Good Girl, Bad Girl(24)

I move to the next room—a kitchen that reeks of damp and decay. Trash floats in an ankle-deep puddle. Chip packets and condom wrappers. Someone has ripped out the copper pipes, scavenging for scrap metal. The final room, most likely a bedroom, has a roof that has partially collapsed, giving me a glimpse of blue sky and the tops of trees.

I understand instinctively where I am—not the original purpose of the building, but what it has become; a place where youngsters can avoid the gaze of adults. Where they break up, make up, hang out, and make out; where they experiment with alcohol, drugs, and sex. Did Jodie ever come here? Did this place mean something to her or her killer?

The police have searched the cottage, but I doubt if any of them recognized the likely salience. Detectives don’t understand the ley lines that teenagers use to navigate their world. The shortcuts. The meeting places. The secret language.

Later I call Lenny from a phone box opposite the school. It goes to her voicemail.

“The killer is in his late teens or twenties. Physically strong, but not overly intelligent. He’s local. This is his territory. He knows the area. He knows the footpath and maybe the cottage. Look for someone who’s been arrested or questioned for lesser offenses like exposing himself to women or stealing their underwear.

“I don’t think he planned the rape or the murder—it was too disorganized—but he possibly knew Jodie or was aware of her and she may have played a part in his sexual fantasies.

“He’s going to feel bad about what he’s done. Ashamed. This is the first time for him. His first murder. He’ll be following the police investigation closely, frightened and appalled, but also fascinated, which means he could return to the scene as an onlooker or bystander. Look for his face in the crowd. He’s somewhere close by. Watching.”





12




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



I hear a knock.

“Are you decent?” asks Davina.

She’s a big woman with colored beads woven into her dreadlocks that tumble to her shoulders, curling at the ends like pigs’ tails. She leans on the frame, thrusting out one hip.

“You have a visitor.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Haven.”

I feel a surge of excitement. Tossing aside my magazine, I swing my legs off the bed and go to the mirror, touching my hair and brushing my fingertips along my eyebrows. I reach for my makeup bag.

“He’s not your boyfriend.” Davina chuckles. She’s still standing in the doorway.

I want to slap her for being a bitch.

“Shall I tell him you’re coming? I could throw rose petals in your path.”

“Fuck off!”

“That’s a red card.”

I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my hair and follow Davina down the hallway, less certain than before. Normally, I don’t care about shrinks and social workers. I’ve dealt with so many. But this one unsettled me the last time. It was nothing he did or said. He didn’t ask about my family or my real name or where I came from or what happened to me as a child. Instead he seemed to hold up a mirror to me, wanting me to look.

Entering the dining room, I find him sitting at a table nursing a cup of tea. He stands and bows in an old-fashioned way like he’s Prince Charles, which makes me smirk.

I take a moment to decide where I should sit. Opposite is best, so I can see his face.

Cyrus is smiling. He looks tired, like someone is blowing air into his eyes, making him blink.

“Why are you smiling?” I ask guardedly.

“I’m pleased to see you.”

I make a scoffing sound and study his face but cannot find a lie.

“I told you I’d come back. How have you been?”

I shrug.

Cyrus picks up a chocolate finger biscuit and nibbles one end.

“That’s not how you should eat them,” I say.

He looks at the biscuit.

“You have to bite off both ends. Then you can use it like a straw.”

“In my tea?”

“Exactly.”

Cyrus bends his head and sucks tea through the biscuit.

“Eat it before it gets too soggy,” I say.

He stuffs the biscuit into his mouth and chews, showing his chocolate-stained teeth. “That’s really good.”

“I don’t think you should try it at the Ritz.”

“Have you ever been to the Ritz?”

“Oh, all the time,” I say, putting on my posh voice. “I do so love their high tea—the scones and clotted cream and strawberry jam. Although, one doesn’t understand the point of cucumber sandwiches. They taste of nothing, don’t you think?”

“Do you lie a lot, Evie?”

“What do you consider a lot?”

“Enough for people to think you’re a liar.”

“I’ve been called worse.” I feel my jaw tighten. I don’t want Cyrus to be like the others. “So sometimes I lie, is that so weird? You’d lie as well if you were stuck in here. You’d make up stories. Amuse yourself.”

“What do you lie about?”

“Random stuff. I don’t even know why I do it half the time. It’s automatic—like sneezing. Sometimes I hear myself say something and I think, that’s not even remotely true—not even fucking close—but I still keep going. The other day, I told this new girl that my father is a treasure hunter looking for a Spanish galleon that sank in the Bermuda Triangle. I told Cordelia that I won a scholarship to a cheerleading school in California but had to turn it down because I’m on a no-fly list as a suspected terrorist. Stupid cow believed me.”