James Patterson - Murder House

“Watch your back, Officer,” I say. “They may be trying to communicate with me, but they’re using you to do it.”

I walk back to my car as a light mist begins to fall, my mind racing with questions. He’s messing with me now, telling me something, sending me in a certain direction. But which direction? And why? How does showing me Dede’s and Annie’s bodies help him?

My head starts to ache. Another new piece of evidence, yielding nothing but more questions.

When I reach my car, Noah Walker is leaning against it, his arms crossed.

“Hello, stranger,” he says to me.

“I’ve been calling you,” Noah says. He pushes himself off my car. He’s in his construction gear, jeans and T-shirt, boots, protective vest. Off work now, catching dinner at Tasty’s.

I feel something between us, always that radiating heat, but this time more penetrating, turning my stomach sour.

“I guess you heard about Annie and Dede,” I say.

“Yeah. You have any information?”

“None,” I say. “I’m not on the inside anymore.”

“But you have that friend, that young cop. What’s her name again?”

Playing dumb. I’m not going to play back. “What do you want, Noah?”

He opens his hands. “Same thing you want,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I thought we were a team.”

So did I. Before you tried to help Aiden kill me.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

Ask him. Just ask him and see what he says.

“Were you adopted, Noah?”

He gives me a funny look. “Adopted? No.”

“You sure?”

“Am I sure I wasn’t adopted? I think I’d be sure about that.”

I look him over, try to read him. I’m not getting a solid hit either way.

“It’s public information,” I say. “I can find out.”

“I don’t think so,” he answers. “I don’t think adoptions are public information.”

“For a guy who wasn’t adopted, you seem to know a lot about them.”

“Murphy, what the hell?” He steps toward me. “What’s with this bizarre interrogation? I’ve been leaving you messages—”

“By the way,” I say, getting my Irish up now, “I went to Justin’s last night, like I told you I would. And guess who paid me a visit?”

He shakes his head. Playing dumb again.

“Aiden,” I say. “He came through a window at me. With a knife.”

“He what? Are you okay?”

“I wonder how he knew I’d be there, Noah. Got any ideas?”

He waves his hand, like he’s erasing something. “Wait a second, wait a second. You don’t think it was me —”

“Oh, no, of course not. It was probably the long list of other people who knew I was going to be at Justin’s last night. Oh, wait — nobody else knew.”

“Murphy, just hold on a second.”

He reaches for me, but I pull back.

“Don’t you touch me,” I say. “Don’t come near me ever again. Just know something, Noah — I will figure this out. You tell your buddies, whoever’s a part of this: I’m close. I’m going to nail all of you. Or die trying.”

Noah steps between me and my car.

“Okay, you got to talk,” he says. “Now I get to talk.”

“Get out of my way, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Hey!”

Noah and I both turn. Justin is jogging toward us, from the restaurant.

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

Noah glares at him. Something primitive in his eyes. These two are casual acquaintances — each has said a kind word about the other — but something passed between Noah and me last night, until I mentioned Justin. I remember the look on his face, the blow he suffered, even though I insisted Justin and I are just friends.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Noah says to Justin.

Justin stops short of us, looks at me. “Jenna?”

“It’s none of your business,” Noah says.

“You’re on my property, Noah. And you’re bothering my friend. So I think it is my business.”

“Stay out of this, Justin.” Noah squares off on Justin. “This is a private conversation.”

Two men, the macho thing, battling over the damsel’s honor. Only this damsel ain’t interested.

“Uh, guys? Over here?” I wave my hand. “I’m leaving. I’ll call you later, Justin. And Noah? Stay away from me.”

I climb into my car and slam the door. I start up the engine and throw it into reverse, gravel flying in my wake, then head north on the turnpike, unsure of my destination, only certain that wherever I’m going, I’m going alone.

I drive home as darkness sweeps over Bridgehampton.

Aiden’s still out there, and while I seriously doubt he’d be dumb enough to hang around the Hamptons to take another shot at me, I take simple precautions. I lock the dead bolt and prop a chair against the door, and I move the dresser against the small window. It’s not much of a deterrent, but at least it will keep Aiden from doing another nose dive through a plate of glass.

I have almost nothing in my cupboard but some noodles, so I boil some water and drop them in.

Eat and sleep, Murphy. Or you’ll crumble like a stale cookie.

But I have no appetite. My stomach is a pool of nerves and chaos.

You’re getting closer, Murphy.

I push the plate of noodles aside.

But you’re not there yet.

Then two things happen at once, causing me to jump from my seat.

My cell phone buzzes, and my doorbell rings.

The phone is Ricketts. I punch it on while I move to the door.

I look through the peephole at the man standing at my door.

It’s Isaac Marks, our beloved chief of police.

“Ricketts, let me call you back,” I say into the phone. “Your boss is at the door.”

“No, Jenna, wait—”

I punch the phone off, release the dead bolt, and open the door.

And stare at the man who just might be responsible for the murder of eight people. Including the man he replaced as chief.

“Murphy,” Isaac says, nodding. Wearing his uniform. Probably did some press today on Annie and Dede.

“Need you to come down to the substation,” he says.

“You can talk to me right here.”

He takes a deep breath, grimaces. “Don’t make this difficult. Come down with me voluntarily. Make a good decision for once in your life.”

“You don’t have anything better to do?” I ask. “After finding two dead bodies today?”

He gives me a funny look.

“The two dead bodies,” he says, “are the reason I’m here.”

I sit in the same interview room where I’ve sat many times, only on the other side of the table. I used to be good at this, questioning witnesses, sizing them up, reading them, making them sweat, gaining their trust, taking them on a roller-coaster ride from fright to horror to despondence to remorse to confession.

The door opens, and in walks Isaac Marks. He stands against the wall, arms crossed.

What is he capable of? Did he kill all those people, with Aiden as his accomplice? And maybe Noah, too?

Did he do something to me, along with Aiden, at 7 Ocean Drive when I was a little girl?

I’ve never had a bead on the guy. I was his partner for less than a year, and he was a phone-it-in cop, a guy who liked to strut around with the badge, enjoyed the power more than the responsibility. Never one to put in the extra hours necessary. Never one to go the extra mile.

But a killer? If it’s true, I missed it. Never saw it.

Then again, I wasn’t looking for it.

“I want some answers, Murphy,” he says. “Some straight answers.”

“So do I.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Maybe you forgot.”