Читать книгу Deadly Games - Steve Frech - Страница 11

My knocking on the door goes unanswered for two seconds, so I knock again.

“Katie? Katie, it’s me.” I’m trying to keep my voice somewhere between making sure she can hear me and not alerting the neighbors.

I rap on the door, again.

“C’mon, Katie. Open the door.”

She’s home. I know she is. This is the only night of the week that The Gryphon is closed and there’s a car parked in the spot outside her apartment.

“Katie, please, op—”

The door flies open. Katie is staring at me with wide, furious eyes and flaring nostrils.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

“I have to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“It is really not a good time.”

“Listen, I have to know: what did the police ask you about Emily and me?”

“Clay,” she says, quickly glancing over her shoulder. “This is not the—”

“Please. It’s important.”

“They asked me about the other night at the bar and I said that I didn’t talk to her and that you were the one taking care of her.”

“Did you tell them that we were … you know?”

“Sleeping together? No. I didn’t. Now, can we talk about this later?”

“Did they show you the photos?”

“What photos? What are you talking about?”

“Katie, Emily Parker’s dead.”

She freezes, her mouth hanging open.

“Someone killed her at the motel where we were going to meet, and when I spoke to the police today, I didn’t tell them about us.”

Katie finally finds her voice. “You have to go back, right now, and tell them.”

“I can’t. Something’s happened and I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Clay—”

“Katie, please listen to me. I know I screwed up, I do, but if the police ask to speak to you again, I need you to do something for me.”

She begins to shake her head. “Clay, stop.”

“Please, please, don’t tell them or anybody else about Emily and me.”

“Shut up, now!”

“Katie, please listen to me; I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you I didn’t, but something happened, and I need some time to figure it out. All I’m asking is that you don’t tell anyone about me and Emily.”

“Clay, stop!” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Katie? Everything okay?” a voice asks from the inside of her darkened apartment.

For the first time, I notice what Katie is wearing: a long T-shirt and apparently nothing else. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flushed. Also, that’s not her car in her parking spot.

Over her shoulder, a man appears from the doorway to the bedroom. He has sharp facial features, a chiseled, hairy chest, and he’s wearing jeans he hasn’t bothered to button.

Katie closes her eyes and hangs her head in resignation. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.”

The man and I lock eyes.

Oh, this is sooo bad.

“Hello, Mr. McDermitt,” I say in a quiet mixture of panic and mortification.

“Clay,” he responds. He’s obviously not my biggest fan at the moment.

I wanted to talk to Katie to keep anyone else from finding out about Emily and I. Instead, I’ve added one more person.

He turns and goes back into the bedroom.

“Seriously?” I ask Katie.

“I told you it was a bad time.”

“That his car in your spot?”

“Yes. Mine’s in the shop. Nick’s been giving me rides to and from work. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to switch out-times the other night. He gave me a ride to the station this morning and we came back here.”

“And what does Mrs. McDermitt think about this?”

Katie crosses her arms.

“I wouldn’t know because they split last month and are you really going to try to lecture me on this particular subject at the moment?”

I take a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole.”

She takes it down a notch as well.

“You want to tell me what happened?” she asks.

If I tell her about the text messages and the blood in my car, she’s going to call the police, and I wouldn’t blame her.

“I can’t tell you right now.”

“Clay—”

“I can’t but I need you to know that I didn’t kill her, okay? You know I could never do that, right?”

“Of course I do.” She sighs. “But you know something, don’t you?”

“Not me, but someone does.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, I don’t understand. Why don’t you go to the police?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t.”

She shakes her head, unhappy with my answer but knows it’s all she’s going to get. “Fine … But tell me; are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to answer, but decide to be honest. “I don’t know, but, Katie, please promise that you won’t tell anyone about Emily and me.”

She tilts her face towards the ground.

“Katie?”

She looks up at me with eyes that are filled not only with worry, but with hurt. “Clay, if they ask me, I’m not going to lie to the police … and I can’t believe you would ask me to do that now, when she’s dead.”

“Please, Katie, it’s really—”

“I’m not going to lie to the cops,” she says quietly, but forcefully.

She’s right. I can’t ask one of my best friends to risk getting herself in a lot of trouble for me. I rapidly come up with a middle ground.

“I apologize. It was wrong of me to ask you to lie to the cops.”

She won’t make eye contact.

“Katie, please look at me.”

She reluctantly does.

“You believe me when I tell you I didn’t kill Emily, right?”

“Yes, of course, I believe you.”

“Okay. How about this, if they ask you about us, don’t lie, but please promise me that you won’t say anything unless they ask. Is that fair?”

It’s a really fine hair to split, but I’m hoping our friendship wins me the benefit of the doubt.

She considers it. “… okay.”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you knowing something else that you wouldn’t want to lie about.”

There’s a long, awkward pause as we’ve hit a wall where I won’t say anymore and she won’t promise anything else.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll let you get back to … that,” I say with a wave of my hand towards the bedroom door.

Katie scoffs in disbelief.

“See you at work, tomorrow,” she replies and closes the door in my face.

My apartment has never felt so small. So claustrophobic.

I pull the shades on every window but can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes watching me.

Dinner consists of some reheated leftovers and a beer, but I hardly touch either one as I obsess over watching the news on television and checking the news on my phone. There’s nothing about Emily’s murder, but it’s only a matter of time. A millionaire’s wife found naked in bed at a seedy motel with her throat cut? It’s a true-crime podcaster’s dream.

Midnight hits and I’m still wide awake, trying to imagine what a conversation with Detective Mendez would look like if I tried to come clean now.

I could possibly explain away one thing or maybe two, but there are so many things that I would have to explain. Even if I try to plead that I cared for Emily, it would make me sound crazy, especially when you threw in the blood in my trunk and “my sweet little cupcake”.

The ship where I tell everything to Detective Mendez has sailed.

I go to the bathroom and take a shower. I open the small window to the blind alley behind my apartment building to let out the steam.

While standing under the stinging hot water and trying to think my way through this, I realize that even the text messages don’t really help me. How can I prove it’s her phone? I mean, it’s a burner phone that no one else knew about. Also, where is it? If I admit that I was at the motel that night, wouldn’t Detective Mendez assume I took it, and maybe I’m sending the messages to myself to try to lamely throw him off the scent?

There’s no way around it.

This guy has me in a corner and there’s no way out.

I climb into bed and hit the lights, but sleep is an impossibility.

Lying in bed, phone in hand, I scroll through the text messages. For the first time in my life, I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe. My chest hurts and my stomach is boiling. I’m lying here, stewing in my bed, going around in circles, and have no clue as to what I should do next. I want to vent to someone, but who? No way I talk to Detective Mendez. I tried to talk to Katie and that made it worse. There’s no one to—

No. There is someone to talk to.

I quickly begin typing into my phone. The letters appear under my last text to Emily’s burner phone.

What was that at the apartment?

Send.

I stare at the cursor and start typing again.

Why did you want me to go there?

Send.

I pause … and then begin furiously typing.

Why did you kill her?

Send.

Why are you doing this?

Send.

What do you want?

Send.

WHO ARE YOU?!!

Send.

Even though I’m lying in bed, I’m out of breath and gripping the phone so tightly, I feel like it’s going to break. Under the string of messages, the blinking cursor patiently waits for some more unhinged typing.

Minutes pass.

Finally, my phone goes into sleep mode, darkening the room.

Exhaustion crashes over me. I put the phone on the bedside table, pull the sheets up to my chin, and roll onto my side. My body is drained but my mind is still spinning out of control.

My eyes start to close. I just want to sleep, to escape for a little—

Ping.

I’m instantly alert. I roll over, grab the phone, and unlock the home screen.

There’s one new message from Emily’s burner phone.

It’s a single emoji reply …