A Flicker in the Dark(59)

“It’s fine,” I say, walking inside and pushing the door shut behind me. I linger for a second before he points to the chair opposite him. I take a seat, my mind flashing back to earlier this week when the roles were reversed. When I was seated behind my desk, in my office, gesturing for him to sit where I commanded. I exhale.

“So,” he says, folding his hands on the table. “What is it that you remembered?”

“First, I have a question,” I say. “Aubrey Gravino. Was she found wearing any jewelry?”

“I don’t really see how that’s relevant.”

“It is. I mean, depending on what the answer is, it could be.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you remember first, and then we can look into that.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, before I share this, I need to know for certain. I promise, it matters.”

He looks at me for another few seconds, weighing his options. He sighs loudly, trying to convey his annoyance, before shuffling through the folders on his desk. Then he grabs one, opens it, and flips through a few pages.

“No, she wasn’t found with any jewelry,” he says. “One earring was found near the body in the cemetery—sterling silver with a pearl and three diamonds.”

He looks up at me, his eyebrows raised, as if to question: Are you happy now?

“So, no necklace?”

His eyes linger on mine for another few seconds before looking back down.

“No. No necklace. Just the earring.”

I exhale, pushing my hands into my hair. He’s looking at me carefully again, waiting for me to say something, to do something. I lean back into my chair and spit it out.

“That earring was a part of a set,” I say. “There’s a matching necklace she would have been wearing at the time of her abduction. She wears them together in all of her pictures. On the MISSING poster, her yearbook photos, tagged pictures on Facebook. If she was wearing the earrings, she was also wearing the necklace.”

He lowers the folder to his desk.

“How do you know this?”

“I checked,” I say. “Before I came to you with this, I wanted to be sure.”

“Okay. And why do you think this matters?”

“Because Lacey was wearing a piece of jewelry, too. Remember?”

“That’s right,” he says. “You mentioned a bracelet.”

“A beaded bracelet with a metal cross. I saw it on her wrist in my office. She wore it to cover her scar. But when I looked at her body this morning … it wasn’t there.”

The room is uncomfortably quiet. Detective Thomas continues to stare, and I can’t tell if he’s actually considering what I’m telling him, or if he’s concerned about my well-being. I talk faster.

“I think the killer is taking his victim’s jewelry, as mementos,” I say. “And I think he’s doing that because my father used to do that. Richard Davis, you know. From Breaux Bridge.”

I watch his reaction as the pieces fall into place. It’s always the same, every time someone realizes who I am: a visible loosening of the face before the jaw gets tight, like they have to physically restrain themselves from lunging at me from across the table. Our last names, our similar features. I’ve always been told that I have my father’s nose, oversized and slightly crooked, by far my least favorite thing on my face—not because of vanity, but because of the constant reminder of our shared DNA every time I look in the mirror.

“You’re Chloe Davis,” he says. “Dick Davis’s daughter.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You know, I think I read an article about you.” He’s pointing at me now, waving his finger as he allows the memory to take over. “I just … I didn’t put it together.”

“Yeah, that ran a few years ago. I’m relieved to hear you forgot.”

“And you think these murders are somehow related to the ones your father committed?”

He’s still staring at me with that look of disbelief, as if I’m an apparition hovering above the carpet, unsure if I’m real.

“At first, I didn’t,” I say. “But the twenty-year anniversary is coming up next month, and I recently discovered that the father of one of my father’s victims lives here in Baton Rouge. Bert Rhodes. And he’s … angry. He has a record. He tried to strangle his wife—”

“You think this is a copycat?” he interrupts. “That the victim’s father has turned into a copycat?”

“He has a record,” I repeat. “And … my family. He hates my family. I mean, understandably so, but he showed up to my house today, and he was very angry, and I felt very unsafe—”

“He came to your house unannounced?” he sits up straighter and reaches for a pen. “Did he threaten you in any way?”

“No, it wasn’t really unannounced. He installs security systems, and my fiancé, he called them to have one installed—”

“So you invited him to your house?” he leans back again, putting the pen down.

“Will you stop interrupting me?”

The sentence comes out louder than I intend it to, and Detective Thomas looks at me, stunned, with a mixture of shock and unease as an uncomfortable silence settles across the room. I bite my lip. I hate that look. I’ve seen that look before. I’ve seen that look from Cooper. I’ve seen that look from police officers and detectives, right here, in this very building. That look that shows the very first hint of concern—not for my safety, but for my mind. That look that makes me feel like my words are not to be trusted, that my slow unravel is getting faster and faster, spiraling out of control, until pretty soon, I’ll be nothing.