Читать книгу Deadly Games - Steve Frech - Страница 10

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” I panic-mumble for about the seventieth time.

What else can I do? My head is still spinning. I can’t have this guy tell the cops about “my sweet little cupcake” or the blood in my car. I have to buy time until I can figure out what to do, and the only way to do that is to play his game, for now. This might be stupid but I don’t have any options at this point.

From my vantage point, parked across the street, Evergreen Terrace Apartments doesn’t look to be anything special; just another faceless courtyard building of units whose best feature is that it’s perched on the edge of Avalon, and you can sort of see the ocean from here. The banner out front announces that they have a vacancy. The bunches of balloons, tied to the railings leading up to the front door, bob and bounce off of each other in the sun-soaked breeze.

The glass doors lead to the lobby, which is nothing more than a room with some older couches. Set into the side wall are the mailboxes for the apartments. Another set of glass doors leads me to the open courtyard. The leasing office is to the left. There’s a small pool that takes up most of the courtyard, where two kids are splashing while their mothers sit in patio chairs, talking. They notice me. I smile at them, trying to play it cool, but I’m worried they can tell that I’m barely holding myself together.

After crossing the courtyard, I take the stairs up to the second level.

Number 208 is in the corner. The red doormat on the floor proclaims “Welcome!”. I glance around. The only signs of life are the kids and moms at the pool. I quickly reach down and flip up a corner of the doormat. Sure enough, there’s a gleaming, metal key. I snatch it up, slide it into the deadbolt, and twist. The bolt slides back and I push open the door.

I’m expecting a million things: a torture room, someone pointing a gun in my face, or even the police. The one thing I’m not expecting is exactly what I get: a boring apartment. From the front door, I can see almost the whole interior. The furnishings are spartan. There’s a couch and a loveseat in the living room in front of a television. In the kitchen, there’s a table and chairs. Past the kitchen is a short hallway, leading to a bedroom.

“Hello?” I call out before setting foot in the apartment, which is, of course, a stupid thing to do if the killer is waiting for me, somewhere inside. But I can already feel it. No one’s been here in a while.

A quick search of the apartment confirms my suspicions.

There’s a king-sized bed in the bedroom. The closets are empty. In the small bathroom, there’s some toiletries and two toothbrushes in a cup next to the sink. Two towels hang off the rack. I head back to the kitchen, which is almost bare. There are a couple of plates in the cabinets and utensils in a drawer. The fridge is empty. So is the pantry.

I don’t see anything that could “help me”, much less anything that is blue.

In the living room, I check under the cushions of the couch and behind the television. Nothing. At least nothing that looks like something I would “know it when I see it”.

What is this guy talking about?

I open all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. I check the undersides of the shelves in the pantry to see if there is something written or taped to them, like a piece of paper, telling me what to do next.

Back in the bedroom, I pull the sheets off the bed. Nothing. There’s nothing on the walls, either. It’s the most basic apartment imaginable. Revisiting the bathroom, I check under the sink, in the tub, and the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. I even check the toilet tank. There’s nothing here.

After my fruitless search, I find myself back in the living room.

Frustrated, I send a text to Emily’s burner phone: What am I looking for?

I hit send and wait … and wait …

Are you there? I type and hit send.

The tumbling nerves in my stomach solidify into a knot, which grows into a sense of dread that courses though my limbs.

I make another search of the apartment as I wait for a response that I’m certain isn’t coming.

“This is a waste of time,” I say aloud as I rifle through all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, again. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.

Another search of the closet in the bedroom yields nothing.

I’m left standing in the bedroom, scrutinizing the bare walls.

Goddamnit!

I take out my phone and text.

What am I looking for?!!

I hit send and wait.

The cursor blinks at me.

My dread turns to anger.

This guy is messing with me.

There’s nothing here and there’s probably nothing in my car. I had just believed him when he said he put blood in it, and his knowledge of “my sweet little cupcake” caused me to panic and lie to Detective Mendez, when I should have come clean.

I know how to fix this.

There’s an easy way to prove this guy is full of shit, and when I do, I’m going right to Detective Mendez. I don’t care how this guy knows about “my sweet little cupcake”. It was a joke. Detective Mendez will understand.

Let’s settle this.

Stepping out of the lobby and into the Avalon sunshine, I stride purposefully across the street towards my Civic.

There’s no blood in my car. Once I prove it, I’m going to tell Detective Mendez about the affair. It doesn’t make me a killer. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel, but I didn’t kill her. I’ll show him the texts. No, I don’t know who they’re from and no, I don’t know where the phone is now, and yes, I lied before, but he’ll understand. I’ll tell him about “my little cupcake”, which will be difficult, but I’ve got to do it. This guy said he put Emily’s blood in my car. I’ll show Detective Mendez and he’ll see that there’s no blood in it. Sure, he’ll be skeptical at first and it’ll take a lot of explaining, but he’ll believe me. He’ll understand why I lied and I’ll admit that it was a terrible mistake.

I unlock the car doors and open all of them. I begin meticulously inspecting every inch of the interior. My car is pretty tidy and any blood is going to stand out against the cloth seats. When I don’t find anything, I’m going straight to Detective Mendez.

There are no signs of blood on the dashboard. No signs of blood on the seats. There are no signs of blood on the floor, either, only some wayward nickels, two pens I swiped from The Gryphon. These spots right here? They’re from a while back when I spilled a little bit of energy drink.

Each passing moment of non-discovery adds to my confidence.

I pick myself up from inspecting the floor of the back seat, go to the driver’s side, and pull the handle to pop the trunk.

I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say to Detective Mendez.

“First off, Detective, I want to apologize. I lied to you but I hope you understand. You see, Emily Parker and I were having an affair, but I didn’t kill her. It was someone else who is now using our relationship to set me up. They said to keep quiet or else they would tell you about the blood in my car, but as you can see—”

I lift the lid of the trunk.

My lungs seize up.

There’s a moment of shock and revulsion. Then, I slam the lid closed but continue staring at the trunk.

I can’t go back to Detective Mendez. Not now. Not ever.

The inside of the trunk of my car is covered in blood.