Nice Girls(76)

“Liberty Lake sounds like a real cute place,” said the man. His computer keys rattled in the background. “Actually, you’re in luck. We have an independent contractor there. The contractor specializes in solo videos. No partners around, so you don’t have to be nervous.”

I stiffened, the hair on my arms standing up.

“You want the contact information for them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He gave me the address and the phone number to reach the independent contractor, Lib3rty Inc., LLC. Aside from the misspelling, the name was generic—I could’ve mistaken it for an insurance company. I typed the address on my laptop, my cell phone cradled against my shoulder: 656 Ventura Way.

“Any questions?” the man asked.

I realized that neither of us had even exchanged names.

“Do you know who works at Lib3rty Inc., LLC?”

“I’m afraid that’s private information. You’ll have to ask them yourself. Ownership is under a man named Paul Bleeker.”

I realized that my hands were trembling as I typed down the name. I was getting closer to it, the truth. And there was a very real chance that Paul Bleeker had played a role in the murders. Ron didn’t work alone.

“Any other questions?”

“Is it safe?” I asked softly.

The man paused. He didn’t seem to recognize Liberty Lake from the news. I wasn’t sure if he even knew about the murders.

“We do our best,” the man said finally. “Safety is important. But with our independent contractors, we only distribute the work. The contractors and performers do things their own way. We try to screen them all, though. No crazies on the loose.”

I sighed.

“I guarantee you’ll be fine,” he said briskly. “Good luck on your video. You’ll do great things.”

After the phone call, I stayed put, my eyes unfocused on the screen.

There was no evidence that either of the women had performed on the site. I was relying on guesswork and assumptions, and those had been based off hearsay from other people. It was all so shaky.

But I had a lead.

A door opened from the garage. I slammed my laptop shut and settled back into my seat. Dad entered the house. He carried plastic bags of groceries in both hands. He always bought them from Feed Farm. It was cheaper there, less fussy.

I followed Dad into the kitchen. He ignored me as he put away the groceries.

“Do you need help with that?”

“You really quit,” he said, slamming the fridge shut. “Not even a month there and you quit.”

“It wasn’t a good fit.”

“It doesn’t need to be a good fit. It’s a damn job.”

“I just need a short break,” I said. I sounded so sincere. “It’s hard to work during the holidays. Especially after . . . you know.”

I trailed off. Dad looked at me. I didn’t know what he saw in my face, but he sighed and went back to his work.

“I’ll find something else after New Year’s,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

Dad said nothing.

I helped him cook dinner in silence. After we ate, I joined him in the living room as he watched the news. There was a tense hum in the air. I kept waiting for Dad to say something, but he didn’t.

At half past eight, I changed into a pair of black sports leggings, a black hoodie, and my dark winter jacket. When I came downstairs, Dad didn’t even turn my way.

“I’m heading out,” I said.

“On a Sunday night?” he asked.

“I’m going to a friend’s place. She needs me to help with something before she turns it in tomorrow.”

“Which friend?”

“Charice,” I said as I quickly left the room.

In Mom’s car, I waited for the heat to start.

On the passenger’s seat next to me, I carefully laid out an old pillowcase, a red handkerchief, and one of Dad’s old leather belts.

I was ready.





37




On the car ride over, the radio announced that there was a winter weather watch issued for the end of the week. We were expected to get anywhere from eight to eleven inches of snow by Saturday.

“Winter never makes a dull entrance here, does it,” joked the meteorologist. I shut off the radio.

Instead of turning into the Goodhue Groceries parking lot, I continued past it and then turned right on Friedan Boulevard. There was only one car parked on the curb of the street—an inconspicuously black and compact one. Just as I’d been told.

I turned off the car at the curb just a few yards ahead of Jayden’s, so that a thicket of trees blocked me from the employee entrance. From my vantage point, I got a glimpse of the light that spilled out from Goodhue Groceries and the employees who left. I climbed to the back seat of the car and moved the pillowcase, the handkerchief, and the leather belt next to me.

Then I waited. The minutes seemed to fly by. I watched as a few cars passed on the street. On Sunday night, the grocery store closed just after nine. There were always at least two people who closed it together for safety reasons.

I kept checking my phone, waiting for a confirmation text. But none came.

At nine on the dot, I peered through the back window. I saw Jim walk out of the employees’ door. I recognized his long legs as he strode over to his car, conveniently parked a few feet away. As Jim whipped out of the parking lot, the other employees started to trickle out, including a pair of female stock clerks.