James Patterson - Murder House

“You didn’t know them growing up?”

“Aiden and Noah? Nope. Hey, Aiden’s not some kind of suspect, is he?”

I give a noncommittal shrug. “Just basic questions, at this point.”

“I mean, he’s kinda odd, but not like that. Odd, but in a funny way, not scary.”

That seems to be the prevailing sentiment. I don’t remember laughing last night, when he had a shotgun aimed at my head.

“Well, anyway,” says Justin, “Aiden didn’t kill Melanie.”

I snap my focus off my pad to him. “How could you know that?”

“Because he was with me, here,” says Justin. “We have a liquor license until two a.m. I was pouring, and Aiden closed down the place with me.”

I feel some air deflate from my lungs. “You’re sure? You’re positive you have those dates lined up? It was a long time ago.”

“I’m positive,” he says. “The next day, Melanie missed work. We were calling her cell phone, even sent someone over to her condo. Then the cops showed up and told us she was killed the night before at the house on Ocean Drive. They asked me who was here that night. I gave them a list. It wasn’t that hard. It was just me and Aiden.”

I scribble a note, trying to hide my disappointment.

My biggest lead has just swirled down the drain.

Officer Ricketts, still in patrol uniform, shakes her head as we look out over the Atlantic Ocean. “I still can’t believe they did this to you, Murphy.”

“You should take my advice and stay away from me.”

Ricketts nods and looks over at me, looking younger than her age, her cropped blond hair just long enough to show a hint of curl on the ends. “I’m not so good at taking advice,” she says.

“If Isaac ever knew—”

“I’d be fired. I get it.”

We are quiet. The sky is darkening and the ocean is reacting in kind. A storm on the way.

“We’re supposed to catch the bad guys,” Ricketts says. “The day I’m not supposed to do that is the day I look for another job.”

I like this girl. She’s way more poised and mature than I was as a rookie. And just as stubborn.

I look at her. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t ask me that again, Murphy. Just tell me what you need.”

“The last Holden was suspected in a number of rapes, right?”

“That’s what the book said.”

“So let’s see if we can find out if anyone filed a criminal charge. Someone must have. Maybe one of his victims got pregnant.”

“Okay. What else?”

I shrug. “That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” Ricketts says. “We should see what else may have been going on back then, in the early nineties. Missing-persons reports, unsolved murders. The last time you had me do that, I only went back ten years. Now I’ll go back to the early nineties.”

“To what end?” I ask.

“Who knows? Let’s just do it. See what shakes loose.”

I let out a long breath. “Ricketts, you’re going to make a good detective someday.”

“If I don’t get fired first.”

I take her hand. “That can’t happen. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got canned for helping me.”

She waves me off. “I just want you back on the force. We solve this thing, maybe I’ll have my mentor back.”

“Let’s not get too optimistic.”

She looks at me. “You know what you need, Murphy? If I may be so bold.”

“Shoot. Be bold.”

“You need to get laid.”

I let out a laugh. It feels good.

“I was thinking Justin,” she says.

I hem and haw. “Yeah, I mean, he’s...”

“He’s really cute. And I saw the way he was looking at you.”

I’ve already told Ricketts about my conversation with Justin today, the substantive part. Now I tell her the personal part.

“He actually said ‘A guy can hope’?” She pushes my shoulder. “What do you need, a written invitation?”

“Yeah, I know.” I let out a low moan. “Honestly, I mean — he’s a really nice guy, but I don’t know.”

“What, he’s too nice?”

I sigh. “Something like that.”

“You like the bad boys, don’t you? The guys with an edge? The dangerous types?”

“That’s my curse.”

“Murphy.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “He’s a super-nice guy. He runs a diner with incredible food and he could double the prices and still fill the place, but he doesn’t. I mean, c’mon. He’s hot and he’s sweet and he has a crush on you. You’re gonna pass on that guy because he’s too nice? ”

I just... I just can’t see it.

“I don’t have time for romance,” I say. “I have too much to do.”

“I didn’t say romance. I said sex . Just have dinner one time with the guy and then fuck his lights out. And then, of course, tell me all about it.”

“The dinner or the sex?”

“Both.”

I shake my head. I just...

“You know what you are? You’re afraid to be happy,” she says.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

She hits me on the arm. “I’ll get you that research,” she says.

“Hey, Ricketts?” I call out to her as she’s halfway up the beach. “I don’t even know your first name.”

She smiles. “It’s Lauren.”

“Well, thanks, Lauren. Seriously. Thank you.”

She nods back at me. “One more piece of advice?” she says. “Get some sleep. You look like crap.”

Two in the morning. The promise of a violent storm no longer just a promise. The windows rattling from the wind and rain, the sky a deep purple.

Pages and pages of notes, all over my desk, pinned up on the wall. I take a sip of wine and arch my back, roll my neck. My head aching, my eyelids heavy.

The answer has to be here. There has to be something. Just keep shaking trees and something will come loose. Keep connecting different dots and you’ll find it.

You’re getting closer.

Just keep telling myself that.

I’m getting closer...

Getting closer...

Closer...

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

I can’t see can’t breathe

Darkness, then penetrating light from above, a shadow blocking it

A face coming into focus, backlit by blinding yellow

A boy, long hair, a hand

Don’t touch me, please don’t touch

Get away, please don’t hurt me

I wanna go home

My head snaps upward, my hands shooting out across the desk, sweeping off papers, knocking the wineglass to the floor with a hollow clink . I take a long breath and shake out the cobwebs.

The boy. The long hair. The hand reaching for me into the darkness.

And the face. This time, I saw his face.

A face I’ve seen before.

The boy in my nightmare is Aiden Willis.

Noah Walker pulls his Harley up to the curb outside Jenna Murphy’s apartment. The streets are still slick from the heavy downpour last night. His sandals squish in the grass on his way up to the door.

He raps on the door and waits, adjusting the satchel over his shoulder.

When the door opens, he sees the face of a ghost.

Jenna’s hair is matted and unkempt, her face drawn and pale, her eyes deep-set and dark. A black Yankees T-shirt and men’s boxers are all she’s wearing.

She squints in the sunlight, doesn’t make eye contact with Noah. “You sure about Aiden?” she says as she turns back into her apartment.

“Good morning to you, too.” He wishes he’d brought coffee. She looks like she could use some.

The main room of the apartment looks more like an office than residential quarters. Papers everywhere — on the desk perched in the corner, covering the floor, lining the walls. Newspaper clippings, copies of police files scribbled over with notes in Magic Marker, Post-its haphazardly stuck everywhere. Organized in columns for the various victims, Annie Church and Dede Paris, Brittany Halsted, Sally Pfiester, Melanie and Zach, Bonnie Stamos — and Chief Langdon James, her uncle.