Stay Close (40 page)

That made sense, of course.

Some life this barmaid had made for herself, Ken thought. He’d be doing her a favor if he just put her out of her misery. Ken felt that itch return in full force. His hands tightened into fists. He looked at that kitchen table and thought, Yes, it would probably be sturdy enough to do the job.

Time to get to work.

As Ken approached Lorraine’s door, his phone vibrated. He checked the number, saw it wasn’t Barbie, decided not to answer it. He knocked, patted down his hair, and waited. There was a shuffling sound, and then Ken could hear the top lock’s deadbolt sliding open. Odd how many people just did that. You have the most expensive lock and yet you just open the door to any knock.

Lorraine’s eyes widened a little when she saw Ken, but she didn’t slam the door closed or anything like that. “Well, well. If it isn’t the handsome mourner who looks like my ex.”

She tried to give the crooked smile, the one he’d seen in the club, but it wasn’t quite working. Ken spotted… fear maybe? Yes, fear. The tiniest trace rippled across her weather-beaten face, and that excited him.

Ken offered up his most gentle expression. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Lorraine looked reluctant—maybe scared too—but she wasn’t the type to make a scene or turn someone away.

“It’s really important,” he said. “May I come in?”

“I don’t know,” Lorraine said. “It’s kinda late.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He gave her the smile with all the teeth. “This will only take a second, I promise.”

And then Ken pushed his way in and closed the door behind him.

I
T WAS GETTING COLD OUTSIDE
, so Ray took the stairs back down into the vaulted “stomach room” of Lucy. It had been a dumb idea to come here. What, really, was the point? Yes, he had wonderful memories here. Maybe he thought that Cassie would too. But so what? Did he think bringing her here would somehow soften the blow? Did he think that if he could get her to go back to that time and place it would help her see why he did what he did?

Dumb.

Yes, some things could be made better by setting and context, but was he really naïve enough to think, what, that there would be a hormonal rush just being inside this edifice, and that that rush
would somehow make what he had done more palatable? He suddenly felt like a bad real estate agent believing location, location, location could somehow make his confession that much better.

Ray looked at his cell phone. No text messages from Cassie or Megan or whatever the hell her name was. He debated calling her again, but what was the point of that? He’d wait another hour, maybe two, and then he’d leave. Where would he go? The cops were probably finishing up at his place, but did he really want to go back to that dingy basement?

No.

It was time to move on. If Cassie—that would always be her name to him, not Megan—didn’t want to hear what he had to say, well, he’d just have to find a way to deal with that. But staying here, with the world around him falling apart, made no sense. It was too risky, and while he certainly had had no trouble finding ways to wreck his life over the years, he wasn’t overtly suicidal.

When Ray started for the stairs in Lucy’s hind leg, he heard a noise below. He stopped and waited.

Someone had opened the door.

“Cassie?”

“No, Ray.”

His heart deflated when he recognized the voice. It belonged to Detective Broome.

“How did you find me?” Ray asked.

“Your cell phone signal. It’s easy when someone leaves their phone on.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It’s over, Ray.”

He said nothing.

“Ray?”

“I hear you, Detective.”

“There’s no point in running. The place is surrounded.”

“Okay.”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

“I’m here to arrest you, Ray. Do you understand?”

Not sure what to say to that, Ray settled for: “Yes, I understand.”

“Then do both of us a favor,” Broome said. “Make it easy and safe. Get down on your knees and put your hands on top of your head. I’ll cuff you and read your rights.”

A
T EIGHT A.M. THE NEXT MORNING
, Megan opened her eyes and felt a world of hurt. It had been a long night on so many levels—not the least of which had been the emotional toll of telling Dave the entire truth about her past—and now every part of her body was experiencing a fresh adventure in pain. The arm was the worst of it; it felt as though it’d been mangled by a tiger and then jammed into a blender set on pulverize. A blacksmith was mercilessly using her skull as an anvil. Her tongue and mouth had the dryness of both the Sahara and the worst hangover imaginable.

Megan opened her eyes slowly. Dave sat at the end of the bed, his head lowered into his hand. He, too, looked in pain, albeit not the throbbing kind. His hair stuck up in all different directions. He had, she surmised, stayed by her side all night.

She tried to remember what time she had finished talking—Dave had barely spoken—but couldn’t. She had talked past exhaustion, not so much falling asleep as passing out from the combination of weariness, pain, and morphine. If Dave had commented on her confession, she didn’t remember it.

Megan had never been so thirsty. When she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, her entire body screamed in protest. She
let out a small cry. Dave snapped his head up and said, “Let me get that for you.”

He moved to the nightstand and carefully lifted the glass toward her, easing the straw between her lips. She sipped greedily. The water was pure ambrosia. When she finished, Dave put the water back on the nightstand and sat next to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like I kissed a bus.”

He smiled and stroked her forehead. “Let me get the doctor.”

“Not yet.” His hand felt cool against her skin. She closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch. A tear ran down her cheek. She wasn’t sure why.

“I’ve been running through everything you told me,” Dave said. “I’m still trying to process.”

“I know. But talk to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“It’s hard,” Dave said. “I mean, on the one hand, it doesn’t really matter, I guess, what you were in the past. Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Are your feelings for me a lie?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what else matters? We all have pasts. We all have secrets. Or something.” He shifted in his seat. “That’s the one hand. That’s the part I get.”

“And the other hand?”

Dave shook his head. “I’m still processing.”

“Processing,” she said, “or judging?”

He looked confused. “I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

“If my secret past was that I’d been, I don’t know, a rich princess
and a virgin before we met, do you think you’d have as much trouble processing?”

“You think I’m that shallow?”

“I’m just asking,” she said. “It’s a fair question.”

“And if I said, yes, that scenario would be easier to process?”

“I’d understand, I guess.”

Dave considered that. “Do you want to hear an odd truth?”

She waited.

“I never fully trusted you, Megan. No, wait, that’s not really true. What I mean is, I never really believed you. I trusted you. Implicitly. I made you my wife and I loved you and I know you loved me. We shared a life and a bed and had children together.” Dave swallowed hard, looked away, turned back to her. “I would trust you with my life. You know that.”

“I do.”

“And yet I didn’t always believe you. You can trust someone and know there is something else there. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Was it hard lying to me all those years?”

“Not just you. Everyone.”

“But mostly me.”

She didn’t argue.

“Was that hard?”

Megan considered that. “Not really, no.”

He sat back. “Wow, that’s honest.”

“The truth wasn’t really an option. I didn’t see any point in telling you about my past. The truth could only make things worse.”

“Had to be hard though, right? On some level.”

“I guess I got used to it.”

He nodded. “Part of me wants to know details because otherwise my imagination won’t let it go, you know what I mean?”

She nodded.

“But most of me knows it’s better to just let it go.”

“It was a long time ago, Dave.”

“But it’s part of you.”

“Yes. Just as your past is part of you.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I won’t apologize for it.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you miss it.”

More tears came to her eyes. She was not going to lie again, not after she had gone through so much to tell the truth. “When you were in high school, you were into that theater group, right?”

“So?”

“You guys hung out and hooked up and smoked dope together. That’s what you told me.”

“I’m not sure I see the point,” Dave said.

“You miss that, don’t you? You wouldn’t go back. It’s a time that’s over and gone. Do I have to hate my past in order for you to accept me?”

Dave sat back as though startled. “You really think it’s the same thing?”

“How is it different?”

He rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t know. That’s what I need to process.” Dave tried to smile. “I think the lies were harder on us than you know. They gave us distance on some level. They had to. So it will be different now. But maybe it will be better.”

The phone on the nightstand jangled.

Dave frowned. “You weren’t supposed to be disturbed.”

Megan reached for the phone with her good arm. “Hello?”

“I heard you had a rough night.”

It was Detective Broome.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Have you turned on the television yet this morning?”

“No, why?”

“Carlton Flynn is dead. So are a bunch of other men. We found their bodies in a well near the old furnace.”

“What?” Megan managed to sit up this time. “I don’t understand. Stewart Green too?”

“Probably. They’re still going through the bodies.”

Talk about trying to process. “Wait, so someone murdered them all?”

“I’ll give you the details later, but right now I need your help.”

“How?”

“I know you’re in a lot of pain so if you can’t handle it—”

“What do you need, Detective?”

“Last night, we arrested Ray Levine for the murders.”

She opened her mouth, but for a moment no words could come out. Her world flipped upside down all over again. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No—”

“What’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?”

Dave looked at her quizzically. She ignored him.

“Broome,” she shouted.

“I’m here,” Broome said.

Megan started to shake her head, ready to tell him that it simply wasn’t possible, but then she thought back to last night, to the last thing Ray had said to her:
“I didn’t tell you the truth.”

“No, no, it’s a mistake,” she said, feeling a tear slip down her cheek. “Do you hear me? What evidence do you have?”

“I don’t want to get into that right now, but I need your help.”

“How?”

“We have Ray in custody,” he said. “He won’t talk to any of us. He’ll only talk to you face-to-face. I know it’s a lot to ask, in your current condition, and it can certainly wait a few days until you’re up for it—”

“What’s the address?” she asked.

Dave just stared at her.

Megan listened closely. Then she hung up the phone and turned to her husband. “I need you to drive me to a prison.”

A
FTER
B
ROOME HUNG UP WITH
M
EGAN
, he headed back into the holding area. Ray Levine was dressed in prison-garb orange. His hands and legs were both shackled. They were in an interrogation room at the Atlantic County jail. Ray had called his one friend in the area, his boss, Fester, and Fester arranged for an attorney named Flair Hickory to represent Ray. Hickory was known for being very good and very flamboyant.