The Night Shift(21)

“No worries,” the FBI agent says. “This will be the wildest night out I’ve had in eight months.”

The agent smiles. She has a kind smile. Though Keller’s belly is enormous, the agent still has an athletic demeanor. Healthy. Someone comfortable in her own skin. What that must feel like.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Keller says. “After hours, I mean.”

“No problem.”

“I understand you were the only one able to get through to the survivor.”

Ella takes a drink. “I’m uniquely qualified.” The agent obviously knows her background, so Ella sees no harm in referencing the elephant in the room.

“It must be difficult for you as well.”

They lock eyes. Ella tries to appear casual. She clears her throat. Changing the subject, Ella says, “I understand you have some questions for me?”

The agent explains that she’s tasked with seeing if there’s a connection between Blockbuster and the ice cream store killings. She says it’s doubtful, but they need to cover all the bases.

“You actually think that it might be Him?” Ella refuses to say his name. Always has, always will.

“Vince Whitaker?” Keller shrugs. “Like I said, we’ve got to cover everything.”

“I guess you have to look into it, especially given what the killer said to Jesse Duvall.”

“What do you mean? What who said to Jessica Duvall?”

Ella watches the agent for a long beat. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Keller looks bewildered. The agent shifts in the booth to prevent the ledge of the table from pressing against her belly.

Ella tells her. What He whispered in her ear: Good night, pretty girl. The same words murmured in Jesse’s ear. She tries not to picture the bloody bodies that surrounded both of them.

The agent has perked up. “You told the detectives about this today?”

“Yeah, this morning. I told the lead guy. The one with the mustache.”

Keller’s jaw clenches. She’s angry, but Ella sees that she’s trying to hide it.

“The file … I don’t think it mentions the perp saying anything to you. Did you tell anyone back then?”

Ella shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I only started remembering after. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was real.” She doesn’t mention the night terrors, the panic attacks, the blue pills.

Keller thinks for a moment. “I’m so glad you mentioned this. Before today, did you ever tell anyone what he said? The police? A therapist? A family member? Anyone?”

The implication is obvious. There are only three possible explanations for the killer whispering those words in Jesse’s ear.

One, it’s a coincidence, however implausible.

Two, a copycat, someone re-creating the crime.

Three, and this option sends a chill up Ella’s back, it’s Him.

“I never told anyone. Not until today, anyway, when I told the detective.”

Keller reaches across the table and grasps Ella’s hand. If this is meant to build rapport in order to get a better interview, the agent’s a master at it. Ella herself uses the technique with trauma victims to elicit the same thing. But Agent Keller seems entirely sincere.

“Any idea what it means?” Keller asks. “What he said to you?”

“Not a clue,” Ella says. “Not a damn clue.”





CHAPTER 17





The jukebox in Corky’s Tavern blares loudly, and Ella remains in the booth. She needs to shake off talking about Him with the FBI agent. Agent Keller left an hour ago. Ella should’ve headed out too, but instead she downs another gin and tonic.

One more? She shouldn’t.

A man in a concert T-shirt approaches. He’s rugged, handsome, in that works-with-his-hands way. The type who will take her to the restroom, turn her around in the stall, push himself into her as she palms the grimy tiles. Or take her out to the parking lot, lay her on the front seat of his truck while he stands outside, her legs in the air, her— “Haven’t seen you around lately,” the guy says.

She gives him a long stare. “You’ve been looking?”

He reddens a trace. These types don’t prattle on about Scotch, but they also aren’t skilled at banter.

“I’m Mike.”

“I’m Amanda, but my friends call me Mandy.” The lie feels worse than usual.

“Get you a drink, Mandy?”

She shouldn’t. She peruses the bar for any familiar faces. She’s no longer an engaged woman, so why not? She edges over in the booth, signaling he can sit.

He turns and gestures to the waitress and slips in next to her.

One drink, then she’ll go. But where? To Mom’s house, she supposes, though she hasn’t had the energy to tell Phyllis about the breakup. Maybe she’ll get a hotel room. Or maybe Mike will be more persuasive than she anticipates.

The drinks arrive. Just one becomes two more. He’s sitting closer now. She keeps touching him as they talk about nothing, encouraging him. His hand is on her thigh now.

“Hey, want to get out of here? Get a drink at my place?” he says.

She feels the trickle of desire. She’s about to suggest the bathroom instead, but her phone snaps her out of it.