Whisper to Me(107)

“Which was?”

Brian looked at Julie for help, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. He looked back at me. “The dad, okay? Horowitz doesn’t like his alibi. Plus … the phone call. To Julie. Paris’s phone call, after she disappeared.”

I thought for a second. “Because she told Julie not to call the cops?”

“Yeah. Why do that? Unless maybe you know the person who has grabbed you.”

Julie was frowning. “So, what, her dad who lives in New York just happens to come down to Oakwood and orders a stripper and thinks, ****, it’s my daughter, so he kills her?”

Brian shrugged. “I guess not. But maybe the dad knows she’s a stripper. Comes down and hires her, to confront her about it. And things go wrong. Get violent.”

A pause.

It seemed plausible, I had to admit.

“But his work colleague said he was with her that night.”

Brian’s mouth was open. “You know about that? How?”

I shrugged. “I know a lot of things.” This was basically straight fronting—there was a lot I didn’t know—but Brian looked impressed, and that was enough for me.

“Yeah, well, Horowitz said anyone could say that. No real way to verify, unless they went to a restaurant or something, which they didn’t.”

I stood up, my head spinning.

Paris’s dad.

Maybe not the Houdini Killer at all.

Maybe her own dad.

“See?” said the voice. “Now you’re getting somewhere.”





Say you’re a father, and you abused your daughter in some way when she was growing up.

You’re not a nice man.

Then one day you hear that she’s doing sex stuff for money, down in New Jersey, where you pay for her to attend college.

Say you’re a psychopath, maybe.



1. You travel down to Oakwood.

2. You have your daughter’s card, or her cam website, or something. You use these to e-mail, using a new account you have created. You say it’s for a party.

3. You make the appointment at a deserted house. Maybe you have searched through foreclosure records.

4. Your daughter arrives. You fight. You push her, maybe, and she falls, hits her head on a step. She is out; you think maybe she’s even dead. You put her in the trunk of your car, but you don’t realize that she has her cell, that she is going to call her friend Julie.

5. Though, as it turns out, your daughter does not name you anyway.

6. And she isn’t dead. But you kill her. You do kill her. Later. So that she can’t talk.

7. And you tell some girl from your office to say that you were at home all night.

8. And she does.

9. And the police have to accept your alibi.

10. Except that there is one policeman who is suspicious. Agent Horowitz.

11. And there is me.

12. And I’m coming for you.





Or say something else.

Say you’re a cop and you’re in love with Paris. Say you follow her and Julie to a party where she’s going to be stripping.

Say that suddenly you can’t take it anymore, the idea of her exposing herself to other men; you wait till she leaves and you grab her—I mean, Julie’s timeline is shaky; she said herself she fell asleep—and:

1. You kill her, you strangle her, I don’t know, or you think you kill her anyway and 2. You put her in the trunk of your car and

3. She calls Julie but doesn’t give your name because you’re a cop and 4. You dispose of her body after you respond to the 911 call and 5. You lie to the annoying girl looking into Paris’s death and you tell her that the father did it.





Or it’s neither of those things.

It’s the serial killer, and he’s someone else entirely. Someone who drives a Jeep SRT8.

Or Paris ran away and isn’t dead at all.





I’m nearly at the point where I lost you—where I threw you away.

I’ve been putting it off.

But I can’t put it off any longer.





When you came back from work I was waiting up in my room. Shane was already sitting in one of the deck chairs—you flung yourself down into the other one and Shane handed you a beer.

I went downstairs and out into the yard.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” you said, because our relationship CONTINUED TO BE SCRIPTED BY THE GREAT PLAYWRIGHTS.

“You okay?” you said.

“Yep,” I said, in AN EXCHANGE TO RIVAL MARLOWE.

Shane raised his beer. “Hey, Cass,” he said.

“Hey, Shane.”

Shane started to stand. “Here, take my chair,” he said. “I’ll sit on the ground.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You say that to all the girls?”

“Whatever,” said Shane. “I’m the one being gentlemanly and offering my chair. I don’t see you getting off your butt.”

“Touché,” you said.

“What?” said Shane.

“Never mind.”

Shane gestured at the chair. “Cass, sit.”

“No, it’s cool,” I said.

“You leaving?” you said.