What Lies in the Woods(19)

“I know all this. I don’t want to hear it,” I said, my skin crawling, but he didn’t stop.

“He sexually assaulted them before stabbing them to death. On four of the bodies there was evidence of restraints being used; decomposition made it impossible to tell in the other two cases.”

“What is your point?” I asked, feeling sick. I couldn’t hear about the details. I didn’t want to imagine what it had been like for those women. There was enough horror in my head already.

“You were eleven years old. You were with friends. You weren’t near the road; you were in the forest. You were stabbed, but you weren’t assaulted, and you weren’t restrained,” he said. “There was no physical evidence linking Stahl to the attack. Your testimony, and your friends’, was all that the prosecution had to go on.”

“Is there a question in all of this?” I asked, keeping my voice steely as fear flashed through me. The questions had been asked a hundred times before, of course, but they were always questions about Stahl. Why had he changed his pattern? What had he been doing in Chester?

“Here’s my question: Are you sure it was Stahl who attacked you?” he said. His voice was gentle, understanding.

“He was convicted, wasn’t he?” I shot back. He was convicted. Liv and Cass had seen him. The police were sure.

“That’s not an answer.”

I sat back, my palms braced against the table. “We’re done here.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Schreiber said. “But these are questions that I need to address.”

“I don’t know what goes on in the mind of a serial killer,” I said. The recording light blinked and blinked. All of this was going to be on the record. I was past caring. “I know what it feels like to have a knife driven into my body. I know what it feels like to struggle for breath because my lung has collapsed and filled up with blood. So I know what those women felt when they were dying. I can’t tell you why Stahl changed his pattern or why he was in Chester. But I can tell you that he deserved to rot in prison, and he did, and now the story has a happy ending.”

“And yet you feel guilty.” He sat back in his seat.

Before I could reply, Cody appeared, approaching from behind Schreiber. “Is there a problem here?” Cody said.

Schreiber turned in his seat, grabbing the recorder as he did. “Just having a chat,” he said.

Cody glanced from Schreiber to me. My jaw was clenched, and I felt cold all over. “It’s okay,” I said, almost a whisper.

“Get up. And get out,” Cody growled.

“I—” Schreiber began, but Cody grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up out of his seat. Schreiber scrambled to keep his feet under him and backed away quickly, hands upraised. “I’m going. I’m going.”

Cody loomed. He shouldn’t have been able to—he was shorter than Schreiber by a good two inches, but he had more bulk, and there was something in the way he carried himself that made it clear he knew how to hold his own in a fight. The same couldn’t be said for Schreiber.

“If you change your mind about that interview—” Schreiber started.

“Out,” Cody barked, giving him a hard shove, and Schreiber retreated. I shrank down into the booth and didn’t relax until I heard the front door slam.

I shut my eyes. Alan Michael Stahl is an evil man, I thought, as I’d thought many times before, lying awake and trying not to be. I did the right thing.

All this time, I’d been waiting for it to fall apart.

Liv and Cass had been afraid that if people found out about Persephone, they wouldn’t believe us about Stahl. They would think that we were liars.

I was afraid they would find out that I was one. Because Persephone wasn’t the only secret I’d been keeping all this time. I’d lied to the police. I’d lied on the stand. I’d lied to myself, told myself I’d seen Alan Michael Stahl in those woods—and maybe there was even a time I’d believed it.

But the truth was, I hadn’t seen him that day.

I hadn’t seen anything at all.





Cody slid back into the booth, scowling. “Who the hell was that?”

“Journalist. No big deal,” I said. I went to take another drink, but my hand was shaking too much. “I shouldn’t have let him start talking. My fault.”

“Vultures,” Cody muttered. His hand tensed on the table, like he was imagining grabbing hold of Schreiber again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure,” I said firmly. I smiled. “But it’s good to know that you’re still there to rescue me. My hero.”

He looked uncomfortable. “It could have been anyone who found you in those woods, Naomi.”

“I know. But it wasn’t anyone. It was you,” I said, tracing random patterns in the pooled condensation on the table with one finger. “And it wasn’t just the woods.”

He didn’t reply. It wasn’t something we’d ever talked about. But he reached out and brushed his fingers over my knuckles—a touch with no purpose except perhaps to prove to each of us, I’m here. He drew his hand away before it turned into anything more.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I begged.