All the Dangerous Things(53)

And, even more terrifying: Was he even there?

I shake my head, pace around the floor for a bit, trying to relax. I’ll go back to the house tonight, see if he’s still there. Maybe I should bring Waylon with me, just to be sure that he sees him, too. And if he does, I’ll know. I’ll know I’m not crazy.

I grab my phone and open up Facebook, typing in his name: Paul Hayes. I quickly realize that there are a lot of Paul Hayeses out there—an attorney in Texas with a wide-brimmed hat; an Oklahoma teenager with a giant truck. There are even a few right here in Savannah, holding up deer and fish and other dead things, but none of them are him.

I open up Instagram next, do the same search, and scroll.

Nothing. Not a single thing.

I lower my phone, chew on the inside of my cheek, and think. To the outside world, Paul Hayes seems not to exist—and suddenly, I wonder if that’s on purpose. I wonder if he was forgettable for a reason. When I talked to him last year, knocking on that door with Mason’s poster in hand, he had been the perfect combination of unremarkable: polite but not overly friendly, cooperative but not especially helpful. Like someone who didn’t want to raise any flags. Someone who wanted to disappear into the shadows.

Someone with something to hide.

I suppose it isn’t a crime to like your privacy, but still. He has a record. He’s out on parole. He was at the vigil. His porch has a direct view into my backyard.

It’s something—a lead, definitely. And one that I need to know more about.

I also need to know more about my sleepwalking. I need to find out if it means anything, and—I swallow, close my eyes—if I could have done something again. Something I don’t remember. I look down and dial Dr. Harris’s number next, listening to the ringing before it flips to voice mail. Then I leave a quick message, asking to be penciled in as soon as possible.

I hang up, but before I can put my phone down, I feel it start to vibrate in my hand.

“Waylon,” I say, answering immediately after seeing his name on the screen. “You’ll never guess—”

“Hey, Isabelle,” he interrupts, sounding breathless and excited. “Just got a few words in with Detective Dozier.”

I stop, my mouth hanging open as I glance at the clock. Dozier just left here a few minutes ago. There’s no way he could have gotten to the station that fast.

“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush with red, my heartbeat rising. “And how did that go?”

“Great. He’s being cooperative, but he did say he doesn’t know anything about your neighbor. I’m sorry.”

I open my mouth to respond again, but the words don’t come out.

“I’m heading to lunch a little early,” he says, oblivious to the thoughts racing around in my mind. “Still want to meet?”

I’m stunned, standing in place, trying to work through the implications of this conversation. What it all means.

“Isabelle?”

“Yeah.” I finally manage to croak out a word, although right now, lunch with Waylon is the last thing I want to do. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Great,” he says. “Meet you at Framboise in thirty. I’ll tell you all about it.”

The line goes dead, and I stand in silence, the phone still pushed to my ear. Then I swallow, lower my arm slowly, a blanket of dread descending over me as I look around my house, at all of Waylon’s things cluttered around the room: his jacket flung over the dining room chair, his suitcase stacked in the hallway corner. His mug on the counter, drips of coffee that touched his lips still staining the rim. There are pieces of him everywhere, these microscopic clues of another life in my home like dust on furniture, visible only when you catch a glimpse in just the right light.

And that’s when the gravity of it all fully hits me.

Waylon sought me out on that airplane. With a rush of certainty, I know it in my bones. He was looking for me, specifically; maybe he even went to TrueCrimeCon to meet me. He had found me sitting there, that empty seat next to me, and introduced himself. Handed me his card. Then he came here and gave me a taste of what he knew I wanted: someone to listen, someone to understand. Someone to care. It was only a bite, though. Only enough to satisfy the craving. And then he threatened to go, leaving me desperate: a junky in need of just one more fix, so I had offered my home to make him stay.

Now this man who came into my life just one week ago has managed to weasel his way in so completely, I realize there is no way it wasn’t orchestrated. There is no way it wasn’t planned.

I think about the violence again, like I have so many times over this past year. About how sometimes, it presents itself as a shotgun blast, loud and messy, spraying gore against the wall—but other times, it’s as quiet as a whisper: a handful of swallowed pills or a scream underwater. A stranger slipping into a window at night before leaving without a trace. But then there are the other times, too, when it comes masked as something else. When it’s invited inside, stepping politely through the front door wearing a disguise: an ally, a friend.

I thought Waylon cared. I thought he wanted to help. But now I don’t know why he’s here. I don’t know what he wants.

Now I know that he’s lying. I know that he has a secret, too.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE




On my way to Framboise, I get another phone call. This time, it’s Dr. Harris, calling me back.