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“Great,” he says. “Meet you at Framboise in thirty. I’ll tell you all about it.”
The line goes dead, and I stand in silence, the phone still pushed to my ear. Then I swallow, lower my arm slowly, a blanket of dread descending over me as I look around my house, at all of Waylon’s things cluttered around the room: his jacket flung over the dining room chair, his suitcase stacked in the hallway corner. His mug on the counter, drips of coffee that touched his lips still staining the rim. There are pieces of him everywhere, these microscopic clues of another life in my home like dust on furniture, visible only when you catch a glimpse in just the right light.
And that’s when the gravity of it all fully hits me.
Waylon sought me out on that airplane. With a rush of certainty, I know it in my bones. He was looking for me,specifically; maybe he even went to TrueCrimeCon to meet me. He had found me sitting there, that empty seat next to me, and introduced himself. Handed me his card. Then he came here and gave me a taste of what he knew I wanted: someone to listen, someone to understand. Someone tocare. It was only a bite, though. Only enough to satisfy the craving. And then he threatened to go, leaving me desperate: a junky in need of just one more fix, so I had offered my home to make him stay.
Now this man who came into my life just one week ago has managed to weasel his way in so completely, I realize there is no way it wasn’t orchestrated. There is no way it wasn’t planned.
I think about the violence again, like I have so many times over this past year. About how sometimes, it presents itself as a shotgun blast, loud and messy, spraying gore against the wall—but other times, it’s as quiet as a whisper: a handful of swallowed pills or a scream underwater. A stranger slipping into a window at night before leaving without a trace. But then there are the other times, too, when it comes masked as something else. When it’s invited inside, stepping politely through the front door wearing a disguise: an ally, a friend.
I thought Waylon cared. I thought he wanted to help. But now I don’t know why he’s here. I don’t know what he wants.
Now I know that he’s lying. I know that he has a secret, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
On my way to Framboise, I get another phone call. This time, it’s Dr. Harris, calling me back.
“Isabelle,” he says, seemingly happy to hear from me. I’ve been avoiding him, I know, for months now. There’s an expectation with doctors that with their help, you should be getting better; that all your problems should slowly dissolve like salt in water, leaving nothing behind but the bitter taste of what used to be. But clearly, I’m not. They’re not. “Sorry for missing your call. I was with a client.”
“Yeah, hi,” I say, holding my phone between my cheek and shoulder. I’m in the car, ten minutes from the restaurant. “That’s okay. I was just wondering if I could make an appointment—”
“Yes, your voice mail requestedas soon as possible. Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I just have some questions for you. Wanted to pick your brain.”
“Does this afternoon work? I’ve had a cancellation.”
I look at the clock in my car; it’s already past noon. “What time?”
“One thirty?”
I drum my fingers against the wheel. I want to hear what Waylonhas to say—no, Ineedto hear what Waylon has to say—about his fictional meeting with Detective Dozier, his lie regarding Paul Hayes. I need to know what he’s after, why he’s here. Why he’s lying to me. But at the same time, I know I’ll see him tonight, too. There’s no avoiding that now. No avoiding him.
“Sure,” I say, deciding on the spot to cancel lunch and take this appointment instead. After all, as much as I’m afraid of all the reasons why Waylon may be lying to me—of what he’s doing in my house, my life—I’m more afraid of what I saw on that laptop screen. “I’ll see you at one thirty.”
Once I arrive, the office feels familiar yet foreign, like walking into your own home in a dream. I used to come here so often—twice a week every week, starting last July—that I knew it inch by inch. But now so many little things have changed, it doesn’t feelquiteright. I know they’re supposed to be subtle alterations, a slow redecoration over the past six months, but all at once, it feels jarring, like seeing the drastic changes in a child after too much time apart.
All of it is making me feel uneasy, like I’m in the wrong place.
“How are you sleeping?” Dr. Harris asks now, leaning forward. His hair is a bit longer than it was the last time I saw him, the old stubble on his chin grown out into the beginnings of a beard. “Any better than before?”
“Yes, better,” I lie. “Much better.”
“That’s fantastic,” he says, pleased with himself. “Are you following my protocol? Getting enough exercise, cutting out alcohol and caffeine—”
“Yes,” I lie again, because I don’t want to rehash this with him. I need caffeine to get anything done during the day; without it, I might as well be a zombie. And alcohol… well, it feels like I need that, too, sometimes. Just for different reasons.
“Have you been creating a relaxing nighttime routine like we talked about? Cutting out electronics, stressful triggers—”
“Yes.”
The lies are coming too easily now, but how am I supposed to create arelaxing nighttime routinewhen I live the way that I do—always alone, always on edge, always waiting for Mason to come home? My entire existence is a stressful trigger; my house the scene of a crime that remains perpetually unsolved.
“Cutting down on daytime naps?”
I think about all my little microsleeps; those minutes or hours of unaccounted-for time. About blinking my eyes, finding someone staring at me—Waylon, or a stranger—concern in their eyes. But it’s not as if I’m doing that on purpose. As if I have any control. So again, I nod.
