One of Those Faces (74)

My stomach sank. Every time that same thought had entered my mind, I’d popped another anxiety pill. I couldn’t do that here with Danny. “It must’ve been a mistake.” I thought about what Wilder had said about Jeremy’s suicide note. Did it leave that much room for interpretation?

“But if it was this guy, why? Why would he kill Holly? It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

It was the same question that played over and over again in my mind at night while Iann slept.

But why?





WINTER





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


I stared at the boxes in the corner. It was hopeless.

Moving into Iann’s had been slow and painful. I had survived on one bag of essentials for weeks before the inevitable happened. I had turned down all his offers to take a few days off to help me.

When I came back to my old apartment alone, I wasn’t strong enough to pack. I sat for hours, trembling as I folded my things into boxes until, exhausted, I left only to try again the next day.

After a month, this had to stop. I told myself I had to finish in one week. I couldn’t continue coming back and sacrificing a piece of my sanity each time. The smell of fear and death still overwhelmed me when I opened the door and replayed the night in my mind.

I got to my feet and slumped to the bathroom, then dug through the cabinets and emptied most of my small bottles into the trash. I opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a bottle of bleach. My hands froze when I saw the small, crumpled napkin at the back. I grabbed it and unfolded it, hungrily eyeing the tiny pills. My prescription for anxiety meds had already run out. I ran my fingers lightly over them before plucking each one and dropping them into the toilet.

That took the last of my strength for the day. I flushed them down, watching the small white dots circle the bowl before disappearing with a gurgle. I stalked back to the boxes piled onto my stripped bed and grabbed the smallest one, which had been hastily duct taped diagonally across the top. It was just clothes, so it would be easy enough to carry onto the L train and maneuver through the street without bumping into too many people.

I locked the door behind me and carefully gripped the stair rail with my gloved hand as I took each step down. I really had to meet my own deadline to make this move happen before the latest blizzard was due to shut down the city.

I crossed to the next block past the park, shifting the box to my other arm as Erin’s building came into sight. I peered past the fence into the parking lot. My heart sank. Still no blue MINI Cooper. I continued past, staring up at her window as my feet crunched over the snow. Ronnie had quit answering the buzzer after I’d stopped by the fifth time. The last I’d heard, she’d claimed Erin’s stuff was gone when she returned from work. This had provided some comfort. Surely if her roommate wasn’t worried, I shouldn’t be either.

But still, I felt uneasy.

I quickened my steps, looping by the studio before turning onto Damen Avenue. Still locked. My arms started to sag under the weight of the box as I climbed up to the platform. I set it down beside the bench, then leaned against the railing and surveyed the neighborhood as I pulled my phone from my pocket. Damen Station had the best view of Wicker Park. It wasn’t as high up as the Robey, which was why it provided a truer sense of the neighborhood. It was raised above the alleys and the smaller buildings. I could hear people coughing from their patio and met their eyes as they came to the window to open the blinds. I could see underneath the L rail for a good mile each way, at the abandoned backpacks and garbage and now the piles of dirty snow clawing their way up the graffiti of neighboring walls.

I dialed Wilder’s number. He’d been hard to get in touch with since I’d given my statement about Bug. It felt like he’d forgotten about me and, more importantly, about Erin.

“Yup?” His voice hummed through the phone.

I hadn’t expected him to actually answer. “Hey, it’s Harper,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the small herd of people forming along the platform.

“Yeah?” he said lightly, as if he was distracted. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to know if you were able to find anything about my friend Erin?”

“Oh,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore.” His tone made my stomach turn.

“What do you mean? Did you find her?”

He sighed. “Yeah, she’s fine.” He lowered his voice. “She’s in rehab in Waukegan. Been there since Thanksgiving.”

My heart resumed beating. “What facility?”

“I don’t know, Shady Oaks or Shitty Creek, something like that. Look,” he scoffed, “I’m not a goddamn PI . . . It’s not my job to track down your druggie friend.”

My cheeks burned. “But it is your job to find missing people, isn’t it?” I shot back.

I could hear the background noise die out on his end and the wheeze of a door closing. “Turns out she’s not missing. She’s just a burnout. So, not my problem.”

I hung up, the hair raising along my skin, and my hands gripped and wrung the handrail. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I took a deep breath and pulled it out. He was calling back. “What?” I snapped.

“It’s Shady Oaks Rehab,” he said, his voice softer.

I said nothing.