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Still wrapped in Achille’s jacket, I went to my room and packed. Then I woke up Jack and filled his suitcase, dodging his questions. After I finished, I wrote a letter that I left on Jack’s nightstand. Then I took one look around, etching every detail into my heart.
With Jack’s hand in mine, I stepped outside.
THIRTY-SIX
ACHILLE
I strolled to Becky’s front door.
I carried a black bag filled with tools but with a few extras—zip ties, gloves, shoe covers. A tool belt slung low around my waist. I’d long since mastered the art of breaking and entering. The trick was acting like you belonged there. Neighbors looked the other way if I looked like a repairman.
I set the bag on the floor. Then I picked the lock. Laughably easy. I turned the knob and leaned into the frame. Slowly. The door met resistance. Deadbolt.
I wandered into her backyard. It was tricky, but I climbed to Becky’s window. The idiot had left it unlocked. I slid it open and swung inside. I crouched in a darkened bedroom. A glance told me she wasn’t there.
An astringent smell tainted the air. The carpet had marks from a vacuum. I walked through the house—empty. Photos of a dark-haired man hung on the walls. I returned to her room and went through her things, running my gloved fingers along the sides of the drawers, underneath the box spring mattress. A 9mm sat on her nightstand. Prescriptions for Lorazepam and Valium filled the drawer in her bathroom.
I recited the details in my head.
Rebecca Wilson, thirty-four, married to Travis Wilson. Grew up in Palm Springs. Moved to Boston for college, and studied at UMass. She bounced around in different customer service jobs before marrying Travis. No kids. Background check came up clean. She saw a shrink every week. She bought organic produce. I wanted access to her email and credit card statements. I’d tried phishing her accounts, but no dice.
I kept searching, but I couldn’t find any electronics in the house. Then, tucked away in her closet, behind a row of dresses and coats, lay a small fireproof safe. I turned the dial to zero and rotated it, listening hard to the clicks. A half hour later, I’d cracked the code. Among various documents and a stash of cash was a life insurance policy. A five-million-dollar policy on her husband, Travis Wilson. The beneficiary? Becky.
Interesting.
Maybe Travis Wilson couldn’t return home.
I took out my phone, snapping pictures of the document. I felt like a cop in a cheesy Lifetime drama, piecing together clues. Travis’s company paid a hitman to kill Elise, and then Violet. Was she covering up for him?
I needed more information. I replaced everything, leaving it as I’d found it. Exiting through the window, I descended to the street and got into my car. As I pulled from the curb, a black sedan drifted into the lane behind me. I turned right. So did the car.
Fuck.
I stopped at a red light as the car rolled up beside me. I glanced at the other driver. Bald head. Tattooed lion on his neck. A member of the Animals.
He grinned, flashing a gang sign.
I grabbed the Glock under the seat, flipping off the safety. Then a roar of a motorcycle echoed, and I peeked in the side-view mirror. Approaching fast. I slammed on the gas and cut off the bike, turning left. The bike flipped over the hood with a crunch of metal. Tires screamed. As I wheeled the car straight, the air cracked with gunshots. Fuck. I couldn’t return fire. I hit the brakes. They dashed forward, and I took a hard right. I reached the end of the block as they sped into view.
I wove through alleys and streets, the pursuing engine a constant echo in the maze of concrete. Finally, I lost them downtown and dove into an underground parking lot. My heart hammered as I turned off the car. I waited, my fists tightening over the steering wheel.
Ditching the Challenger, I scoured the garage until I found a Lexus. I kept several cars around the city for situations just like this. Then I exited my hiding spot and drove home. As soon as I parked, lead sank in my stomach.
Violet’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
I got out and vaulted upstairs to the second floor. I switched on all the lights.
“Violet? Jack?”
I burst into the guest room, finding a neatly made bed and nothing else. She’d cleaned out her clothes from the closet. Toothbrush—gone. Her drawers, empty.
“Jack?”
I ran into my son’s bedroom.
It still had all of his toys, but he’d vanished. The empty bed ripped a hole in my heart.
She took him.
