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No matter. Tomorrow she would begin tracking him down like the animal he was.
Morning, however, brought a new reality: she had to work. She couldn’t spend all day sitting in some hidden place and watching Parrish’s house. Her old truck would be out of place, and very noticeable, in any case. Physically watching for him, following him, seizing an opportunity, simply wasn’t feasible. She had to know in advance where he would be, and be there before him.
For all she knew, he wasn’t even in town. During the winter he often took long vacations in warmer climes, staying away for as long as a month at a stretch.
There was only one way to find out. During her lunch break with another cleaning service, she stopped at a fast-food joint and used a pay phone to call the Foundation.
Her fingers moved without volition, punching in the familiar numbers. It wasn’t until the first ring buzzed in her ear that she realized what she was doing, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. B
efore she could slam down the receiver the flat, impersonal voice of the receptionist answered. “Amaranthine Potere Foundation. How may I direct your call?”
Grace swallowed. “Is Mr. Sawyer in the office today?”
“One moment.”
“No, don’t ring—” she started to say, but the line had already clicked and another ring was sounding. She took a deep breath and prepared to ask the question again of Parrish’s secretary; she would need to disguise her voice a little, because Annalise had once been fairly familiar with—
“Parrish Sawyer.”
The smooth, cultured tones stunned her, panicked her. She froze in place, her mind going blank at actually hearing that hated voice again.
“Hello?” he said, more sharply.
Grace gasped.
“Is this an obscene call?” he asked, sounding both bored and annoyed. “I really don’t—” Then he stopped, and she could hear his own breathing for a few endless seconds. “Gracie,” he said, purring her name. “How nice of you to call.”
She felt wrapped in ice, a coldness that had nothing to do with the fifteen-degree weather. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only clench the receiver with white, bloodless fingers.
“Can’t you speak, darling? I want to talk to you, clear up this dreadful misunderstanding. You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. There’s always been something between us, but I didn’t realize how potent it was until you ran away. Let me help you, darling. I’ll take care of everything.”
He was a wonderful liar, she thought dimly. His warm, seductive voice oozed sympathy, trustworthiness; if she hadn’t seen him commit the murders, she would have believed every word out of his mouth.
“Gracie,” he said, cajoling, whispering. “Tell me where to meet you. I’ll take you away, just the two of us, to someplace safe. You won’t have to worry about anything.”
He wasn’t lying. It was lust she heard in his voice. Horrified, sickened, she finally managed to hang up the phone and blindly made her way back to the truck. She felt filthy, as if he’d actually touched her.
My God, how could he have the utter gall, how could he possibly think she would let him touch her? But there wasn’t any letting involved, she realized. She started the truck and drove carefully away, not doing anything to attract attention, but her heart was beating so rapidly she felt faint. He didn’t know for certain she’d seen him that night, so he’d taken the chance that she hadn’t and tried to talk her into coming to him. She had never had any doubts he would kill her; now she knew he would rape her first.
Wispy snowflakes drifted across her windshield, just a few at first, but by the time she got to the next house on her list the snow was coming down fast enough to begin collecting on the hood of the truck. This was one of her least favorite houses to clean; Mrs. Eriksson was always there, carefully watching every move Grace made as though she expected her to walk off with a television or something. But she didn’t chatter, as some people did, and today Grace was grateful for the silence. She moved in a daze through the cleaning, her mind spinning while she carefully mopped and dusted and vacuumed.
Mrs. Eriksson dumped a load of clothing on the sofa. “My bridge club is coming over tonight and I have to bake a cake; it would help me a lot if you’d fold the laundry while I start the baking.”
The woman was tireless in trying to get the cleaning service to perform extra, unpaid tasks. Grace made a show of looking at her watch. “I’m sorry,” she said politely. “I have to be at another house in half an hour. I have just enough time to finish your floors.” It was a lie; today was a light day for her, and she had only one more house to do, at four o’clock. But Mrs. Eriksson was probably lying about the bridge club, too, and perhaps even about the cake.
“You’re very uncooperative,” the woman said sharply. “You’ve refused my requests before, and I’m thinking of changing services. If your attitude doesn’t change, I’m going to have to speak to your supervisor.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to schedule laundry services for you.”
“Why should I use her service for that, when you’ve been so unsatisfactory in everything else?”
“She can assign someone else, if you like.” Grace didn’t look up, but stuffed her dusting cloth back into the canvas bag in which she carried all her cleaning products, then deftly plugged in the vacuum cleaner and turned it on. The noise drowned out anything Mrs. Eriksson might have said, and Grace industriously shoved the machine back and forth across the carpet. The service owner had Mrs. Eriksson’s number; she might assign someone else to clean the house, but Mrs. Eriksson still wouldn’t get her laundry folded or her dishes washed unless she paid for it.
Mrs. Eriksson sat down on the sofa and began folding clothes, snapping the garments and glaring all the while, but Grace’s mind immediately went back to Parrish.
Everything inside her recoiled in revulsion. She couldn’t even imagine the horror of being in his hands. He wouldn’t have to kill her, because she would go mad if he touched her, her mind would shut down completely.
How had he known? How had he guessed it was her on the phone? What kind of feral instincts did he have that had led him so swiftly and unerringly to her identity? More important, had he immediately phoned the Minneapolis police and told them she was in the area?
