met his brother’s neighbor. We stumbled over names.
Jonathan Bellweather.
JB.
I almost fall off the bed. Did he find his brother? When? Only a few hours passed between the time I dropped him off at Stan’s house and the time Thomas attacked me in my bedroom. Had he found his brother in those hours and decided to attack me? That seems like a pretty narrow window, to meet someone and commit a crime together.
My parents keep the desktop computer downstairs, next to the kitchen. Originally, it was to keep an eye on the kids and what they were doing online, but now it’s just there because that’s where we’ve gotten used to it. There’s no way I can stroll down there and start researching.
Could I text Nicole? I look at the clock. She’ll be eating dinner, and her mom would have a stroke if she started texting at the table—if Nicole has her phone with her at all. I’ve got to wait. I slide my phone back into my pocket.
Hmm.
Danny. He has a computer. And he’s at work.
I sneak down the hallway to his room and ease around the creaky spot in the floor. I tiptoe across Danny’s floor and ease myself onto his bed. His laptop is right there. My heart bounces around in my chest, but I keep my movement stealthy.
I fire up Google. First, I search for “Jonathan Bellweather.” I get a ton of hits—it’s not that unusual a name. I narrow it to “Jonathan Bellweather, Crisfield, Maryland.” Now I get a lot of hits about high school football. Google offers images, so I click on the link. They’re all school football game shots from six or seven years ago, interspersed with a dozen random people, half of which are women. None of this is helpful.
I try a search for “JB Augury.”
The first link is for American Bail Bonds in Crisfield.
I frown. We were parked in front of a bail bonds place when the Asian guy dragged me out of the car. Coincidence? I click on the link.
My cell phone buzzes. I’m so on edge that I almost drop the laptop.
Nicole.
NK: You will not believe who I saw today.
CR: I give up.
NK: Thomas!
I choke on air. My fingers won’t type fast enough.
CR: You did?
NK: Yes! I tried to punch him in the balls for your benefit, but then he started apologizing. He feels terrible about what happened. He seemed very upset. He wants to talk to you.
I stare at her message. I almost can’t believe this is happening.
CR: Was he with somebody?
NK: Yes. I didn’t recognize him. He gave me a number where you could reach Thomas.
I don’t want the number. I don’t want it. I don’t.
I’m full of crap.
CR: Give it to me.
She does. I save it in my phone and look ba
ck at the computer.
It’s an “About Us” page. No pictures, unfortunately, but each person has a bio. I skip past Clarence Brown and Martin Creighton, and stop on JB Augury.
JB Augury is a licensed Bail Enforcement Agent. He has been with Crisfield Bail Bonds for two years. JB spent several years serving our country with the U.S. Army, until an old knee injury earned him a trip home. JB specializes in apprehending citizens who do not fulfill their contractual obligation to appear in court.
I remember what the neighbor said about a knee injury. It’s him. It has to be him.
How did Thomas find him?
Then I scroll a little further. There are three images at the bottom of the screen. One is a large black man—the guy we saw on the street. One is a middle-aged white guy with a comb-over.
And the third, the youngest guy of the three, makes me give a little yip of surprise. My subconscious fires up.
Shh. This will all be over soon.
It’s him. The guy from my dream.
Not Alex. The other one.
The one no one knew was there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THOMAS
I fall asleep on my sketchbook.
It’s one of the few things I was able to get from Stan. My sketchbook, my pencils, and my clothes. He didn’t even pack up my toothbrush.
He really wasn’t kidding about forgetting I’m not a puppy.
I wake up to JB leaning over me. He’s close, almost close enough to share breath, and I jerk back in surprise.
He glances at me. “You’re really talented. I had no idea.”
Then I follow his original gaze. He wasn’t leaning down over me, he’s leaning over my sketchbook.
I shift up on one elbow and look down at my drawing. Warmth floods my cheeks. It’s the sketch I started in the car with Charlotte. Of him. I hadn’t intended to keep working on it, but last night I flipped to the page, and I couldn’t help but fix the angle of his shoulder. That turned into more shading around the door. The addition of a bed, only the corner visible.
It had been like regaining the use of a broken limb.