Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(10)

A single beep. Access Granted.

The flood of adrenaline makes him dizzy at first, then breathless with elation.

He almost forgets to follow the Savior’s next instruction, which is to pass the code along if he cracks it. He has, and he does. He’s proud of how it looks on the burner phone’s screen next to all the nervous preparatory texts they’ve exchanged over the past few hours. A task completed, a goal met.

In another few seconds, he’s crossed the courtyard and slipped inside the house. She’s left the air-conditioning on, a necessity even in October, and the cool air kisses his skin in an undeniably welcoming way. He’s in. And just as he expected, a few minutes later, the locks all click shut behind him, the sounds a confirmation of his speed and smarts.

Not just that. But his destiny as well. Their destiny.

Now he just needs to find her guns.





4

“Describe them to me,” Dylan says.

“I can’t. The dreams are too vague,” Charlotte answers.

“Can you remember any of them?”

“Not really. It’s more like I wake up with an awareness that they were bad. Or that I was being chased.”

“Dreams are funny things.”

“These dreams aren’t funny. I mean, I don’t wake up laughing.”

“Figure of speech,” he says. “Forgive me. What I mean is that most neuroscientists believe dreams don’t actually have a chronology when we’re in them. When we’re asleep, we’re not tuned in to the type of physical stimuli our bodies use to detect the passage of time.”

“So what does that mean?” she asks.

“It means our brains have been firing a stream of random images at us and our waking minds instinctively place them in a coherent order. A narrative that makes sense to us.”

“So dreams have less to do with our subconscious and more to do with our mental state when we wake up? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Actually, I’m trying to get you to describe your dreams over the past two weeks.”

“I can barely remember them. I just wake up sweating and with a sense of anxiety and dread. Like someone’s in the house with me.”

“Is Jason Briffel in them?”

She shoots him dagger eyes before she can stop herself. He shakes his head. “Sorry. Your stalker, is he in any of the—”

“Like I said, they’re vague. They’re more like . . . I don’t know . . . swirls of feelings.”

“Swirls of feelings. That’s an interesting description.”

“Is it?”

“What about the other agreements that you’ve made with yourself? How have those gone?”

“Other agreements?”

“The Mask Maker. It was very upsetting when you first read about it. We agreed you’d make an effort to avoid anything further about the case.”

“Have they found another body?” she asks.

“I feel like this is your way of maybe answering my question.”

“Because if I’d broken my agreement, I’d know whether or not they’d found another body.”

She smiles. He smiles back.

“So maybe you’re answering my question. Or maybe you’re using me to get around the agreement you made with yourself.”

He smiles again. She smiles back.

“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?”

“Well, if you remember correctly, they didn’t find a body. They found a face.”

“I remember. And if they haven’t found another one, then it’s not a serial.”

“That’s not what you felt when you first read about it. You thought the gruesomeness of the crime, the fact that the face was displayed in public like some kind of mask meant—”

“Maybe it’s a mafia hit. Isn’t there a lot of Russian mafia in LA?”

“The police don’t seem to think so.”

“That it’s a hit, or that there’s a lot of Russian mafia in LA?”

“Charley. We’re off the point.”

“There’s a point?”

“There hasn’t been a high-profile serial predator like this in a while.”

“You mean a good reason for me to avoid all news everywhere.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“So they did find another face?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not the point.”

“Again. What is the point, Dylan?”

He bows his head, closes his mouth, as if he’s reconsidering his initial response. For a long while, there’s just silence and the low murmur of the AA meeting downstairs. Occasionally a motorcycle backfires in the street below, probably snarled in the little knot of traffic that always develops around that crosswalk they just installed between the movie theater and the new ice-cream parlor next door to the center.

“So it’s not the movie,” she says, trying to control her anger. “It’s that I’m not over those letters from Jas—my stalker. It’s this Mask Maker psycho. I mean, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“I’m saying it’s all of them. I’m saying the number of potential triggers in your life is expanding by the day, and it’s expanding because you’re on too fragile a foundation. You live in isolation. You have no meaningful friendships—”