A Flicker in the Dark(82)

“My editor is giving me until the end of next week to dig something up,” he says, sitting on the edge of the mattress with a creak. “Otherwise it’s time to pack it up and head home.”

“Empty-handed?”

“That’s right.”

“But you came all this way. What about your theory? The copycat?”

Aaron shrugs.

“I still believe it,” he says, his fingernail picking at the seam of the comforter. “But honestly, I’m getting nowhere.”

“Well, I may be able to help.”

I walk over to the bed and sit down next to him, the slouch of the mattress bringing our bodies closer together.

“And how is that? Does it have to do with this mysterious lead of yours?”

I look down at my hands. I need to word my response carefully, giving away only the information that Aaron needs to know.

“We’re going to speak with a woman named Dianne,” I say. “Her daughter went missing around the time of my father’s murders—another young, attractive teenager—and just like his victims, her body was never found.”

“Okay, but your dad never confessed to her murder, right? Only the six?”

“No, he didn’t,” I say. “And there was no jewelry of hers, either. She doesn’t really fit the pattern … but since her abductor was never found, I think it’s worth looking into. I was thinking that maybe he could be the copycat, you know? Whoever he is. That maybe he started mimicking my father’s crimes way earlier than we thought—maybe even while they were still happening. He went dark for a while, and maybe now, for the twentieth anniversary, he’s popping back up again.”

Aaron looks at me, and I half expect him to stand up and walk back outside, insulted that I brought him all the way out here for such a half-assed clue. But instead, he slaps his hands on his legs, exhaling loudly before standing up from the sunken bed.

“Well, okay,” he says, offering his hand to help me up. I can’t tell if he’s actually sold on my story, if he’s desperate enough for a lead that he’s willing to follow me blindly, or if he’s just going along with it to make me happy. Either way, I’m grateful. “Let’s go talk to Dianne.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX




Aaron drives as I navigate the directions on my phone, taking us deeper into a part of town that slowly morphs from middle-class modular homes into a dilapidated corner of Baton Rouge, barely recognizable. It happens so gradually I hardly realize it; one minute, I’m looking out the window at a toddler splashing in an inflatable pool—his mother soaking her feet, distracted on her phone with a lemonade in hand—and the next, I’m staring at a skeleton of a woman pushing a shopping cart full of trash bags and beer. The houses are falling apart now—bars on windows, paint peeling—and we turn in to a long, gravel roadway. Finally, I see a two-story with the number 375 bolted to the vinyl siding and motion for him to pull over.

“We’re here,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt. I steal another look at myself in the rearview mirror, the thick reading glasses I had put on before we left the motel partially obscuring my face. It feels cartoonish, putting on a pair of glasses as a disguise. Something out of a bad movie. I don’t think Dianne has ever seen a picture of me, but I can’t know for certain. For that reason, I want to make myself look different—and I want Aaron to do most of the talking.

“Okay, so what’s the plan, again?”

“We knock on the door, tell her that we’re investigating the deaths of Aubrey Gravino and Lacey Deckler,” I say. “Maybe flash her your credentials. Make it seem official.”

“Okay.”

“Tell her that we know her daughter was kidnapped twenty years ago and that her abductor was never caught. We’re curious if she can tell us anything about her daughter’s case.”

Aaron nods, not asking questions, and grabs his computer bag from the back seat before placing it on his lap. He seems nervous, but I can tell he doesn’t want it to show.

“And you are?”

“Your colleague,” I say, before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind me.

I walk toward the home, the scent of cigarette smoke lingering heavy in the air. It doesn’t smell freshly smoldered, like someone was just out here, sitting on the stoop, sneaking a smoke before dinner. It smells like it’s engrained in the place, coming out in little puffs from a timed air freshener, a permanent aroma that seeps into your clothes and never really leaves. I hear Aaron slam his door, hurrying behind me as I climb the steps toward the front porch. I turn around to face him, raising my eyebrows as if to ask: Are you ready? Aaron nods, a subtle tilt of the head, before raising his fist and knocking twice on the door.

“Who is it?”

I hear the voice of a woman erupt from inside, high-pitched and screechy. Aaron looks at me, and I lift my fist this time, knocking on the door again. My arm is still raised in the air when the door swings open, an older-looking woman glaring at us from behind a dirty screen. I notice a dead fly trapped in the mesh.

“What?” she asks. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Um, my name is Aaron Jansen. I’m a reporter for The New York Times.” Aaron looks down at his shirt, points to the press badge clipped to his collar. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”