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But maybe I can now. I didn’t want to be saved by her, or anyone else. It just showed I had no control over any part of my life. Because, in the end, the only person who could save me was myself.
She had left the university the following day and started out on what had become her career: lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating, giving back to others what she had been force-fed most of her life. In her more rational moments, she knew none of it made sense. But for a long time now, it had become the only way she could make sense of the world. There were winners and losers. There were the strong and the weak. Those in control and those being controlled by others, and didn’t she know the hell that came with that last one?
So when Clarisse had walked into Stormfield that day to find Harry Langhorne dead, her thoughts had pivoted instantly to the nearby Gibson. In her mind, the plan came together perfectly. She would show Gibson that she was actually the stronger one—the winner. And if Gibson did manage to help her find the treasure, all the better. Clarisse would have still won.
And what else really matters?
But she asked if I wanted to stay at her house. Whether I was safe.
No one had ever asked her those things before. But it didn’t surprise her that Gibson had. She was a good person.
Unlike me.
Clarisse shook her head and wiped her eyes.
Get a grip, girl.
She refocused on a picture on her computer screen.
Wilson Sullivan. There was something about the man that was making her warning antennae scream.
While Gibson was looking for treasure, she decided to start looking at the Virginia police detective.
If that was all he really was.
CHAPTER65
THE NEXT MORNING CLARISSE WATCHEDfrom across the street as Sullivan left the police building in Virginia Beach and got into his state-issued sedan. It was drizzling and the skies were darkening, promising still more precipitation after the previous night’s steady rainfall.
She put her rental car in gear and moved into traffic two vehicles behind him.
They drove a familiar route, and ended up back at Stormfield. She had turned off before they arrived there because traffic had thinned and she didn’t want to be spotted. But she was certain that could be the only place out here that he would be going to.
She parked and approached the house on foot, drawing her hoodie closer around her as the air chilled and the rain picked up.
Clarisse moved past the mailbox and flitted through the trees until she reached the edge of the lawn opposite the front entrance. His sedan was parked there.
She ran across the grass and reached the east wing of the home, where she peered into one of the windows. It was dark inside, so she could really see nothing. The man must be using a flashlight. And then to confirm this theory she saw a stab of light cut through the interior. He was moving along the hall to the main staircase. And then he took it down.
Well, if he made it to the wine cellar he would find it bereft of messages. She licked her lips and remembered how the paper had tasted in her mouth.
“Hey, babycakes.”
Clarisse turned at the sound of the voice, right as a cloth covered her face.
***
Clarisse awoke slowly at first, and then in a panicked rush of cortisol plowing into her bloodstream, she sat up, or would have if she hadn’t been restrained.
She looked around at the decrepit room: paint peeling, floors wooden and filthy, one window, the single light bulb overhead feeble and pulsing. She was on a bed with her arms and legs tied to the bedposts. The smell here was not pleasant.
She could hear the rain tapping on the roof, in the distance a growl of thunder.
“Welcome back, babycakes. It was only a short ride down slumber lane for you. I know just how much to use. Helps me sleep at night.”
Clarisse looked directly in front of her to see the woman sitting there in a hardbacked chair, one leg draped over the other. She could see her far better in this light than in her own apartment, when the woman had previously gotten the drop on her. She was heavier in the face and butt and hips, Clarisse noted. The hair had changed color, going from soft brown to stark red. It was not a wig, she could tell. It was the work of a colorist. A good job, but the shade did not flatter her complexion.
Clarisse managed to settle her head at a better angle on the pillow.
