Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

“I’m saying it because other than the fact that Gressen worked at the modeling agency, there is absolutely no evidence at this time linking these killings,” Chief Jenkins replied.

“So you don’t believe the serial-killer theory?”

Jenkins shook his head. “We have a suspect in custody for the murders of two of the missing girls. We know that suspect could have nothing to do with this new development. I think that theory was something cooked up by you media people to sensationalize this story.”

The reporter ignored the comment. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Gabriel Gressen?”

“Gressen had significant gambling debts, which may or may not have played a part,” the police chief answered.

The camera cut to another scene, but I was no longer paying attention.

Gabriel was dead.

Murdered.

Mom turned off the TV and stood at the counter, staring into the backyard. I wondered if she felt the way I did, like things had spun so far out of control that we needed to stop listening in order to make some sense of it.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She shook her head and, without looking at me, said in a flat voice, “I feel sorry for you, Shelby.”

“Why?”

“That you have to be part of this.”

Before I could say anything more, a text came in from Roman: Talk!!!!!!????

I turned to Mom, who seemed to know who it was without being told. She nodded. “Go ahead.”

I went upstairs. Roman was waiting for me on the computer. “Can you believe it?” she gasped, sounding nasal.

I shook my head. “No, I really can’t.”

On the screen, Roman sneezed, then blew her nose.

“You sick?” I asked.

“Not sure. It might just be allergies. But seriously, what do you think’s going on?”

“I truly… have absolutely… no idea.”

“The more Chief Jenkins denies that there’s a serial killer on the loose, the more I have to wonder,” she said, then blew her nose again. Even on the screen, I could see that her nostrils were bright red.

In the silence that followed, my head began to throb, and I realized that I’d been clenching my jaw. Massaging the sides of my head with my fingers, I tried to relax.

“If Janet was in custody, then who killed Gabriel?” Roman asked.

“I have no idea.”

“The pool of suspects is shrinking.” Roman actually sounded kind of excited.

“This isn’t Clue,” I reminded her. “We’re talking about real people. Real lives. You and I knew Gabriel.” Despite what he’d done in the beach-club bathhouse, I took absolutely no pleasure in what had happened to him.

On the screen a chastened Roman pursed her lips. “You’re right. Sorry… But think about it. Who’s left?”

“You mean, who’s still alive?” I asked. “Or who’s left who could qualify as a suspect?”

Roman sneezed again. “The latter. There’s Mercedes. What if she isn’t really missing? What if she’s just pretending while she goes around killing people?”

“She doesn’t drive, so she couldn’t have gotten to places like Hartford or Trenton. She isn’t strong enough to have taken those girls into the woods, tied them up, and killed them.”

“Unless she had help.”

That gave me a moment’s pause. Whit had suggested the same thing a few days before. There were those tough-looking guys who dropped Mercedes at work each day. “What’s her motive?” I asked. “In the history of serial killers, has there ever been a young single mother?”

On the screen, Roman wiped her nose. “I don’t even have to look that one up. The answer’s no. But that leaves you know who.”

I had no idea who she was talking about. “Who?”

“Mr. Amateur Investigative Reporter, who always seems to know everything before anyone else? Pretty amazing for a beginning journalist, if you ask me.”

“You’re crazy, Roman.”

“Can you be sure?”

Could I be sure Whit wasn’t a serial killer? “He’s not crazy, Romy. He’s rational and thoughtful and nice.”

“So was Ted Bundy. Handsome, charming, honors student in college, politically active, killed at least thirty young women. Should I continue?”

“No, because then what you’re saying is, the night we were in the studio, he arranged to have himself bonked on the head in order to draw the suspicion away from himself?”

“Stranger things have happened. Seriously, Shels? It’s not completely impossible.”

Was there an iota of possibility in what she was saying? Just because I couldn’t imagine Whit’s being the killer, did that mean it wasn’t conceivable? After all, before yesterday I couldn’t have imagined my father preying on young women for sex. Was that part of the problem? That I wasn’t a man and therefore couldn’t imagine the things men could do?

“Like I said before, Shels,” Roman went on, “if it’s not him or Mercedes, then who is it?”

It was a good question, but there was one other person who’d been involved from the start. The person who, in fact, had connected two of the missing girls before anyone else, who could have been the one who hit Whit over the head, and who also was always among the first to know the latest news-Roman herself.

As soon as I got off the phone, I called Whit but got his voice mail.

I sat on my bed, trying to think back over everything that had happened since that day the week before when Roman first linked Peggy D’Angelo and Rebecca Parlin to my father. Was there a crucial clue I’d missed? Something so mundane that I’d passed over it without a second thought?

My stomach began to growl, and I realized that not only had I skipped dinner, but I had barely touched my lunch after Ashley proved to me that she hadn’t sent the “kill you last” e-mail. As distasteful as the idea of eating felt at that moment, I knew I’d better get something into my stomach.

From what I found in the refrigerator, it was clear that Mom hadn’t had much to eat, either. I reheated a small bowl of spaghetti and had just sat down when Dad came in. My emotions were a jumble. If anything, now that I knew that he’d been involved with Ashley, I was angrier than ever at him.

“Any more of that?” He nodded at the plate of spaghetti.

I pointed at the refrigerator.

Dad nuked some spaghetti and poured a glass of tequila. From the way he gobbled down the pasta, it was obvious that he’d also missed a few meals that day.

I didn’t want to speak to him, but curiosity overruled my feelings. “Why did the police want to talk to you about Gabriel?”

“They’re talking to everyone who knew him,” Dad said. “Did I know who he owed money to, or ever hear anyone say they wanted to hurt him? Did I ever see him with anyone who looked suspicious?”

“Did you?”

Dad shook his head. “The only times I saw him outside of work, he was usually with a date.”

That brought another question to mind. “Was there one girl in particular?”

“No. I used to kid him that every time I saw him, he had a different piece of eye candy on his arm.”

I felt my insides go icy and black. “Not eye candy, Dad. Girls. Human beings. With hopes and dreams and feelings. Not objects.”

He bowed his head. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

But it was too late. The dam broke. I couldn’t keep the anger from spilling out. “Maybe, if you’d understood that from the beginning, you wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place.”

Staring at the table, he nodded, unwilling, or unable, to look me in the eye. “I’ve… been thinking about that. And… I know this won’t mean very much. And it won’t make up for what I’ve done. But… once I get things under control… Or maybe I should say… if I get things under control… I’ve decided to see a therapist.”