Inevitable (12 page)

Dana’s blue eyes flickered over my face, trying to read me. “Yes, you do. You just don’t want to.”

I turned away from her. “Oh man, what did I miss? Something’s going on in the game!” I leaned forward, jotting down everything I could hear from where I was.

One of the players on the other team got a foul, and I lifted my camera to snap a picture of the coach’s face. Right before I could, though, a man walked in front of me and stopped, staring at the court. I lowered my camera. “Excuse me!” I yelled. I didn’t sit on the front row for nothing. “Trying to take a picture!” I waved the camera, and he turned around. I gasped, dropping my camera as terror and shock chilled my body.

“Sorry.” The man I’d seen murder Hannah bent over and picked up my camera. “You dropped this.”

He extended his hand and I recoiled. I wanted to puke, yet I couldn’t take my eyes off his face, the light eyes and sandy brown hair, the scar that sliced down his jaw and neck. His features were as familiar as if it were me he’d murdered.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. “Do I know you?”

“No, no.” I took the camera and dropped my gaze, trying hard to get myself under control.

Dana put a hand on my back. “Jayne?”

“I think your friend is having an anxiety attack.” His voice was smooth and nonchalant with a hint of a professional diagnosis. “I’ll take her to get a drink of water.”

“I’m fine.” I grabbed Dana’s hand and squeezed it. “I was startled by the play. I’m fine.”

“She’s fine.” Dana nodded at him. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Anytime, Jayne.”

I jerked my head up when he said my name. He nodded at me before continuing on his way.

“What was that about?” Dana scowled. “Creep.”

I grabbed her purse and dug through it until I found her phone. “Get me on the internet,” I demanded, handing it to her.

“Okay, okay. Calm down.” She touched her phone and handed it back to me.

I put in a search on the Lacey Township serial killer. Right away, it brought up a newer article than the one I’d seen in class.

The latest victim in a string of killings has been identified as Hannah Morgan, a twenty-year-old junior at...

The words blurred in front of me and I handed the phone bag, taking small, shallow breaths. Hannah was dead. I’d failed her, and the killer was still out there. Out here, attending my high school basketball game and probably looking for his next victim.

That did it. I couldn’t put off visiting the police one more day.

CHAPTER TEN

W
ork went by in a blur on Saturday. I stuffed my hair up under a baseball cap and kept my head down, not wanting to talk to anyone. All I could think about was my plan to visit the police during my thirty-minute lunch break. I had to act fast. The Lacey Township Police Department was less than a mile from JT's. The problem would be parking. Hopefully, at one o'clock on a Saturday, that wouldn't be an issue. I only had half an hour.

A pair of purple pumps stopped several feet in front of my reg
ister, one jean clad leg swiveling back and forth impatiently. I was in no mood for customer service. “Yes?” I glanced at my wrist. Twelve fifty-two. I would take lunch in eight minutes.

The woman still stood there, so I lifted my head, hoping my annoyance showed in my eyes. “Oh. Hey Gabby. What are you doing?”

My coworker smirked at me and popped a big pink bubble. “Where’s your mind today? Definitely not at work. Guy problems?”

Aaron’s tanned face with dark brown hair and dimples popped into my mind.
Not today.
“No. I have an appointment during lunch and it’s kind of stressing me out. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Oh.” She leaned forward, the one blue streak in her shoulder-length black hair brushing the counter top. “Well, I’m not supposed to come in until two, but I’m here. I can stick around and cover for you if you don’t make it back in time.”

I looked at her, at this girl who always seemed so cold and uninterested, and felt a rush of gratitude. “You’d do that for me?”

She shrugged and leaned back. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, Gabby,” I gushed. “I’ll cover for you anytime. I’ll do whatever you want. This is really important, and I hate the thought of having to rush it—”

She waved me off. “Forget it. I’ve got ya covered.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” I had a few minutes left, but I ran into the back and grabbed my stuff anyway. I punched out on the register. “Matt! I’m off!”

“See ya!” he shouted from the kitchen.

My hands started to tremble as I drove, and I tried not to think too much. I had no idea how the police were going to react. I jammed my Sarah Brightman CD into the player and lost myself in her high soprano voice.

Parking was a beast at the police station. Even Sarah’s lilting Italian couldn’t distract me from the fact that I had already wasted ten minutes driving around. Giving up, I parallel-parked on the street one block over from the station. I cursed myself for not just walking. I could see JT’s from here.

I ran inside the red brick building, ignoring the elevator and taking the stairs to the second floor. The digital clock in the hallway blinked one twenty-three. A woman greeted me as I pushed through the glass doors.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I stepped up to her desk, trying to appear confident. “I need to speak to someone who’s working the serial killer case. I have a tip.”

“Just a moment. Your name?”

“Can I be anonymous?”

“Okay. If you’ll take a seat?” She gestured to three plastic chairs against the wall. Judging from her expression, I’d just gotten myself priority seating. I settled myself on the edge, checking my watch. My foot started to tap and I stilled it.

“Ma’am?” A trim man wearing a dark suit and tie stepped over to my chair. “If you’ll come with me?”

I stood, clutching my bag in both hands. I followed him over to a cubicle office. He sat and motioned to the other chair. “Please, sit. I’m Lieutenant Bailey. You said you have a tip?”

I took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I know who the killer is. Well, not his name, but I can describe him to you.”

Whatever Bailey had been expecting, this obviously wasn’t it. He leaned forward, smoothing his brown mustache with one thumb. “How do you know?”

Now I wished I’d role-played a bit before I got here. Of course he would ask that. Time to lie. “One of the victims was my friend. She—she told me that someone was—following her.”

His pen was out now, and he was scribbling as quickly as I spoke. I relaxed a bit. He was taking me seriously, at least. “Which victim?”

My throat tightened, and I whispered, “Hannah.” I looked away, feeling the tears burn my eyes.

He grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to me. “So she told you what this guy looked like?”

I nodded. “In great detail. She was scared.”

“When did you see her last?”

I bit my lip, realizing that I was treading in deep water. If he checked Hannah’s routine and discovered that she wasn’t with me when I said she was, this whole thing would be over. “Thursday night. She stopped by my work before I went home.”

“And what did she say?”

“That she was scared.” The vision flashed before my eyes, and I pressed my palms over them. “I told her to be careful.” I began to cry in earnest now. It wasn’t fair that I hadn’t been able to help her.

“Can I get your name?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Here.” My hands shook as I pulled my rough sketch out of my bag. “It’s not very good, but I tried to draw him. Based off what Hannah said, anyway.”

He took it from me and spread it out on his desk. “This is very good for second-hand.”

My face flushed. “She wanted me to watch out for him.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I-I-” I stammered. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. “I saw him at the Township High basketball game.”

He sat up straighter, grabbing his notepad and pen. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” I gestured the length of my neck. “The scar.”

He glanced at the paper again. “Uh-huh.” He squinted at me. “Did he talk to you?”

“Yes,” I whispered, squeezing the table. “He called me by name.”

The man studied me, and I shifted under his scrutiny. Did he believe me? Did he think I was crazy? “How does he know you?”

I shook my head. “He doesn’t. He overheard my friend.”

“Have you seen him at the games before?”

“No.”

He stood and handed me a card. “I have an appointment in five minutes, but I want to meet with you again. Call me.” He waved the paper at me. “Thanks for this.”

I watched him walk away and exhaled in relief. I did it. Now he had the drawing and could find the guy. Maybe the police would send a patrol to all the games. I glanced at my watch and jumped up. One fifty-eight! Where had the past twenty minutes gone? There was no way I could make it back to work in two minutes.

I hurried down the sidewalk toward my car, keeping my head down so the wind didn’t blow into my eyes. Shiny black shoes stepped into view only seconds before I collided with the owner. I threw an arm out to keep myself from falling and managed to smack the man in the face, knocking him off the sidewalk. And I still fell on my rear.

“I’m so sorry!” I cried, my eyes darting toward my car, wondering how quickly I could apologize and escape the scene.

“Jayne?”

I blinked and turned my attention to him. My Spanish teacher took my hand and helped me to my feet.

“Mr. Livingston! I didn’t see you there.”

He chuckled, though the lines around his light brown eyes made them seem tense. The dimple that so often made an appearance when he laughed stayed hidden. “No, you weren’t looking.” He glanced over his shoulder and pressed his lips together.

“Yeah.” I gestured behind me. “Just leaving the police station. They make me nervous. And I’m late for work!”

Mr. Livingston frowned. “Traffic ticket?” He clutched his fingers, popping each knuckle.

“No, no.” I shook my head. I couldn’t have him thinking I was a bad driver. “I just had some information for them about that case.”

“Case?” He dropped his key ring and bent to retrieve it. His eyes flicked upward as he stood, searching my face. “Are you in trouble, Jayne?”

I knew he was just concerned for me, but my face reddened. Did he think I was a delinquent in hiding? “No, no, not me. The serial killer one.”

“Oh.” One eyebrow lifted and his frown deepened. He went back to work on his fingers, pulling on the joints. “Sounds dangerous.”
Crack. Crack.

“Yeah, well.” I fished my keys out of my purse. “What about you? Traffic ticket?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Teachers aren’t immune, you know.”

“Right.” Time was up. “I’ve gotta run, Mr. Livingston. See you Monday!” I waved and hurried off. Late late late. “I’m so gonna get fired,” I murmured to myself, starting my car up.

Must be a bad ticket. I’d never seen Mr. Livingston so agitated. I glanced toward the police station as I backed out of my parking spot. He still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to enter; just stood in front of it, studying it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN