LOST BOY Page 8

  He served eight of those years before fate changed everything. I sometimes wonder if there is a god. There are thousands of criminals transported across the country daily, yet it was his bus that crashed. Him who survived. Him who escaped.

  I swipe to the next article—the one that would bring a monster to our door.

  Still at large, Willis Langford proves his ability to stay under the radar as the search for the missing Portland boy continues with little to no leads. Jack Peters, dubbed Portland’s Lost Boy, is hoped to be alive. Vigils have been held, and the police ask the public to keep praying for his safe return.

  Any information or sightings can be reported here.

  0800-090-Info

  They found the other two escapees within a day. Willis was much more calculated than those men. He’s eluded capture for fourteen years, suspected to have killed four more girls while on the run.

  Jessica Herbert.

  Anne Rivers.

  Hannah May.

  The last supposed victim linked to him was over a decade ago.

  Sarah Gilbert.

  All his victims had a gruesome marker. They were all missing their little finger on their right hand, which became known as Langford’s signature back in the nineties.

  Thinking about him, what he did to them, is relentless in my chaotic mind, but the question that haunts me most: where was Jack while he was out killing these women? Where is Jack now?

  This can’t be Willis Langford. No deaths have been linked to him in over a decade. But that doesn’t stop my mind from racing with what-ifs. It’s too much of a coincidence.

  “Do you think Jack’s still alive?” I ask, my heart stopping mid thud as I watch his body language for a lie.

  “I do.” He nods, conviction in his gaze when he holds mine. “Would you tell me if he made contact with you?” he asks.

  “What? You think he would—will?” Hope blooms in my chest.

  “I’m not sure. After the trauma of his abduction and captivity, he may not remember you, but if he does, he’s a man now, your age.”

  “His birthday is before mine. He’s almost a year older than me.” I place a hand over my chest to stop the skin from tearing from the wild beating of my heart.

  “You remember him well?” He studies me, surprise in his tone. I almost laugh at that question. Jack lives inside me. “Of course. We were best friends.”

  “You were so young, Lizzy, it would be natural for you to have a patchy memory of that time.” The remark grates on my nerves.

  “I have perfect clarity of ‘that time,’ Detective,” I grunt, throwing myself backward in my chair. I relive it over and over.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He shakes his head in regret.

  “My memories are all I have.” I close my eyes briefly, the heavy weight in my chest compressing.

  “Can you tell me how you knew the victim in your apartment tonight?”

  No. Jerking a shoulder, I say, “I didn’t know him. He was from the neighboring building.”

  His gaze drills into me, probing. “I see. So, he didn’t live in your building? Do you know why he was there?”

  Sighing, I shake my head. “He was coming to help us. We saw someone in our apartment from the building opposite.”

  This gives him pause. He looks over his file. “What were you doing over there?”

  Exhaling, I hold in the rant I want to let free and answer his question. “We were checking on our neighbor across the block. We hadn’t seen her in a few days, and we were worried.”

  Picking up a pen, he twists it through his fingers. “Did you report your concerns?”

  “I spoke to your partner about it…or Charlotte did. Anyway, it turns out she’s just out of town.” I place both palms on the table.

  “You don’t seem too sure?” He picks away at me like he knows me.

  “There was a rose,” I swallow past the stone in my throat. “On the anniversary of my mother’s death, I received a black rose with no sender information.”

  Sympathy overcomes his face. “Did it have any information on where it came from? What shop? Was it hand delivered?”

  I think back to the night I opened the rose. It had nothing. “It was left at my work.” I shrug. “I placed a black rose on my mother’s coffee—and Jack’s mother’s. Only someone at the funeral would know that.”

  “What does this have to do with your neighbor?” he sounds interested now, the detective in him piqued.

  Licking my dry lips, I lean toward him. “I saw it in her window.”

  “The same one as yours?”

  “I don’t know. Hers seemed fresh, but it looked like it had blood on a petal.” He jots all this down on his notepad.

  “Why now? Why would Willis even bother with me?” I ask, desperate for answers. It has to be him. Who else is there?

  “We’re not sure this is even him. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.”

  He’s not the one with bodies dropping at his feet. “Humor me.”

  Gathering the news clippings, he doesn’t look at me as he says, “He’s a psychotic serial killer. They don’t have logical reasons. It could be that he sees you as a loose end. Psychopaths who fixate on someone or something usually become obsessed with it. It’s what makes them so dangerous. If this is Willis, we will know soon enough.”

  A cold river of fear snakes up my spine. When I’m dead?

  “You have no clue where he is, do you?” I snort, amusement drumming through me at the absurdity of it all. “If you’re not sure it’s him, who else could it be?”

  “Honestly? I’m hoping forensics is going to help me with that. We believe this may be linked to another case.”

  “Really? Another murder?”

  “One that didn’t receive as much attention but had similar markers.”

  “Here in town?”

  “No, just outside of town. A sex worker.”

  “Oh god, so serial killer?”

  “Lizzy, we’re not jumping to any conclusions. Let me do my job,” he states, matter-of-factly.

  “And what about Charlotte and me? Do we just wait around for his next game?” I stand, leaning my hands on the table, my eyes cold and accusatory.

  “I’m going to have one of the officers here checking in with you and patrolling your street.”

  “What about our apartment?” I snap.

  “You won’t be able to go back there until forensics clears the place. Maybe a couple more hours—a day at most.” He pushes out from the table and stands, and I lean away. “Do you have someone you can stay with?” My aunt flashes through my mind, making me cringe. She will drive me bat shit crazy fawning over me like I’m a wounded butterfly.

  “I can figure something out,” I mumble through tight lips.

  “Thank you for coming in. I’m going to find whoever is doing this. I promise I’m going to keep you safe.” He reaches across the space between us, placing a hand on my shoulder, making the skin beneath it burn.

  Swiping his hand off, I grind out, “Like you did my mother?” He flinches at the low blow meant to wound him. “I don’t need your promises, Detective.”

  When he walks me through the corridor, my feet falter and my mouth pops open. Green Eyes. The breath flees my lungs as he passes me, his eyes boring into me, the back of his hand brushing mine. No words are exchanged as an officer invites him inside a room.

  “Do you know him?” I ask Detective Hernandez, my gaze riveted.

  “No. Do you?” he counters, an inquisitive gleam in his eyes.

  “No.” It’s not a lie. I don’t actually know him. But I want to.

  Ten

  Stephan’s car almost skids to a stop in front of me as I pace outside the station. Jumping out, he races toward me.

  “Are you okay?” He checks me over like he expects to find an injury.

  “I’ll be fine.” I shake my head, pushing my hands into my pockets. “I’m just waiting for Charlotte. Do you mind waiting?”

>   Concern creases his brow. “Of course not. What the hell happened?”

  Taking a step toward a bench to avoid his eyes, I say, “I don’t really want to talk about it tonight.”

  “You want to wait in the car? It’s freezing,” he offers, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how cold it had gotten. I feel numb.

  “Sure.” Just as I step off the curb, the reception doors open, and Charlotte walks through. I run to her, folding her in my arms. Tears cascade down her cheeks as she sobs. Her embrace pinches the skin on my back, but I don’t let go. “I’m so sorry, Char.”

  “You didn’t know what was going to happen.” She sniffles, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her top as she pulls away.

  “I should have just let you call the police. That guy would still be alive.”

  “Lee,” she says, her voice broken.

  “What?”

  “His name was Lee.” Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears glistening. “The guy they say fell,” she elaborates. Lee. I add his name to the ones etched in my brain.

  “Should we get out of here?” Stephan asks, looking at some questionable people hanging around, no doubt waiting for their friends to get out of jail.

  “Where are we going to go?” Charlotte asks, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  “I don’t suppose you have a spare room?” I raise a brow in Stephan’s direction, only half-joking.

  “I can put you guys up in a hotel for a few nights. I know the manager,” he offers with a concerned impatience.

  “Really?” I breathe, relieved I don’t have to rely on my aunt.

  “Sure. Come on,” he grunts, already moving toward his car.

  The hotel is more a motel, dingy and small, and there’s a musky smell. Probably why he could get us the room. Charlotte doesn’t pay it any attention. Shucking off her boots and jacket, she climbs beneath the duvet.

  I shoot a quick thank you text to Stephan for all his help, then slip my phone onto the bedside table, knowing the battery will be dead before he can reply.

  I keep my shoes on and lay on top of the duvet, thinking about everything that’s happened. Charlotte's eyes shine with tears. “The detective asked me about him,” she croaks. “About Jack.” She swipes at her disheveled hair cobwebbing her face.

  Adrenaline rushes through my veins. My head throbs, my pulse rushing all the blood too fast. “Don’t, Char.” Polo, polo, polo.

  “Who was he to you, Liz?”

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “Please don’t.”

  “Just tell me,” she pushes.

  “Jack was my best friend,” I blurt out. It feels so good to say those words out loud. The weight on my chest becomes slightly lighter.

  “You know about Jack,” I lie, trying to get her to drop it. She hears my nightmares.

  Sighing, she rolls onto her back, fixating on a black smudge on the ceiling. “I don’t know anything because you won’t tell me.”

  Clutching the duvet in my fist to protect my palms, I let the memories wash through me. Maybe I owe her information. If this is all happening because of me—because of who I am—who I knew… “We were so young,” I sigh, “but we had a connection so strong. We relied on each other. Needed to be in each other’s presence.” We needed each other, like flowers need the sun. Her hand reaches across the space between us, taking mine, untangling it from the duvet, and entwining our fingers.

  “Everyone expects me to forget him—we were so young—but I can’t. He was my best friend. The memories of him call out to me, live within me. They’re a part of me.”

  “You still miss him?”

  I look to her, pain pouring from my eyes. “I’ll always miss him—always be living in his echo.” Pulling my hand from hers, I turn on my side, willing sleep to take me. Silence lingers until she speaks again, soaking me in the guilt of being so lost. Jack wasn’t the only one who became lost that day—I was stolen too.

  “I know you’ve been through something horrible and what you allow yourself to tell me is just the tip of the iceberg, but you can’t drown in the muddy water of your past, Liz. You’ve got to let people in. I love you. Stephan loves you. This coldness you throw out will push people away. Let us love you.”

  Her words chip away at my wall, and silent tears fall, soaking into the crappy pillow. Been through something horrible? Is that all it is?

  “Night, Char. I know you say I’m cold, but I love you too.”

  Eleven

  Waking with a stiff neck my broken nails attempt to scratch my itching skin, flinching at the red welts risen there, no doubt from being eaten by bed bugs all night. Shuddering I go to the bathroom and relieve my bladder, hovering over the seat so I don’t catch anything from it. My reflection irks me when I catch a glimpse of myself while washing my hands. Almost catatonic like I find myself staring at the pale complexion in the mirror. Dark half-moons sit under my eyes. The yellow, dull light flickers on and off, a buzzing sound coming from the bulb. Trying to summon the courage to face the day, I wake Charlotte. “We should see if we can go back to our apartment today. We need clothes. We have school and work.”

  Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she stretches her limbs and grabs her cellphone. “It’s six a.m.” She winces.

  “I know. Do you think it’s shitty of me to call Stephan for a ride?”

  “I think it’s shitty of you to wake me up at six a.m.,” she scoffs, handing me her phone. “Call him.”

  Handing Charlotte a breakfast bar from the vending machine, I unwrap my own and gag as the dry oats stick to the roof of my mouth. The thick tar coffee burns my gums as I attempt to wash the breakfast away.

  Throwing them both in the trash, I grab Charlotte’s before she can bite hers.

  “Hey!” she screeches, reaching for it.

  “Trust me.” I shudder.

  Stephan’s car pulls up, and Charlotte races to take the front seat.

  “Hey.” He smiles at me in the rearview mirror as I climb in the back.

  “Hey. Thanks again for the room.” I try to smile back, but my face feels frozen in a permanent glower.

  “It reminded me of my prom night.” Charlotte sighs. It only took her five hours of sleep to bounce back to the Charlotte we know and love.

  Ignoring that statement, Stephan asks me, “Where to?”

  “Our apartment, please.”

  “Have the police contacted you?” he asks, turning over the engine.

  “No.” I play with the sleeves of my top, a pain in my stomach.

  The ride is silent, a doom looming in the air, the darkness of what we’ve witnessed clouding all thoughts and conversations.

  “It’s like it never happened,” Charlotte breathes, looking at the apartment building. The tape is gone. No cop cars or shining lights. No crowds gathered.

  We get out of the car and Stephan comes around, kicking dirt at his feet. “You want me to come up with you?”

  I play with my jacket pocket, everything coming to a head and leaving me fatigued. “Liz,” he murmurs, stealing the space between us and wrapping his arms around me. “I know it’s been a rough night. You should go up, get some rest, and don’t let this taint your apartment.” I find myself rigid in his embrace. I hate myself for it, but no matter how much I try to enjoy the comfort he selflessly offers, I can’t. Charlotte's words ring through my mind. This coldness you throw out will push people away. I am cold.

  “Thanks again for everything,” I tell him, kissing his cheek and taking Charlotte's hand. Her eyes dart to where we’re connected, tears brimming “Ready?” I ask her.

  “Ready.

  Pulling the door open, the smell of bleach is so strong, my eyes burn. There’s no trace of what happened—only the pieces of memory flickering like a movie in my mind’s eye. Mrs. Brigg’s door creaks open, then slams shut before we can say anything. I guess we’re not going to be having any bonding experience over this. Taking the stairs one at a time, our breathing grows heavy with anticipation
. Charlotte's feet drag when we reach our floor, her hand grabbing the railing, knuckles turning white. “You don’t need to be the brave one,” I assure her. “I’ll go in first.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “We’ll do it together.”

  Smiling, I raise our joined hands. “Together.”

  Pushing inside a cold bite to the air causes a shiver and goosebumps to pepper my flesh. Scanning the room for what, I’m not sure, what did I expect? It’s like nothing happened here. Charlottes hand slips from mine as she searches the place. There’s an overturned lamp, and the couch has been pushed out of place, but apart from that, everything looks the same.

  “Lizzy…” Charlotte's frantic tone turns my stomach. I move toward her voice down the hall to our rooms, “The bottle,” she croaks.

  The wine bottle Lee picked up when coming inside is smashed in the doorway of my room. “I’ll get the dustpan and brush.” I ignore the implication that the savage who killed him had been waiting in my room. Sweeping up the mess, I pour it into a box and leave it on the table, then turn back to Charlotte, who’s following me around the apartment like a child. “I’m going to shower and then crash for an hour,” I tell her, peeling off my clothes.

  “Can you leave the door open?” She picks at her nails, her eyes on the floor.

  “If this is too soon, we can spend another night at the hotel,” I tell her, dreading the thought.

  “No.” She waves her hand. “I just…can you leave the door open?”

  “Sure.”

  Dark waves come crashing over me as I stand beneath the spray of the shower, my consciousness trying to slip away, splintering from reality as images plague my mind. I need to sleep, to shut it all out. A foul smell wafts up from the drain, making me gag. There must be a blockage. Tomorrow’s problem.

  Twelve