Passerby: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  “It just won’t.” He crosses and uncrosses his arms, only to cross them again. “Cole nor Ryan will ever believe, not anymore than I do, that you’re interested in me.”

  He shifts his stance. “And even if they did—your penchant for unavailable men will do you no favors in the long run.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing that wasn’t at all what I had in mind.” I say this and then I do the opposite of what he expects me to do: I do not argue with him. I lean forward and I kiss him full on the mouth and I don’t let him pull away, not even when he tries. “You see, Roy, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I want what I want.”

  He looks rattled. “And what’s that?”

  “I told you. For you to be my date at my brother’s engagement party.”

  “What else?”

  “I want you to pull all you can on the name Caitlyn Jepson.”

  “That would be breaking the rules.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But I promise I would make it worth your while.”

  He tips his hat and opens the driver’s door of his squad car. After he climbs in and closes it, he looks at me. “I’m sure you would.”

  “I hope you won’t let me down, Roy,” I say, leaning into his open window. “Because you know what they say—” I pause and raise my brow suggestively.

  “What do they say?”

  “You can lead a horse to water. But you can’t make ‘em drink.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ruth

  I’m sitting on the screened-in porch waiting for Roy to call. I have to believe he’ll pull through, even though it’s possible I’ve already obtained everything I need. Nevertheless, this is war, and in war not only do you have to be smart, you have to come at things from all angles. So I’m sitting and I’m praying and I’m contemplating my next move when I look up and see the little girl from next door in my garden again.

  She’s running through the yard, going from bed to bed, picking petal after petal. When her hand is full, she drops them into a tiny purse.

  “Lily!” I call her name because her attacks on my garden are beginning to feel personal. I hop off the rocker and take deep strides in her direction. She doesn’t stop picking.

  “Lily,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Stop.”

  “My daddy said it’s okay,” she tells me without turning around.

  “Well, it’s not okay. This is private property, and what you’re doing is trespassing. And that is against the law.”

  She spins on her heel. “What does tres-pass-ing mean?”

  “It means you’re somewhere you don’t belong.”

  She looks at me with a confused expression. “My daddy doesn’t lie.”

  “Clearly, he does.” I glance toward her house. “Where is your daddy, anyway?”

  “He’s not home right now.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s upstairs.” She says this matter-of-factly, as though she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “You need to go home. You shouldn’t be outside by yourself.”

  “But I like it here.” Her tone is sulky, but there’s something more there. It’s like she’s already learned what she’ll need to know to survive in this world as a woman. How to be manipulative. “And Daddy said he’s buying this house. So I can play in the garden anytime I want.”

  Finally, I get the chance to speak with Ashley alone. Sure, it’s only because I corner her in the wine cellar. “How do you know the people next door?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t,” she answers with her bottom lip jutted out. It’s like looking at the little girl next door all grown up. “But I saw you making out with the cop.”

  “So?”

  “So. He’s not your type.”

  “You haven’t been around long enough to know my type.”

  “What about Ryan?”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m working my ass off to get him here—to deliver him straight to you—and meanwhile you’re trying to screw every guy in town.”

  “I suppose you might know a thing or two about that.”

  “I thought Davis told you.” She smiles. “We’re waiting until marriage.”

  I consider locking her down here. I wonder how long it would be before anyone checked. Then I notice the clipboard in her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m cataloging our selection of wines.”

  “They’re not yours,” I say. “Nothing around here is yours.”

  She flashes another smile. “Yet.”

  I glance at the clipboard. “Let me guess. Another one of your internet projects?”

  “I just thought it would help. This way guests can order bottles straight to their rooms or buy some to take home. Plus, the party is tomorrow. And I just want to know where we stand.”

  “The wine down here is not for your engagement party.”

  “Right. That’s why I’m cataloging it.”

  “I see.” I glance over her shoulder at the list. “Well, I wanted to talk to you because I’ve been invested in a little internet project of my own.”

  She doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “You’re always so busy, Ruth.”

  “Does the name Chris ring a bell?”

  Her eyes shift in the way that I can tell it does, and then she looks up. “Chris is a very common name.”

  “I guess.”

  “But maybe you’ve stolen from more than one. How would I know?”

  “It’s not what you think.” She sighs heavily as she jots something down on her clipboard. When she’s finished, she meets my gaze. “If you must know, I have a stalker.”

  “And here I thought you were a storyteller. I hope that’s not the best you can do.”

  “You know how men can be,” she says nonchalantly. “You slight them, in the tiniest way—you make them feel rejected—and they’re capable of anything.”

  “He didn’t sound crazy. But then looking at you, I guess anything is possible.”

  “Ruth—”

  I take several steps forward and put my hand on the clipboard. “How much would it take for you to leave? What ten—twenty grand?”

  She seems to try to gauge whether I’m serious, so I help her out. “I’m dead serious.”

  Her head cocks like she’s offended. She isn’t, and if she is, it’s only by the dollar amount. “I love Davis. We’re going to be married.”

  “Do you know how many men there are on the planet? You could have any one of them.”

  “You know,” she says, with a tsk-ing sound. “Everyone says that. But when you narrow it down to age and desirable locations, it’s actually a pretty small number. And that doesn’t take looks—or the prosperity factor into consideration. Any smart woman knows the importance of being taken care of.”

  I wait for her to say more. But she only sighs wistfully. “So, thank you, Ruth. You’ve really given me a lot to think about.”

  “I bet I have.”

  Her bottom lip juts out. “Just one thing to think about—maybe that’s why you’re still single.”

  I imagine myself taking a wine bottle, cracking it over her skull and then using the broken bits to slit her pretty little throat.

  “How about fifteen?”

  “Fifteen grand?” Her nose scrunches up and her mouth twists before she relaxes her face. “Seems kind of lowball if you ask me.”

  I don’t make a counteroffer. I wait her out.

  Eventually, she shakes her head. “But tell you what. I’ll think it over. First, I just have to know one thing…”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?”

  “Who—Chris?”

  She shrugs. “If that’s what he called himself.”

  “Sounds like you’re two peas in a pod,” I say, mimicking her smile. “And yeah, of course I did. He was just so interested.”

  Her face falls. “You made a huge mis
take.”

  “Funny,” I say. “Those are exactly the kind I tend to make.”

  I wait for her to respond and when she doesn’t, it’s my turn to shrug. “Whoopsie.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Passerby

  I’ve never been a big fan of parties, despite having grown up around them. This one I don’t mind so much because it signifies things coming to an end, even though the point of it is supposed to celebrate a beginning.

  Whatever the case, I’m just glad the con is almost over. I hate doing this to my family. I hate doing this to Ruth.

  I didn’t want to kill Bobby Holt, even though I kind of did. He deserved it. So did that bride’s brother, even if he was a pain in the ass to kill.

  But Julia has by far been the worst and the least premeditated of them all. It’s why I couldn’t do it. Not by myself. The others I did for Ashley. Because when you love someone the way I love her, you do whatever it takes to protect that person.

  Those murders, I’d do those again, twice if I had to. But Julia was different. Visiting her in the hospital and holding that pillow over her face was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’m just glad Ashley was by my side, or I’m afraid I wouldn’t have gone through with it. Hell, I couldn’t even push her down the stairs hard enough to kill her. She changed my diapers. She even came to my Little League ball game once. I tried to explain this to Ashley, but she’s the smart one. She knows all about loopholes and how if you leave them open, they’re bound to be exploited.

  And she was right. Julia was in the way. It’s what she did. It’s what she always did. She got too close.

  Cole was the second worst, which is why I failed at killing him too. It was hard to pretend, to lie to Ashley, especially after chickening out on murdering my sister, not once but twice. What can I say? It’s not as easy as they make it look on those true crime shows.

  Killing your best friend is no joke. Even if, according to Ashley, the joke’s on me, because I still have to take care of him, and now I’ve made it more likely that I’ll get caught. She says if you want something done, you should do it right the first time. I’m not so sure that’s how the saying goes, but she’s pretty, so I let her believe.

  This and I don’t want to kill Cole, so I’m hoping that what they say about relationships is true. Compromise is key.

  And still, all of that doesn’t even touch the worst of it. There’s my brother and what this is going to do to him. Ruth will be fine. She always is. I probably won’t have to kill her. Ashley may just do it first.

  I don’t know if I blame her.

  But Davis, that’s a tough one. He’s the only one to remain neutral in any of this. He’s the only one of us that’s truly innocent. Except that he was dumb enough to fall for the oldest trick in the book. He never would have agreed to sell Magnolia House without Ashley egging him on. I know what it means to fall in love with a woman like her, how it literally gives you the strength to do anything.

  We met when I was out on a call. I changed out a flat for her, sent her on her way. But we kept in touch, and over the course of several months, we came up with the plan. See, the problem is, I’m kind of stuck here in this shit town. My job is here, and what I know is this: if you want to keep a woman like Ashley Parker, volunteer fire fighter pay isn’t gonna do it. And once you land a woman like that, well, going back to anything less would be a shame. A real abomination. So I feel for Davis. You don’t exactly get the cream of the crop around here. Which means I know that breaking the news to him that Ashley isn’t really into him, and that this was all a scam, is going to kill him.

  Metaphorically, if not literally.

  The silver lining is that by that time we’ll be long gone, Ashley and me.

  We’ll have money. We’ll be able to go anywhere. After all, guilt can only travel so far. I highly doubt it shows up much on white, sandy beaches.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ruth

  This is not a job for an amateur. That much is obvious by the way my heart has lodged itself in my throat. I cover my mouth, partly because I’m in shock, partly because it will keep me from screaming. As tears prick my eyes, I bite down on my tongue in an attempt to keep them at bay. I am not a crier.

  I push the door open further and enter the room. Small hinges move heavy doors. It’s something my father used to say. I wish he were here now. He would know what to do.

  My focus suddenly becomes very narrow, very clear. I stand frozen in place until I realize I ought to close the door behind me. I lock it for good measure, even though every fiber of my being is telling me to get out. Turn around and run. Don’t look back.

  Spoiler alert, that’s not what I do.

  I take another step forward.

  The floor creaks underfoot as I move toward the desk, causing my heart to lurch further into my throat. After flipping on the lamp, I cross the room carefully. I reach for the curtains then realize I probably shouldn’t. Guests have already begun trickling into the garden, and while I’m on the second floor, people have a way of seeing everything these days.

  Not me, unfortunately. I should have checked this room earlier. Back when I sensed something was wrong. Back when I felt someone watching me. The times I heard funny noises.

  I scan the room for answers, though it’s pretty obvious what has happened. A double murder. That, or a murder-suicide. One way or the other, I have two bodies on my hands. Two bodies I have to get rid of and quick. Nothing spoils a party faster than a dead body. Two dead bodies and things go downhill twice as fast.

  I hope you’ll forgive my facetiousness. I’m awkward in situations that are outside of my control. But then again, I’m awkward most of the time.

  The alarm clock on the nightstand catches my attention as it blinks on and off, flashing red, indicating that someone has unplugged it and plugged it back in. It reads 2:00 p.m.

  I wish it was 2:00 p.m. I slide my phone from my back pocket and check the time. I have exactly twenty-seven minutes.

  I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  There’s a lot riding on me doing this.

  I remind myself that I am not an amateur. I know how to get blood out of carpet, sheets, and fancy dresses. You name it, I’m sure I’ve tried it. I know how to scrub walls meticulously, but also carefully, so as not to rub the paint off. I know that when it comes to flooring, when a job is too big—like, say, this one—you don’t bother trying to scrub, you simply cut swatches of carpet out. It never looks quite right, even if you manage to find a suitable match, but a piece of furniture, carefully placed, or a rug, will take care of that.

  Here, I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of blood. The plush carpet that was just installed last January? Toast. I’m guessing drywall will have to be removed. One thing is for sure, someone in this room fought like hell. I wonder which of them it was. Was it both?

  I clench my fists and then stretch my fingers. The mattress is a goner, for sure. I can’t afford this. Although, there isn’t time to think about that now. This requires a quick fix, a Band-Aid, anything that will buy me some time. Not enough time to call professionals, although that’s certainly what I’d prefer.

  Like The Rolling Stones said: You can’t always get what you want.

  And anyway, I can’t afford professionals, either.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, I could do what most people in my shoes would do. I could call the police.

  Trust me, that’s probably the least affordable option.

  There are lives at stake, and livelihoods, which are sometimes one and the same, more so than you’d think.

  So here I am, standing over two dead bodies, surveying the blood splatter, wondering if I’ll ever be able to find wallpaper this pretty again. It’s like two paths diverged in a wood. I know this isn’t a Robert Frost poem, but bear with me, it’s my favorite, and at this moment, my mind is going to strange places. It’s the shock, a protective mechanism. You wouldn’t belie
ve the things our brains and our bodies can do. They can perform miraculous feats in the name of preservation.

  If only it had worked for these two.

  Anyway, two paths diverged in a wood…and here I am, staring down both of them. Only, I know what’s in store; I know where they lead. Path number one is the right choice, of course. The obvious choice. The good choice. The moral high ground. Path number two is the choice only a desperate person would make. A fool’s trip. One that leads to nowhere good. And yet…what choice do I have?

  I could try to explain myself. But you wouldn’t understand. No one can possibly understand. Not until they’ve walked a mile in my shoes, and believe me, they wouldn’t want that, either. My shoes are currently taking on blood faster than the Titanic took on water.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  I wring my hands out, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. Sweat slides down my spine. No, not a job for an amateur at all.

  Thankfully, I’ve read up on the bio-recovery industry. Most people refer to it as crime scene cleanup—biohazard remediation—trauma scene restoration. Point is—they’re the people who come out and clean blood, bodily fluids, and other potentially dangerous materials following less than desirable situations. It’s a specialty. A career path people actually chose. So many possibilities, when you think of it. So many paths one can take. I can almost hear my father saying, your imagination is your only limitation.

  He may have been wrong about that, judging by the state of this room. The business of death cleanup requires a cold disposition and a strong stomach. And unfortunately, I have only one of the two.

  What I also don’t have is time.

  Twenty-four minutes. The clock is running down, and I have no timeouts left. Time marches on, reminding me even the best-laid plans rarely go off without a hitch.

  Hitches. Now there’s something I’m familiar with. I just hadn’t expected one of this magnitude. That was my mistake. But it wasn’t the first one, and looking around, it isn’t going to be the last.