Don't Look for Me(79)

She moved on.

“The taillight on your truck.”

“What about it?”

“You fixed it six days ago.”

“I did.”

“How long was it out?”

“Not a day before I fixed it. I’m the chief of police—can’t exactly go around with a broken taillight.”

“Broken cover and light bulb?”

“How would you know that?”

“Just tell me.”

“Okay. I walked out of the casino on a Thursday night, the way I always do, and someone had smashed the glass cover and the bulb. I figured it was some drunkard who backed into me. The thing is, there was no other damage to the car. You’d think maybe there’d be some scratches to the paint around the casing. Anyway, I went to the auto body and they fixed it.”

“The one in town?”

“No. I use one up the road. Got a friend there. Why?”

“So you didn’t order parts through the town? Charged to the department?”

“Hell, no. That’s a sure way to get my ass fired. What is all this about—wait a second, is this about that woman? The one who saw a pickup truck the night your mother disappeared?”

Nic didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“Just ask it, then. Ask the question you really want to ask.”

“Okay,” Nic said. The words choked her at first, then exploded. “Did you see my mother the night of the storm? Did you take her somewhere? Did you help her leave us? Did you do something else? Did you hurt her?”

“Jesus Christ,” Watkins said. “I mean—Christ! No. No, no, no. A thousand, million times. No. How could you even think that?”

Nic told him then about Edith Moore and the truck and the taillight and the invoice Reyes had shown her. She told him about the house on Abel Hill Lane and how Reyes had known about the lock and the chains. And she told him about the fence that backed up to the inn and how there was a hole someone had tried to cut open. Finally, she told him about Edith Moore, or Bickman, and how she knew Kurt Kent and how he met with her the day after she came back to Hastings and told the story about the pickup truck.

When she was finished, Watkins stared at her for a long moment. Thinking. But then—

“You should go home,” he said. “This is not for you to sort out anymore. No wonder you asked me those questions. Everyone you turned to for help has been lying to you, or hiding things…”

A wave of relief pushed out the adrenaline. She saw their faces; Reyes, Kurt Kent. Even her father who had lied to her about the handwriting analysis. Then she saw Roger Booth.

“He’s the only one—Roger. The only one who hasn’t lied to me.”

Watkins drained what was left of his coffee in one giant swallow.

“Go home, Nicole. The hotel can send your things. I’ll check up on that house. Find out who takes care of the property. See if utilities are running. I’ll go there myself if I have to. And our friendly bartender—don’t you worry. I’m gonna find out what he has cooking with that waitress.”

“And Reyes?” Nic asked.

Watkins shook his head from side to side. “That’s a tougher one. Can’t see that he’s done anything wrong here. Don’t know about that invoice. Or Daisy. Let me think on it. He’s been a good cop. Kind of took him under my wing, you know? I don’t want to accuse him if he’s done nothing wrong.”

Nic thought about the messages on her phone and his car parked outside the casino. She hadn’t told Watkins about any of that, and she didn’t want to. What did it matter? She’d brought that on herself. It was humiliating.

Watkins said goodbye. He got in his truck and drove away.

Nic checked her phone. Her father had called three more times.

She couldn’t sit here, do nothing. They all wanted her to leave, to go home. Then what? All she had were Watkins’s promises.

No, she thought. No way.

She sent one last text before heading back to Hastings. Another lie to her father. I’ll be home tonight.





45


Day seventeen





Coffee is bitter. On this morning it was bittersweet.

I hear him call out from the kitchen.

“Alice!”

She looks at me with a new face. I don’t give it a name. It is a face of terror.

She knew what I was doing. She helped me do it. Now it is real.

“Alice!”

I nod at her. I motion for her to go to him and she obeys me.

Yes, that’s right, I think. She obeys me.

He cries out now, in pain. In agony. And even as I try to feel joy that his cells are suffocating, the sound of human suffering is difficult to take. My heart pounds against the walls of my chest. My vision blurs for just a second as my body adjusts to the fear that his cries provoke.

She comes back to me now, feet pounding the floor, voice calling out.

“He’s sick! He’s lying on the floor! He’s throwing up!”

I picture the vomit, his body trying to rid itself of the poison.

I try to calm her down. I lie. “He’s going to be all right. It will be a few hours, but he will be fine. You can bring him some towels and some water. Turn him on his back.”