“I know you did,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“We weren’t, like…dating. But we were sort of…getting to know each other.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained the rest of it. This was her third glass of wine in less than ten minutes. And she was toothpick-thin. I was getting worried about her blood alcohol level. Spike and I glanced at each other. I wondered if she’d pass out before revealing whatever it was she’d run all the way here to tell us. She poured herself another glass and took a swallow. I saw Spike’s hand moving toward the bottle and sliding it away from her. It seemed like an unconscious reflex. Bar owner’s instinct. I shook my head at him. He slid the bottle back.
“If I tell you guys something,” Elspeth said, “will you promise not to tell the police?”
I blinked at her.
“Why don’t you want us to tell the police?” Spike asked.
“Because,” she said, “it will get me killed.”
Spike raised an eyebrow. I looked at Elspeth. “I promise you that we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe,” I said. “But that’s the best I can do.”
She swallowed more of her wine. “Okay, I understand.” Her voice was clear, her speech un-slurred. I was impressed. For someone who weighed maybe a few pounds more than Rosie, this girl could definitely hold her alcohol.
“Dylan Welch isn’t really missing,” she said.
I stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“Because he’s been talking to me,” she said. “And because he killed Trevor.”
Spike’s jaw dropped open. So did mine, but unlike Spike, I managed to shift it back into a position where I was able to speak again. “Do you have proof of what you just said?”
Elspeth nodded. She was crying now, silently, her shoulders heaving, her face wet from tears. I excused myself, grabbed a box of Kleenex from my nightstand, and headed back to the kitchen.
When I returned, Elspeth was scrolling through her phone as Spike watched her, his big arms folded over his chest.
“What’s going on?” I said.
Spike said, “She’s finding the proof.”
I placed the Kleenex in front of Elspeth. She took one and dabbed at her eyes while continuing to scroll. Finally, she tapped the screen. Dylan Welch’s voice oozed out of it.Hate to be the bearer of bad news, babe. But your boy got smoked.When the cops call, play dumb. I know you’re good at that.Ha.
I felt nauseated—a visceral response to that rich-boy lilt, the pseudo-gangster phrasing. The obvious sociopathy. It was Dylan Welch, no question. Missing or not, loved by his mother or not, he was truly a shithead. I looked at Elspeth. Asked the obvious questions. “When did you get this message? Who is he talking about?”
“Trevor.” She looked at me like I was an idiot. “I got it this afternoon when I was leaving work. The police called, like…a couple hours later? I didn’t pick up. I was too scared. But I knew. Dylan killed Trevor.”
“Is that a voicemail?” Spike said.
“It’s an audio text message,” Elspeth said. “He’s been sendingthem since he supposedly went missing. Telling me to do things.”
“What kind of things?” I asked.
Elspeth took another swallow of wine and went back to her phone. “I’ll find you the first one,” she said as she scrolled. “Okay, here it is.” She tapped the screen.
Els. It’s Dylan. I need you to go to my apartment. Take the gun that’s under the bed in a box. Put it in your car. Drive to 67 North Washington and park it there. Doors unlocked. Then walk or take the T to work.
“I texted back that I didn’t want to do that, and then he sent me this.” Elspeth tapped her screen again, and again we heard Dylan Welch.You’re in a good place now, Els. You’re solidly on the ground floor of an up-and-coming company and the elevator is right there, babe. You’re in line for a promotion. Marketing job with your name on it, plus shares in the biz. Don’t fuck it up and ruin your rep. I can make it so you never work again.
“What did you say then?”
“I told him no again. Then he sends this.” She played the next audio message. We listened. It was still Dylan’s voice, but deeper, more menacing. As though someone had swiped from him even the pretense of compassion.Okay, bitch, you wanna play like this, fine. Here’s what’s REALLY happening: I’m watching you. My friends are, too. You know what we love to do? You’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. No, no. I won’t tell you. I’ll just let you find out.
She slid her phone to me. Attached to the audio message was a video—a sniper’s-eye view of Elspeth taken through herapartment window. She was in her bathroom wearing a towel, blow-drying her hair. Completely oblivious. “I said yes after that,” she said.
“Understandable,” I said. I slid the phone back to her.
I looked at Spike. He was gaping at Elspeth. “What a shit holiday season you’ve been having,” he said.
