Reputation(92)

Shivers zing through me. I press the phone to my chest to hide it. My heart is thudding. This is another one of Lynn’s tricks—it has to be. She’s just trying to drive Patrick and me apart, that’s all.

But then something strange occurs to me. After the funeral, Patrick found me and said, I know you didn’t kill Greg. He’d seemed so certain. So resolute. At the time, I’d thought he was being chivalrous, even romantic . . . but how did he know for sure?

Don’t think that way. But all at once, I can’t help it. I consider what happened at the benefit, too. Patrick had been so shocked when he saw me, but later, he told me that he’d felt something change in him that night—and that he had to have me, no matter what. Patrick left the benefit so early that night. Ditched Lynn, actually. Where had he gone?

My heart goes still.

Patrick lifts his head. I don’t know what he sees in my expression, but whatever it is, it must give me away. He knows what I suspect. He knows I might believe it. Hell, maybe he thought I knew this before I even got in the car—maybe he thought this was what I wanted to talk to him about.

Panic overtakes his features. He grabs the phone from my hands and tosses it into the woods. I see the glow of the screen disappear into darkness. “What the hell?” I shriek.

“She did get to you,” Patrick cries. “And you . . . believe her.”

“Patrick.” I have my hands clutched against my chest like armor. “I-I . . . I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anyone. I’m sure it was a mistake.”

He steps closer. He seems so tall, so imposing, and all of a sudden, I can’t breathe. “You really think I did it? You really think I’m that kind of person.” He looks so astonished. Then he points at me. “I was hoping you called me to talk about it and say you didn’t believe. And I came to get you so we could run away. Be together. Escape all this . . . bullshit.” He shakes his head, his expression sharpening. “Forget that now. You’re just as judgmental and quick to accuse as the rest of them.”

Hot tears stream down my face. I don’t know what to think. But I don’t like being out here, all alone. I don’t like the fraught feeling between us. And also—I don’t like the doubt that’s now in my mind. I need to get out of here. I feel the need to run.

“Freeze!”

At first I think I’ve imagined the voices, but as I look across the parking lot, I see two dark shapes. The shadows scuttle out from the bushes, and as they come closer, I recognize a familiar woman’s shape. The man she’s with points a gun at Patrick.

I blink hard. “Willa?”

Willa shoots me a grateful look, but then steps forward. “Freeze,” she barks at Patrick, who’s backed away from me. “Don’t fucking move, asshole.” But then she stops. “Wait a minute. Who are you?”





40





WILLA


SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017


I stare at the man next to Kit. He’s got a full head of hair, narrow shoulders, and a square jaw—in other words, nothing like bald, hulking Ollie Apatrea. As he lifts his head, it all crystallizes. It’s him. The husband. Patrick Godfrey.

Kit runs to me, and I wrap my arms around her protectively. “What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Don’t let him leave.” Kit points shakily to the shadows. “Call the police. He’s the killer!”

Patrick lowers his hands for a millisecond, but Paul straightens the gun, and he stiffens once more. I balked at Paul bringing a rifle tonight—his dad used to use it to hunt, he said, and though he never used it, he still knows how to fire it.

Patrick glares at all of us. “Look, will you put that thing down? I didn’t kill anyone!”

Kit is shaking her head. “Lynn just texted me. Patrick has no alibi for the night Greg was stabbed. He has motive.”

“Of course she’s going to text you that!” Patrick roars. “That’s what I was just trying to explain! She hates me! She wants to break us up!”

I frown. So Kit is with him, then. I don’t know where to direct my whirling thoughts, what to concentrate on first. Then Patrick adds, “And I do have an alibi for that night, okay?”

“Oh yeah?” Paul calls, the gun still raised. “And what would that be?”

Patrick shakes his head as if to say I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this. A long few seconds elapse. There’s no sound out tonight, not even any bugs.

“I was at this after-hours club,” Patrick finally mutters. “I stopped at home first, and then I went there.”

“What kind of after-hours club?” I demand.

His shoulders heave. “It’s just this . . . place. I’m part of this online community that gets together every once in a while. I knew they were getting together that night, and I made an excuse to my wife, and . . .”

He lowers his head. A sour feeling rushes through me. I once did an investigative report on certain after-hours clubs; a woman who frequented one was murdered. By the shame on Patrick’s face, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t going to one to play poker and drink. He was going to have orgies, maybe some sex play. Bondage, extreme violence, rape fantasies, and worse. The interviews nauseated me, plunging me back into memories I didn’t want to consider. I’d almost had to give up the story.