The Stranger Inside. Lisa Unger

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      “Let’s just say he’s in cleanup.”

      “Okay.”

      “Except there wasn’t much to clean up.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Whoever did the job on Markham laid down tarps, almost as if he was trying not to make a mess, was meticulous about the scene. There was little physical evidence, some blood splatter from the victim. Obviously, they’re still waiting for the trace evidence analysis. But they aren’t hopeful that anything significant will come back.”

      She realized suddenly that she was holding her breath. She released it, loosened the grip she had on the phone.

      “How did he die?”

      She asked but she had a feeling she already knew.

      “He died the way Laney Markham died,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “Bound, gagged and stabbed more than twenty times with a serrated hunting knife.”

      She stared out the window to the street outside; a blue minivan cruised by, turned into her neighbor’s drive. The branches of the oak swayed, raindrops tapping at her window, and Lily stacked blocks with intent focus.

      A toxic brew of disgust, anger, relief bubbled. And, yes, that dark excitement—a feeling that shamed her somewhat. And was there also a not-so-small part of her that was glad Markham got what he deserved?

      “Like the Boston Boogeyman,” she said. “Killed the way he killed.”

      A pause, the tap, tap, tap of fingers on a keyboard.

      “You’ve done your homework,” he said.

      “Don’t I always?”

      “You do. You always do,” he said. “And just like someone else we know.”

      Rain didn’t say anything, braced herself for the sound of his name.

      “Eugene Kreskey,” Henry said when she didn’t.

      The sound of it sliced her, every time.

      There weren’t many people who remembered Rain’s ugly history. It was big news once, but it had faded in the bubbling morass of horrific crimes since then. Greg and, of course, her father knew. Gillian. And somehow, years ago, Henry had unearthed the horrible thing that happened to her when she was a kid. Not that it happened to her, exactly. It should have but it didn’t.

      “Is there a connection?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

      “Feds think so,” he said. “That’s what my guy said.”

      “Between all three?”

      “There might be others, too,” he said. “Two others, to be precise, that fit the parameters—someone got away with something vile. Then didn’t.”

      “A vigilante.”

      “Yeah,” said Henry, voice gone soft with admiration. “Exactly.”

      “Do you have files?” she asked.

      Another pause, that tap, tap, tap again.

      “What are you working on, Rain Winter?”

      It didn’t do any good to bullshit guys like Henry. They knew the truth when they heard it.

      Lies had a vibration, they tingled in the air, electric. A certain kind of person—Rain thought she was one of them—could feel it. That’s why she liked Henry. He might be a little crazy, sometimes wrong, but he was no liar. And he knew how to follow the questionable channels you sometimes had to take to the truth.

      “I don’t know yet,” she admitted.

      A pause, more tapping. “I’ll send you what I have.”

      Lily’s tower of blocks fell, and the baby issued a little cry of frustration, her face crumbling into a comical frown.

      “That’s not a monitor, is it?” said Henry. “Tell me you’re not using one of those things. You know anyone can hack into those, right? The audio and the video feed? And those home security cameras. Oh, my god. I’ll send you my blog.”

      “Thanks, Henry,” she said. “I’ll look forward to those files.”

      “They’re watching,” he said ominously. “Never forget that.”

      She sat a moment after ending the call, Henry’s words bouncing around her head. A text from Greg startled her back to the present.

      Sorry, babe. I’m running late. Don’t hold dinner.

      The words pulsed on the screen in front of her. She wasn’t surprised, of course. But there was a flutter of disappointment; the house felt eerily quiet.

      Rain and Lily ate together, Lily’s version of the meal cut into small bites and spread over her tray. The baby had a little plastic fork and spoon, neither of which she could be bothered to use unless to toss one onto the table, or the floor, or, fascinatingly, as a brush for her hair.

      “Maybe we’ll go for a ride in the car tomorrow,” she told Lily, wiping the baby’s mouth.

      Lily banged her spoon, sending some food flying. “Car! Car!”

      Rain was going to take that as a yes.

      After dinner, still no sign of Greg. So, she gave Lily a bath, the things Henry said swirling, the story already taking shape the way stories did, arranging themselves into a digestible narrative. Where did she need to go first? Who did she need to see?

      As she changed Lily’s diaper, dressed her for bed, she felt the eye of the baby monitor on her and glanced back to look at its glowing red light. She reached over and turned it away.

      Once Lily was down, Rain texted Gillian. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the little keyboard. Then, Feel like taking a little road trip?

      If she knew Gillian, her friend was on the treadmill in front of the television.

      Hmm. What did you have in mind?

      What did she have in mind? This story would have to begin at the end. Steve Markham’s end.

      She typed: Let’s pay our final respects.

      Rain didn’t have to wait long.

      Ha. I knew it. She’s baa-aack!

       SIX

      The flames in the fireplace licked and danced, crackling. Rain had made it not for warmth but just to look at it, stare into the flames and sip on the glass СКАЧАТЬ