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“We need to get the remains tested, but we’re pretty certain it’s him.”
Silence—all but the piercing screaming in my mind. It’s not Willis. I need him to say it.
“What aren’t you saying, Detective?” I breathe. His tone is cautious. He’s withholding. His heavy exhale sends a swarm of bees through my blood.
“We also found other remains on the property.”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Women? How many…
“A child. Bones. Old.” Swirling acid retches up my throat. “We need to have them tested, but it’s likely the remains of Jack…”
“No,” I say sharply, cutting him off. No. No. No. My eyes strain, staring at the man in front of me.
“I’m so sorry, Lizzy.”
I shake my head vehemently. “That can’t be.”
“There’s something else.” Rustling sounds echo around him, like he’s walking somewhere. “Your friend…he’s not who he claims. There’s something you should know about him…” Wind whistles. More rustling. “Are you still there, Lizzy?”
No. Please no.
My skin itches, the truth breaking the last part of me.
“Who is this?” Jack…or whoever the hell he is, mouths to me, holding up my photo of him and me, his mother’s arm around us both. It’s all I had left of him—my Jack, my lost boy.
My phone drops from my hand, crashing to the floor. Hernandez's muted voice vibrates the device. Horror washes over me. This man is not Jack. He’s playing me. “Lizzy, what’s wrong? Who was that?”
Lifting my hand, I point to the picture. “That’s Jack’s mom,” I croak, my voice breaking. He’s not Jack. He’s not Jack. He’s not my lost boy. Jack’s dead. Has been dead his whole time. No. No. No.
Sorrow creeps over me like moss clinging to a derelict building. He frowns, studying the image. “They found, Willis,” I announce, watching, studying his face for surprise or shock. He closes his eyes, his breathing increasing with each inhale. A stray tear leaks down my cheek.
“I can explain,” he murmurs, taking a step toward me as I take two back.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my hands outstretched.
“Liz…”
“No!” I bark, a sob bursting from my chest. “Who are you?” I scream, the veins in my skull straining.
“You know who I am. You know, Liz. You feel it.”
Shaking my head, I try to think, to play everything back, but my head is too muddled. “Who is killing people?” I blurt as the thought bursts in my head like a balloon popping.
“I don’t know…”
“No!” I bellow, keeping my hands up and bending down to reach for my phone. His eyes track my movements—a hunter is what he called himself. “Willis is dead. He’s fucking dead. It can’t be him.” Is it you? Oh god, it’s you. I stand, flicking my eyes to the screen. It’s cracked and the call has ended. Slipping it into my pocket, I say again, “Willis is dead!”
“I know he’s dead!” he roars, launching the picture across the room. The frame obliterates against the wall, showering the room in speckles of glass. My body is frozen in fear, grief. A collision of every emotion leaves my insides a car wreck.
“I killed him!”
My heart obliterates at his confession.
“I fucking killed him,” he reiterates, taking a step in my direction.
Run! I move through the apartment at full speed and take off running, knowing he’s behind me. I feel him there. My feet stumble as I reach the stairs, slipping and tumbling down the last few steps as Mrs. Briggs pokes her head out her front door, frowning at me.
“Call the police!” I screech, but she slams her door in my face. The pounding of footfalls has me spilling out onto the street, crashing into passersby. Their shocked gasps don’t stop me. I run, thrashing the asphalt. My screams are internal, tearing at my soul, trying to rip free. This can’t be real.
“Lizzy,” his voice calls out, roaring, but I don’t slow down. I run and run.
My feet are on fire, the skin chaffed and raw. I reach Marley’s and slam my hand against the door. All the lights are out, and it’s locked up. Every headlight appears to head straight for me. My mind screams for me to keep going, flee, find safety. Everything hurts, but I push my body to its limit, hammering the asphalt until I find myself on Stephan’s porch, hammering on his door. “Let me in,” I cry. “Please?”
Please be home. Please be home.
The door opens. Stephan looks shocked to see me. I launch myself at him, cradling my body to his, needing stability, safety, familiarity.
“What are you doing here?” He’s rigid against me.
“He’s not Jack,” I choke out. The agony of my words cuts so deep, I may bleed out right here at Stephan’s feet. Frowning, he checks the street, then pulls me inside, closing and latching the front door. Entwining his hand with mine, he drags me upstairs and into a bedroom.
“How did you know where I live?” He picks up a box from a shelve and shoves it beneath his bed. The room is nothing like I pictured for him. It’s barren, sterile. A bed, desk, small mini-fridge, nothing else. Everything is white. No pictures, no posters, no personality anywhere of the boy I know. “Liz, how did you get here?”
