Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(50)

“You, too,” he says. “You’re not doing something stupid, are you?”

“Probably,” I say, then hang up.

I order another scotch.

Gwen sticks with water. No ice. I suspect the taste of scotch is now associated with the memory of that video, and now that I think of it, the shimmering taste in my own mouth turns a little sour. I down it in a gulp and hand the tumbler back.

The flight attendant smiles at me without any real warmth and reaches beneath the cart to take out a sealed manila envelope. She hands it to me. “From Mr. Rivard,” she says. “With his compliments.”

She wheels the cart away, and I look across at Gwen. She sips water and says, “I suppose he likes you better.”

Inside the envelope is a file folder. It’s full of photocopies, and I glance at each page before I pass it on to her. Carl David Suffolk’s Kansas driver’s license, reproduced in color, doesn’t do him any favors; he’s a puffy, pale man with a receding hairline who’s chosen to cultivate a goatee to cover up what’s probably a weak chin. Beneath the license are his personal details: single, no kids. His bank account balance, which is healthy but not impressive.

The next page is a copy of his employee ID, in which he looks even less prepossessing. He works at a place called Imaging Solutions—copy shop, print shop, something like that. The rest of the file is a list of phone numbers he regularly calls and texts, and most of them have names beside them, as well as addresses. A few don’t, which means they’re disposable phones. Rivard’s also included a list of screen names that Suffolk uses, along with the specific sites that they’re associated with. Most are innocuous.

A few raise the hair on the back of my neck. Suffolk visits chat sites that mainly host children and teens. At his age, and childless, it’s a pure red flag.

At the very end of the file, there’s a handwritten note. It says:

In this envelope I have a sealed message, which I trust you to hand to Mr. Suffolk. It contains the details on payment I will make to him upon his agreement to go with you. If he does not agree, I suppose you should use your discretion.

As agreed, I have made the offer to buy the video from the dark web and remove it entirely. However, there is a significant complication. It seems the video has already been delivered to another untraceable buyer, and that, I cannot control.

There may not be any way to stop the video from seeing the light of day.

I don’t like it. Instinctively, something tells me that Rivard is playing us, but I have no idea how, or why. Rich men don’t look at people like us as human beings; we’re pieces they move, levers they pull to get what they want.

There’s a sealed, expensive-looking envelope at the back of the file with Suffolk’s name written on it. I strongly consider opening it, but I don’t. Yet.

We need a backup plan. So I text Mike Lustig. Hate to ask you for another favor, but what are the chances you can give me some backup?

Mike’s reply is, Pretty good, but your debt is earning compound interest, my man. I fucking hate Wichita.

How the hell . . . I stare at his words, then text back, simply, ???

Did you really think I didn’t know where you were, Sam? Come on. I’ve had eyes on you the whole time. How’s that Rivard jet? Smooth? Hope so. Had to buy a goddamn economy-class middle seat. Flight out in half an hour.

I don’t know whether to be angry that he’s spied on us, or relieved that he hasn’t kicked us loose. Right now, probably the latter. Where do we meet you?

You don’t, Lustig says. After that, I get no response at all.

In ten minutes we’re in the air, traveling as smoothly as gliding on ice, and the sky outside the oval windows is a fresh-washed blue, all the clouds below us.

I don’t tell Gwen what Rivard has said in the letter, and I don’t tell her about Mike Lustig. I let her enjoy the temporary peace, the expensive steak dinner, the fancy dessert, because I know that when we land, the peace will be over.

And the war may never stop.





13

LANNY

When I asked for the Internet, I really just wanted to check social media, see how everybody was doing. I wasn’t going to post or anything, just lurk. Because I was bored.

And then I saw Dahlia’s picture, and all of a sudden, I felt something crushing me inside. I missed her so much it hurt. I wanted to call her. I wanted to hear her voice and tell her what’s happened, and I wanted . . . wanted all kinds of things, wild things that raced through my head while staring at her picture that made me uncomfortably warm inside. I’d been feeling that way before everything blew up out at our old house, and I’d been trying to figure out what it meant, and what to do about it. Now I think I know. But I can’t do anything.

I’m so close. But not close at all.

Connor making fun of me is the last straw, and when I blow up at him, I mean it so hard. I race off to my room and cry into a pillow for a good fifteen minutes. By that time, I still feel wretched and alone, but I also am too exhausted to care. I curl up hugging my damp pillow and stare off into the distance. Outside the window, it’s a cold afternoon, and it’s chilly in here, too. I turn on the space heater and put on fuzzy socks and climb under the covers on my bed. My lower abdomen is aching. I check my calendar, but it’s still a week until my period. I have enough tampons for this time, but I’m going to have to ask Kezia to get me more. I can’t ask Javier. God, no. Number fifteen million of things my brother doesn’t have to put up with.