Double Blind (16 page)

I slid inside the car and locked the door.

Mom put on her seat belt. “Where to?”

How about anywhere but here? “Go to the next street and turn left. A few blocks down we'll hit El Camino. Turn right to go south.”

I'd been down El Camino plenty of times since Ryan and I moved to the area. It was a major road, stretching from up toward San Francisco all the way down to San Jose. One town blended into another along El Camino, with an endless stretch of businesses. Ryan and I had first driven it south from Redwood City to explore Stanford shopping center in Palo Alto.

Mom reached El Camino and turned right. I gripped the paper and pen, praying all the way. Cars flowed by us on the multilaned road. I wanted to turn around, see if anyone was following us. More paranoia. Maybe the depression was coming back. Maybe I really did get a placebo.
And
my brain was making up details—which could be called panic attacks. I was worse off than ever after the surgery. Totally headed for disaster.

I might as well curl into a ball and give up right now.

Mom glanced at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

We approached Woodside Road. After the underpass I looked back, peering at the exit I'd thought was in the dream. And there it was, just like I remembered. “There!” I pointed behind us. “That's the road he took. It goes to 101.”

“You sure?”

“Mom, I
know
.”

But had my brain just made this part up—or was it true?

I turned around, concentrating on the businesses we passed. “See that fancy car dealership? That was in the dream too. And there's the jewelry store.”

“Wow,” Mom said. “This really isn't far from you.”

Way too close.

“There's the Jack in the Box.” I pointed left.

My mother nodded. “Where do you think he turned off that residential road?”

“I don't know. But probably not far.”

We passed into Atherton, where expensive houses were set behind walls and large trees, like in my dream. I studied each road going off El Camino, looking for the intersection where the man had turned. Nothing fit. We passed Tuscaloosa. And then I saw it. We were approaching the stoplight at Atherton Avenue. Opposite that street rose a beige stucco wall. That wall seemed to leap out at me. “That's it! Just before he turned, his car was pointed at that wall.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Go right.”

Mom got over in the far right lane and turned onto the avenue.

My pulse skittered. “The town of Atherton. I should have known. All those big houses.”

“Expensive area?”

“Yeah.”

My mouth dried out. Important people lived in Atherton. Execs in Silicon Valley, doctors, attorneys. One of
them
was a cold-blooded killer?

A tree canopy covered the first part of Atherton Avenue. I hung on to my seat. “See the trees? This is
it
.”

“Okay.” Mom sounded grim.

Then came the walls and more trees on either side, shielding large homes. I'd seen that, too. I needed more eyes to take it all in. I needed bigger lungs to
breathe
.

I saw no roads off to the right, only to the left. “Okay, go slow. I need to look up each street.” I perched on the edge of my seat, holding on to the dashboard as I peered left. A lot of the streets ended in short cul-de-sacs. That didn't look right. “No,” I said at the first one—Odell. And the second—Mercedes. And the third and fourth—Stevenson. We drove by a fifth and sixth. A seventh. Had the man passed this many streets? They all looked too narrow. The one wide road had a median, and I hadn't seen one of those in the dream.

With every wrong street we passed, my muscles drew up tighter. This should be working.

An eighth street. A ninth and tenth.

“It's not here.” My voice was thick.

“Maybe we haven't gone far enough.”

“He didn't pass that many turn-offs.” I slumped back in my seat.

Mom turned onto the next lane and pulled over to the side. She put the car in Park. “Let's think about this. You remember what the house looks like?”

Off-white, two-story. Large porch with pillars. Dark green shutters. Lots of flowers and three birch trees in the yard . . .

“Yeah, but who knows if it's right. If we can't find the street . . .”

“Well, we've come this far. Let's go up each street, even if it doesn't look right. Maybe we'll find the house.”

We wouldn't. Then what? We'd never figure this out. Mom might as well go back to Denver. And I'd keep turning in circles.

“Okay, Lisa?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

If only I'd never heard of Cognoscenti.

Mom pulled a U-turn and got back on Atherton Avenue. We wormed our way back toward El Camino, taking each road either to its dead end or its first intersection with another street. None of the houses matched. They weren't even close. All of them were set back from the street behind walls and gates. The man's house hadn't been like that. Neither had his neighbors'.

I dug my knuckles into my chin. Maybe I'd seen the house in a magazine somewhere. Seen the woman's face there, too. Some obscure actress.

Jerry was right—I needed a psychiatrist. I had to understand what was happening to me.

We turned off one of the lanes back onto Atherton Road. Some distance down I could see the El Camino intersection. “Mom, it's not here.”

“Let's keep trying.” Mom turned onto the next street, the wide one with a grassy divider in the middle.

“This can't be it.” I just wanted to go home. “I never saw a median.”

But the houses here were different. They were spread apart on large lots but without front walls. Looked more like what I'd seen in my dream. Newer homes, the trees not as large. But a median . . . ?

We saw no one out in their yards.

A house on the left jumped out at me. My heart stopped. “There it is!”

“Where?”

I couldn't believe it.
“There!”

Mom pulled over to the right curb, opposite the house. We gaped at it. I started to shake. This was the place. The porch and paint color, the flowers and trees. Three-car garage. Everything fit. I even recognized the windows going across the tops of the garage doors.

“You sure?” Mom's voice was a whisper.

“Positive.” My heart thumped. Even the sun was setting to the left of the house, like in my dream. This
was
it. A woman had been
killed
in that house. I could practically see through the walls, picture the living room and kitchen. The floor where she died.

“But the median . . . Why didn't I see that in the dream?”

“You probably just saw the man's car drive down his side of the street.”

Maybe.

Our white car suddenly felt like flaming red neon. What if the man looked out his window right now and saw us? “We have to get out of here.”

“I know.” Mom leaned toward her window. “See a street number?”

No. And I didn't care. “Just go! He could come out any minute.”

“There. On the mailbox. Ten.”

Ten, fine. “Turn around.”

“You need to write it in your notebook.”

Now?
“I'll remember it. Just get us out of here.”

“Did you notice the street name?”

“No!”

“We'll get it on the way out.” Mom thrust the car into Park.

“What are you doing? Mom!”

“Where's my purse? I need the camera.”

“We
don't
need a picture. Every detail's in my head.”

“It's not in mine. Where's the camera?”

I squirmed around, frantically looking for Mom's bag. She'd tossed it into the back seat. I heaved over and picked it up. Fumbled around inside for the camera. My eyes snapped toward the house. Still no sign of the man. But he could be watching us right now. If he saw me, if he knew, Mom and I were both dead. This was a man who would stalk us. Who would make sure we never opened our mouths.

“Lisa, hurry.”

My fingers kept scrabbling.
Where
was the camera?

There
. I yanked it out and turned it on.

Mom tensed. “Oh, no.”

I checked the house—and saw the middle garage door opening. My fingers froze.

Mom shoved the car gear into Drive, her foot on the brake. “Take the picture, hurry.”

The door was now half open.

My hands started to shake. “I can't, just go!”

“
Take
it.”

Twice I tried to aim the camera. On the third try I pushed the button.
Click
.

Mom lunged toward me. “Get your head down!”

Holding our breath, we bent low over the console, as if peering at a map. I rolled my gaze up toward the house. The garage door stood wide open.

“Get a picture of the car when he comes out.”

“No, Mom, what if he sees me?”

“Lisa,
do
it.”

“But I can't . . .”

A car started backing out. My heart slammed into my ribs. But the car wasn't a black SUV. It was a red sedan.

“Is he coming out?” Mom hissed.

“Yes.”

“Take the picture.”

I aimed the camera and pushed the button.

“Take another one.”

I tried, but my fingers had gone numb.

“Here, give it to me.” Mom stuck out her hand. I shoved the camera into it.

The red sedan backed into the street and sat parallel to the house. I ducked down more. In that second the driver turned toward us. An elderly man. White haired. Was
that
him?

“He's looking!” Fear stretched my words.

“Keep your head down.” Mom swallowed hard. “Tell me when he turns away. I'll get another picture. ”

He kept staring at us. Time stopped moving. If he came over here . . .

The man looked up toward his visor and pushed a button. The garage door began to close. I managed a breath. “Take it, quick.”

Mom pointed the camera behind her with one hand and pushed the button. No telling what she got.

The man drove off down the street.

Air whooshed out of me. I thought I was going to faint. “He's leaving.”

Mom dropped the camera in my lap and checked in the rearview mirror, then headed up the street. She passed two paved turn-offs cutting through the median and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac. Only then did she turn around. By that time the man's car was gone.

I could hardly feel my body. “Get off this street. Please.”

We passed the killer's house without stopping.

“Was that him?” Mom's voice was clipped. “I know you've never seen him but . . . did you
feel
it?”

I was still trying to get enough oxygen. “Give me a minute.”

At the end of the road I managed to notice the street name. Amethyst Lane. Number ten. I wrote the address on my notepad.

The killer lived here. Just a few miles from my apartment. This was all
real
. I couldn't wrap my head around that.

Mom drove slowly down Atherton Avenue, not wanting to catch up to the man's car. But he was long gone.

I sagged back in my seat and tried to calm my pulse.

“
Do
you think that was him?” Mom asked again.

“I don't know. He came out of the middle door in a red car. In my dream he came out of the right door in a black SUV.”

“So he has two cars.”

I closed my eyes, picturing the scenes in the garage. I'd never noticed a red sedan there. But the man had been focused on the floor. I hadn't seen the rest of the garage at all. Just like I hadn't seen the median on the street. Still . . .

“I don't think that was him.”

“Why?”

“He's too old.”

“How do you know how old he is?”

“I've seen his hands. They're not an old man's hands.”

“Maybe the guy's in great shape. He did pick up that woman.”

I winced. “Maybe. But it doesn't feel right.”

What if he wasn't the man? What if the killer didn't live in that house at all? I'd be back to square one, all the more confused.

We drove the rest of the way home in silence. My thoughts continued to whirl. The right house but the wrong man . . . That made no sense. Plus there was that disappearing dragon ring.

We reached the apartment building. Mom pulled into a space on the street and cut the engine. I walked on wooden legs up the stairs and to my door. Mom held all our things as I pulled the key out of my pocket. Once inside we bolted the lock.

I made for the couch and sank into it. Massaged my temples. Were we closer to the truth—or worse off than ever?

I heard Mom plop everything down near the kitchen. Then she gasped.

The hair on my neck raised. “What?”

She pointed. “The drawing. And the note. Didn't we leave them here on the counter?”

The cut of her voice brought me to my feet. “I saw them there when we left.”

Mom's face paled. “They're gone.”

Chapter 20