One of Those Faces (99)

It was a picture of Danny and me from way back then. I remembered exactly when it was taken. We were posing proudly with a massive rock that we’d drawn our initials on with chalk by the bonfire pit. It was as close to the water as he could get me. The beach and the outline of the Chicago shore in the distance were behind us.

“Would you like to keep it?” she asked.

I ventured a glance at Danny in the bed. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded.

Cindy handed me the notebook. “There’s a lot in here,” she continued. “It’s mostly pictures and news clippings for stories he was working on. I was wondering if you could help me figure it all out.”

I accepted the worn spiral notebook. “Of course,” I said. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure how much help I would be, but she didn’t really want my help. She was doing me a favor. I’d been haunting her son’s hospital room frequently since our awkward introduction.

She squeezed my hand. “I really appreciate it.” She stood again and grabbed her purse from the floor. “Don’t stay too late. You need to get some rest too.” It was hard to take the instructions seriously when it looked like she’d barely slept at all. Her blonde hair was in a heap on top of her head, and her heavy eyelids were punctuated by the lines under each eye.

“I will. Good night,” I said, trying to smile. I couldn’t understand how she did it. My lips spasmed and gave out halfway. Everything about this situation was terrible.

I watched her go before flipping through the pages of the notebook. Near the middle, a few pages had been ripped out. Past that, there were more pictures and newsprint pages folded up. On the last page, a folded stack of papers.

I pulled out the papers and froze when I saw the letterhead at the top.

Evanston Police Department. Case 3409872-M

It was my case. I flipped through, my eyes devouring each word.

Mallen, Harper Anne

Potentially missing minor.

Last seen the night of 02/16/2010.

I skimmed past more pages until I saw it.

Interview Record: Fletcher, Daniel Evan

Claims he was a friend of Mallen (minor). Does not know her whereabouts. When asked why her personal items were found in his apartment, he offered no explanation.

I skipped past the remaining notes.

Interviewing Officer: Sgt. Elliot Wilder.

The pages blurred, but I continued scanning to the very end.

Case closed: Father claims minor made contact and is located in Chicago.

Then why the pictures? Why would Wilder do this? Why had my father lied to the police?

Did Danny find out all this? Did he find out Wilder was the detective in Holly’s and Sarah’s murder cases?

I shoved the notebook into my bag, beside the envelope. I pulled my phone out, my fingers hesitating over the keypad. I wanted to call Wilder, to demand an explanation of some kind, but I stopped.

Danny’s eyelids twitched. They did that occasionally. It was as if he were only napping and were about to wake up any second. Those little movements made it more painful.

What had he wanted to talk to me about the night of the accident? We hadn’t seen each other in almost a week by that point. He could’ve done anything on his own in that time. I replayed our last conversation in my mind.

“We need to talk.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and stood up. I had to tell someone about Wilder. I had to try.

I paused in the doorway, like I always did before leaving, waiting to see if he was awake and peering back at me. I sighed and walked down the hallway. My thoughts were lost in the new questions that emerged with each step.

What now? There were so many police precincts nearby. Surely one of them was safe.

I stepped out of the hospital, breathing the clean air gratefully. I could never get used to that smell inside. It was dark outside already. Iann would be getting back home soon.

I glanced toward Michigan Avenue, the glow of the stores flickering as tourists passed. I cut through the smaller side street, passing by the ambulances along the curb and turning down the dark stretch of pavement.

There was a loud crack and then, black.





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


Movement shuffled me around. Cigarette smoke. Tires on asphalt.

I opened my eyes, blinking into the dark car. The back of my head was cold, as if something was trickling down toward my neck. I turned my head to the side, seeing only the top of a dark figure in the driver’s seat, the windshield in front of them. It was dark through the windshield. No streetlights. No car horns sounding nearby.

I tried to sit up, but my wrists burned and hit against each other. I squinted at my hands and saw the rope becoming taut with each tug. My pulse quickened as my head slowly stopped spinning.

My eyes darted around the back seat for something. Anything.

A hand reached for the rearview mirror and angled it toward where I lay. “I didn’t think you’d wake up,” Wilder said, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. He sounded disappointed.

“What are you doing?” I asked. My head felt heavy again. I rested it back against the seat.

“I have my own questions,” he said, each word laced with ice. He looked back at the road but held up something. It was the envelope from my purse. “Why do you have this?”

I struggled to swallow; my mouth was so dry. “Where are we?”

He slammed the envelope down on the seat beside him. The car veered to the right and then stopped after a few bumps. The car door beeped as he opened the driver’s side and got out.