The Match (Wilde, #2)(87)

Wilde nodded. “I don’t buy the theory either. But I wanted to run it by you. I wanted to see if there was any merit to it.”

“There isn’t,” Vicky said firmly.

Silas looked up into the sky for a few moments. He blinked and said, “I hope it’s true.”

Vicky gasped. “What?”

“If it’s true,” Silas said, “if Peter planned all this, that means he’s not dead. It means he wants everyone to think he’s dead. It means now that he’s been exonerated, even if he faked it all, maybe he can come back. Think about it, Vicky. Suppose tomorrow Peter shows up. With the way he’s been unfairly treated, he would be bigger than ever—maybe the biggest thing in reality TV history. If he and Jenn got back together, wow: The return of PB&J—what do you think the ratings would be on their televised second marriage?”

Vicky shook her head. “He didn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“So what does make sense?” Silas asked.

Her eyes were wet. “That Marnie lied, and then everyone turned against him. On top of that, his own family—me, really—lied to him his whole life about his birth. He felt abused and betrayed by everyone around him. Maybe Marnie was the final straw that broke him. Maybe it was Jenn not believing him. Maybe it was this McAndrews guy threatening to reveal more pictures or whatever. Or maybe…” She started to sob. “Maybe he found his real mother and couldn’t handle that.”

They stood there in silence.

“Wilde,” Vicky finally said, “I want you to stop looking for him now. It’s enough.”

“I can’t.”

“Peter doesn’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

“Maybe not,” Wilde said, “but someone is out there killing people. We need to stop them.”

*



Wilde started back toward the Ramapo Mountains. He figured a night under the stars near the Ecocapsule would do him good, but he also wanted to see Laila.

Laila.

She hadn’t invited him over, and he never made assumptions where that was concerned. That wouldn’t be fair to her. If she wanted him there, cool. If she didn’t, who was he to get in her way with Darryl or anyone else? Wilde was chewing that over when his phone vibrated. The caller ID read “PETER BENNETT” again. Wilde answered and said hello.

“I have something for you.”

It was Boomerang Chris.

“I’m listening.”

“You asked me to look into the compromising photos of Peter Bennett—the ones already out there and the ones McAndrews threatened to release.”

“Yes.”

“First off, from what I can tell, McAndrews was intending to double-dip.”

“How?”

“You already know that someone hired McAndrews to ruin Peter Bennett via online innuendo and bullying.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet, no. That’ll be trickier. Like you said, they paid McAndrews through his son’s law firm to protect themselves via attorney-client privilege. This isn’t an uncommon move, but it adds an extra layer. All I can tell you is that whoever hired McAndrews also emailed him those compromising photos.”

“Okay.”

“So that’s the first thing. The second thing is more intriguing.”

Wilde waited.

“The photos are real. For the most part. I mean, they aren’t photoshopped.”

“What do you mean, for the most part?”

“They’re solid—no shadow errors, no warping. Even EXIF metadata is right for these images. But someone intentionally blurred the edges and cropped them in weird ways.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, maybe not so weird. It’s Peter. No doubt. But whoever sent the pictures? They didn’t want to be seen.”

“You mean whoever he’s having sex with?”

“Yes.”

“That would make sense. They wanted to be anonymous.”

“Maybe,” Chris said.

“You said McAndrews intended to double-dip,” Wilde said.

“Yes.”

“You mean sell the photos to Peter?”

“Exactly.”

“Did they meet?”

“Peter Bennett and Henry McAndrews? I don’t know yet. I’ll keep digging.”

They hung up. Wilde started into the woods. Night had fallen. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He started up the mountain toward the hidden Ecocapsule. It would be a two-mile hike. Not an issue. The tree branches were silhouetted by the moon tonight. The air was crisp and still. His footsteps echoed in the black. This was Wilde’s kind of night. He had experienced thousands in his lifetime. A man could think in this stillness. He could relax his mind and ease his muscles. He could see and comprehend in a way that was impossible for those facing lit-up screens and noise and energy and even other humans.

So why didn’t it feel right?

Why was he—he who had spent his life diving into the dark, he who loved to bathe in the solitude—suddenly unable to focus under the best of conditions?

When his phone rang again, the interruption, usually the most jarring of annoyances, felt like a reprieve, like a life preserver. He saw the call was from Matthew.