Chapter 14

“Somebody got away,“ I whispered, thinking about what this meant. “How could you not mention this before? You guys have an actual witness. Well, there’s your case right there! She’s gotta have all the answers. Case closed.”

“We thought the same thing,” Agent Walker said. “And don’t get me wrong, she’s the reason we have any details at all, but she’s so damaged and traumatized that we’re not sure she’ll make it through a whole trial. For some victims, just the idea of being in the same courtroom as their attacker is enough to make them clam up for good.”

“Maybe if you made her feel safe,” I blurted out harshly, before softening my tone, “and were sympathetic to what she was going through, she wouldn’t be so hesitant.”

“What are you implying?” he asked, frowning.

“Come on, Agent Walker,” I said, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “If you guys interviewed her the way you interviewed me, then I could see why she’d be less than helpful. You guys aren’t exactly—comforting.”

“We’re not here to comfort people,” Agent Walker said. “We’re here to catch killers and keep the public safe.”

“They don’t teach you how to have a good bedside manner over there at the FBI, do they?” I said, sarcastically. Then I deepened my voice and leaned forward in my chair intimidatingly to mock him. “You know this guy? You know what he did with this ice pick? Hey, guess what, you’re being stalked! By a serial killer! Okay, well, good luck!”

“That’s not accurate,” Agent Walker said, looking up at the ceiling warily. “Besides, when you see the stuff we see—you sort of lose your ability to coddle. You get straight to the point, because you don’t have the luxury of time when you’re trying to solve a case.”

I folded my arms. “It takes just as long to be pleasant as it does to be crotchety,” I said.

“Crotchety?” Agent Walker repeated, then snorted loudly. “Actually, that’s a perfect way to describe Landon,” he said, shaking his head before moving on. “Would you rather us be nice or solve the case?”

“Why can’t you do both?” I asked.

“Life’s not fair,” he retorted. “You can’t always get what you want.”

He was almost as stubborn as I was. Now I could see why Zhara got annoyed with me sometimes.

I got up from the stool to stretch my legs, rising up on my tippy toes and then back down again, working out my calves which were tight from class.

Agent Walker noticed the movements and pointed at my feet. “Your feet better now?”

“Huh?” I asked, absently.

“Your feet were pretty banged up when we came by the other day,” he said, shrugging.

“You noticed that?” I said, surprised.

“I’m FBI. I notice everything,” he said seriously. Then he loosened up and smiled. “Besides, it was kind of hard to miss. You were practically bleeding all over the floor.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said, thinking about how I’d had worse wounds over the years.

“I could smell it when we walked in,” he said in a strange voice.

I was suddenly embarrassed. “That’s what happens when you dance for five hours a day,” I said defensively. “Your feet stink from the sweat.”

“Not that,” Agent Walker said, though he laughed at the misinterpretation. “I meant, I could smell the blood.”

“That’s a creepy little trick,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t go telling strangers that.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he answered, sarcastically.

I paused a beat.

“You can really—smell blood?” I asked, both disgusted and intrigued by the thought.

“After being at enough crime scenes, you learn to recognize it. It’s got its own odor. Like metal. Copper or iron.”

Gross.

“Interesting,” was all I said.

“You dance a lot, right?” he said, trying to change the subject. “How do you have time for a life between that and working here?”

“I don’t,” I answered easily. I wasn’t embarrassed by this. In fact, quite the opposite. I was proud to have the drive I did. Few people my age were as dedicated to their craft. Instead of wasting my time on things that didn’t matter, I was focused on something important.

“A pair of lights swept across the back wall of the office, and I turned to see a car pulling into the station. Noting that the person wasn’t getting out, I grabbed my thin sweater and put it on. Passing Agent Walker on my way to the door, I motioned to the stool I’d left behind.

“You can sit down if you want,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran out to the idling car and took the woman’s card before pumping her gas. In the back were two kids out cold in their car seats. An iPad suspended from the back of the passenger seat played a cartoon, even though they were no longer watching it.

The woman saw me look at the two boys and then over at the time on the dashboard.

1:53am

“It’s the only way they’ll sleep,” she explained in response. “Some nights I have to drive around for hours just so I can get some peace and quiet.”

My siblings and I had been terrible sleepers as well. My mom always joked that there was a solid ten-year stretch where she hadn’t gotten more than two hours of rest a night. She was probably exaggerating, but still, I couldn’t understand why parents would voluntarily do that to themselves.

“My mom used to put my sister in her car seat and place her on the dryer,” I offered. “The warmth and the vibrations mimic driving in the car. She’d sleep on the floor near it, just in case, but at least she got to be in the house and not out on the roads.”

The woman looked as if I’d just given her the holy grail of mothering tips. For a second, I thought I could even see her tear up. But then I realized her eyes were just glassy from lack of sleep.

She tipped me more generously than I expected—maybe she was so tired that she could no longer decipher the difference between a $10 bill and a $1—and as she pulled away, I headed back to the booth where Agent Walker was now sitting in the chair I’d vacated. I stopped him as he started to get up, taking his spot at the counter.

“You’re young,” Agent Walker said, continuing our previous conversation. “You should be out dating and having fun. Figuring out who you are. Doing stupid things that will end up on Instagram.”

“I know who I am,” I said, shrugging. I’d had this conversation with dozens of people over the last five years and it always seemed like I was defending my lifestyle. Frankly, it was getting exhausting. “I’m a ballerina.”

“No one’s just one thing,” he argued. “You should be out having the time of your life. YOLO.”

“Huh?” I asked, lost.

“You only live once. YOLO,” he said, looking at me strangely because I didn’t recognize the term.

“Oh. Well, I don’t want to spend my life doing stupid things. I want to do something that matters. I want to dance. And you don’t get to where I am without sacrificing a little,” I said. “You should know what I mean. I’m sure with your job, you don’t have time to do things other people your age do.”

“I’m twenty-three,” he said, giving me a pointed look. “I make time to do that kind of stuff.”

“Seriously?” I asked, surprised. I would’ve thought training and actively working on cases would leave him with little to no downtime, let alone enough of it to have a life. “Well, then I guess ballet is more time-consuming than tracking down bad people.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I doubt it,” he answered. “But you make time for the things that are important. And for me, that’s being fulfilled in all aspects of my life. I don’t want to just exist for my job. Don’t get me wrong, I know that what I do is important. And there’s nothing I’m better suited for. But I need more than that. I want to be balanced. I need human connection, family, friends—I need to have joy in my life.”

“I get my joy from dancing,” I said.

“I’m sure you do,” he said. “But cutting yourself off from all the other wonders in the world just to fulfill that one piece of the puzzle? That’s not truly living.”

“And partying and making meaningless connections is?” I countered.

My thoughts strayed to Preston and all the times he’d tried to get me to hang out with him. Like I was just another girl to help him pass the time between classes. But my time and energy were more important than that. I wasn’t interested in being someone’s plaything.

“They don’t have to be meaningless,” Agent Walker said thoughtfully. “The goal should be to have joy and fulfillment in all aspects of your life. And if you’re neglecting the other parts, you can’t expect to have the full human experience. But everyone’s different. Maybe you’re just one of those people who’s better off alone.”

It was what I’d always told myself in the past, and I’d insisted it was what I wanted. But the way he said it made it sound like I was doing something wrong. That my life wasn’t as perfect as I’d thought it was. And I began to wonder if he was right.

~~~~~

I hadn’t slept well in days. Agent Walker had finally left the station sometime before three in the morning, after I’d had a chance to read through all the diary entries I was mentioned in.

And there had been a lot.

Now I could see why the feds had wanted to talk to me. Taken at face value, Kyle’s entries made it sound like we were dating. Or, at the very least, we were lovers.

The bizarre thing was, he’d gotten some of the details right—the basics of how we’d met, some of our encounters. Even conversations we’d had were truthful as far as I could remember.

But the feelings behind the words, the interpretation of it all, had been completely off.

Situations where I’d been aloof or annoyed, had been misconstrued as welcoming or my being attracted to him. He’d made up interest where there’d been none. Created fantasies out of the tiniest bit of kindness on my part.

It was scary how easily my words and actions had been twisted to fit his sick mind.

And it made me second-guess myself. Had I led him on in some way? Should I have been clearer about my disinterest? Some people needed to be beaten over the head with the truth, but this was ridiculous.

Poor choice of words, I know, but still accurate.

I’d almost been unable to get through the entry detailing our “special night together.” Though nearly all fictional, it starred a version of me that didn’t exist in this universe. And even though I knew it was a lie, I still felt sick over it.

Like I’d been violated.

Not physically, of course, but the way he’d discussed my body and the things he’d done to it—it had all been without my permission and I’d been powerless to stop it.

When I’d finished reading, my biggest question was whether Kyle actually believed that it had happened the way he said it had. Everything had been so detailed. Almost as if it were a memory, and not just something he’d made up. Was he delusional? I mean, clearly he was delusional, but maybe he suffered from a form of schizophrenia, which made it seem real to him? Or was he just so caught up in his own lies that he no longer saw them as that?

It was all so confusing, and brought up more questions than answers.

Agent Walker hadn’t been much help. He’d just shrugged when I asked him why Kyle might’ve made up the entries.

“Like I said, Grafton’s not talking,” he said. “Your guess is as good as ours right now.”

After that, the sleepless nights had begun.

Luckily Zhara was around to keep me sane, though I still wasn’t sure his disturbing interest in true crime was a good thing. But at least I had someone to talk to about what was going on. And he didn’t shy away from the ugliness of the situation, which came in handy more often than I would’ve thought.

He even helped me write the letter explaining to Kyle why I wouldn’t be visiting him in prison. In it, I’d tried to let him know that I had to move on and so did he. That he should focus on his upcoming trial. I wasn’t nasty to him, but I also didn’t want to be his obsession anymore. I’d ended it by asking him not to contact me again.

We’d both agreed that I’d been kind but firm.

“No need to taunt the serial killer,” Zhara had warned, hovering over me as I wrote. “It’s like poking the bear in its cage, ‘cuz you think it won’t ever get out. If that bear gets angry enough, he’ll bite your arm off as soon as you get close enough. Doesn’t even need to break free from the bars. Resourceful mothers.”

That had been a few days ago and I hadn’t heard anything since I’d sent it. Still, every time I went out to get my mail, I got this tightness in my chest and tingling in my stomach like I was about to be blindsided.

I was experiencing it now as I walked out my front door and made my way to the small room that held all our mailboxes. I yawned from exhaustion, even as my heart sped up, which was an odd sensation. Telling myself to get a grip, I placed my hands over my stomach to try and force my breathing to slow. The nerves didn’t go away, but they lessened enough to give the illusion that nothing was wrong.

Which is what I wanted the other dancers who were lounging around the courtyard to think. A ballerina couldn’t show weakness to her competition. Not ever.

I kept my head high as I walked with purpose across the complex. I tried not to look at anyone, although it was nearly impossible to miss Scarlett. Dressed in the tiniest swimsuit I’d ever seen, she was practicing lifts with a few guys near the fountain. Even from far away, I could hear her giggles as their hands gripped whatever they had to in order to catch her.

How the heck does that thing stay on, I wondered as I caught a glimpse of the material that barely covered her butt.

At that particular moment though, I appreciated Scarlett’s obsession with being the center of attention. Because it meant I didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing me. Or how difficult a task it had become for me to retrieve my mail.

As I arrived at the mailroom, I sucked in a breath and pulled on the door. I forced myself to walk over to my bin and lifted up my key. My hands were shaking. Placing it in the slot, my heart started to race again and I tried to tell myself it would be okay. It was only mail.

Please. No letter, no letter, no letter—from him.

“Hey,” a voice said from behind me. The sound startled me and I jerked away, dropping my key onto the floor with a clang.

I looked over to see Preston standing just inside the room.

“I thought I’d see if you wanted to hang out with us,” he said, not realizing that he’d just scared me half to death. “It’s perfect swimsuit weather, you know.”

I noticed then that he was wearing blue shorts and sandals. Oh, and no shirt. My eyes trailed the lines that made up his chiseled stomach and followed the muscles until they dipped into his shorts. And then I blushed, hard, because he was watching me and there was no way he hadn’t seen me checking him out.

I turned my attention to the ground, bending over to pick up my mail key.

“No thanks,” I said, hoping my voice sounded normal. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Like open your mail?” Preston teased. “Come on, Em, you can take the day off. Everyone needs a little R&R sometimes.”

I shoved my key into the lock and opened the bin, reaching in and taking out the pile.

“I don’t have time for R&R, Preston,” I said, walking past him and out the door.

He followed me.

“Let me change your mind,” he said from behind me.

My stomach lurched as he said it. Part of me wanted to let him. To just give in. Be a normal teenager. Do what normal teenagers do. Let myself get lost in something trivial like a boy.

And then I reminded myself that I wasn’t a normal teenager. I was a ballerina who wanted to be prima. Oh, and I was being harassed by a serial killer. Nothing about my life right now would be considered normal.

“I appreciate the offer, Preston, but I can’t,” I said. I couldn’t afford to let my life get derailed by anyone. Even someone as good looking and persistent as him.

The others in the courtyard had stopped what they were doing and were watching us curiously. To avoid eye contact, I busied myself by flipping through my mail.

Bill, junk, bill, junk, junk.

No letter from Kyle.

A smile broke out across my face and for a second I considered telling Preston “yes.” That I would spend a half hour wasting time with him while trying to be social with the other dancers. But just as I was about to give in, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I took out my cell and put it to my ear.

“Hello?” I asked into the receiver, staring right at Preston. He was unthinkably cute. Part pretty boy, part bad boy all rolled into a dancer’s body. Anyone would’ve jumped at the chance to be with him.

“This call is coming from the San Quentin Correctional Facility,” a familiar female voice said. “Inmate number C30231, Kyle Grafton, would like to speak with you. Will you accept the call?”

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“Inmate Kyle Grafton would like to speak with you,” she repeated, sounding bored. “Will you accept the call?”

Preston took a step toward me, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts. He must have seen me start to frown because he mouthed, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said out loud.

“Please stay on the line while I connect you,” the woman’s voice said into my ear. And then she was gone and her voice was replaced by silence.

No! No, no, no, no, no! I would not like to accept the call!

Suddenly there was a click and then breathing, and I began to feel a tightness in my throat and chest which spread like wildfire. I turned away from Preston and the others. I didn’t want them to know anything was going on.

“Emmy?” Kyle said.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Hi,” I said, reluctantly.

“I got your letter,” he said. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. If he was mad or upset or understanding. And I wasn’t sure which response I was hoping for.

“Oh,” was all I said.

“I have to be honest, I’m a little disappointed,” he said. Now I could hear it. He was scolding me like he would one of his students. “I know this isn’t ideal—me being away from you for so long—but I really need you right now. Don’t let the police scare you like this. You know me, Emmy.”

“Kyle,” I said, my voice shaky. “I asked you not to contact me.”

There was a pause.

“I could never do that,” he said, sounding hurt. “Just abandon you like that. And I can’t believe you’d do that to me, either. Who’s making you do this?”

I was growing frustrated now. He wasn’t hearing me.

“Nobody’s making me do this, Kyle,” I said curtly. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I need you to come visit me,” he said. “We can talk about this in person, and then you’ll see—”

“No!” I said, losing my patience.”Goodbye, Kyle.”

“Don’t hang up on me!” he yelled into the phone, angrily enough for me to listen to him. After a few deep breaths on his end, he continued. “I think I’ve been pretty patient with you Emmy, but you listen to me now. You will come and visit me in here. You will, or else.”

And then he hung up, leaving me shivering in the California sun.