James Patterson - Murder House

“Justin,” I say, “I need someone I can trust. That’s a rapidly dwindling population, I’m afraid.”

Justin nods, a look of concern on his face.

“Can I trust you?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.” He smiles, then realizes the comment fell flat. He touches my arm. “Hey, listen. You know how I feel about you. I haven’t made a secret of that. And I know... I know you don’t feel quite the same way about me. I know I’m not your type.”

“No, it’s not—”

“I’m not dumb, Jenna. And I’m not blind, either. But I’m here for you if you need me. Maybe — maybe I’ll grow on you. Maybe not. But either way, if you need something, you know all you have to do is ask.”

I hate this. I hate having to rely on someone else. Especially for this.

“Aiden already tried to kill me once,” I say. “He’d do it again. And someone’s working with him. There are people in this town who don’t want me to figure this out, and they’ll kill to stop me.”

Justin takes a deep breath, then nods.

“I’m in,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

Justin drives his Jaguar toward his house, having just gotten an earful from me.

“Okay,” he says, glancing at me. “So something happened to you here in July of 1994, and you think Aiden had something to do with it.”

“Yes. And someone else did, too.”

“Okay,” he says. “And you think this ‘someone else’ is Aiden’s younger half brother.”

“Yes. And his father is Holden Dahlquist the Sixth.”

Justin takes a deep breath. “You think Holden the Sixth, and his newfound son, and Aiden, tried to kill you when you were a little girl.”

“Something like that,” I say. “I don’t have it all figured out. Maybe — maybe I was their first. Maybe I was a dry run, a test, to see if they could pull it off. Whatever it was, something must have gone wrong, because Holden ended up dead, not me.”

“Wow. And now the son is carrying on the legacy.”

“I think so,” I say. “So the key is, who is Holden’s son? Who is the baby abandoned at the police station? Isaac? Noah?”

Justin shrugs. “Can you ask them?”

“They wouldn’t admit it. I asked Noah if he was adopted and he said no. But that doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t know,” says Justin. “Maybe his parents never told him.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously, Jenna — how do any of us know that our parents are our biological parents? We take our parents’ word for it, right?”

“There are birth certificates,” I say.

“Those are just records. They can be doctored.”

“Or there’s a strong physical resemblance.”

Justin makes a face. “Maybe. But not always. I’m not adopted, but I don’t look a whole lot like either of my parents. I’m kind of a blend of them. Do you look like your parents?”

I think about that. “Actually, I got my looks and red hair from my Irish great-grandmother.” I turn to Justin. “Okay, point taken. So you think there might be someone running around with Holden the Sixth’s genes, and he doesn’t even know it?”

“Possibly. Do you think there’s some kind of serial-killer gene that can be passed down from generation to generation? Even without your knowledge?”

That one is definitely above my pay grade.

“We have to find Aiden,” I say. “Aiden’s the key to all of this.”

“Okay, so how do we do that?”

“I have no idea.”

Justin touches my arm. “Don’t say that. Think.”

Think. He’s right, think.

“If I’m Aiden,” I say, “I don’t have much money. I don’t have a car. I can’t go to airports or train or bus stations. I can’t use a credit card for a rental car or a hotel. How do I run? I could hitchhike.”

“Have you gotten a good look at Aiden?” Justin asks. “Would you pick him up?”

“Stranger things have happened. But okay. What else? He could boost a car, I suppose. But I don’t have access to that kind of information right now, recent auto thefts or anything else. I don’t have any resources at all.”

“I’ll try not to take that as an insult,” says Justin.

“You know what I mean.”

If I’m Aiden, what do I do? If I’m Aiden...

If I’m Aiden...

Wait.

“Maybe he didn’t run at all,” I say. I turn to Justin. “Maybe he’s right here in town. He’s lived here his whole life, right? If he could find a place to hide for a while, it would beat the hell out of traveling somewhere with no money, no resources.”

Justin shakes his head.

I slap my hand on the dashboard. Could it be that simple?

“I can’t believe this,” I say, “but I think I might know where he is.”

Noah jumps onto his motorcycle, his heartbeat racing faster than the bike’s engine as he heads across town.

He parks his Harley and removes the gun from his pants, placing it inside the saddlebag on his bike. Cops don’t like it when you walk into a police station with a handgun.

Noah enters the police substation. Someone at the front desk, behind a plate of bulletproof glass.

“I’m here to see one of the people in the holding cell,” he says.

“Are you a lawyer?” the man asks, though he doesn’t seem to think Noah fits that bill.

“No, but this is important,” he says. “Jenna Murphy is—”

“Jenna Murphy isn’t here,” the man says.

“Oh — where are you holding her?”

“We’re not. She was released half an hour ago.”

“She was released? On bond?”

The officer on duty looks over his glasses at Noah. “Sir, whoever you are, I can’t give that information to you.”

He looks outside. She was released half an hour ago? But... he saw her car at her house just now. How did she leave? She wouldn’t have walked—

Justin, he thinks. She must be with Justin .

“I need to speak with Isaac,” he says. “I need to speak with the chief.”

“Sir,” says the duty officer, “you can’t just waltz in here and demand to speak with the chief.”

“It’s important.”

“Sir, the chief isn’t—”

“Listen!” Noah slaps his hand against the plate of glass. “I need to speak with him and I need to speak with him now!”

“Hey.”

Noah turns at the sound of the voice. A uniformed officer approaching him, a young woman — Murphy’s friend, the rookie cop, Lauren Ricketts.

“What’s going on, Noah?” she says.

“I have to talk to Isaac,” he says. “Right now.”

“Why? Tell me what’s going on.”

Noah thinks it over. He doesn’t know Ricketts. He has no idea what she knows and what she doesn’t know.

“No,” he says. “I’ll only talk to Isaac.”

Justin pulls his car into his garage in East Hampton. The garage door grinds to a close behind us.

“So tell me,” he says. “Tell me where you think Aiden is.”

“Later,” I say.

“Later? Why later?”

My cell phone buzzes. Caller ID says it’s Lauren Ricketts. I don’t dare answer. I let the call go to voice mail and then play the message on my speakerphone:

Murphy, it’s Ricketts. I’m not sure what’s going on, and I probably shouldn’t be calling you, but — but whatever, I’m calling you. Listen, about twenty minutes ago, Noah Walker had a private conversation with the chief, and the next thing I know, Isaac has issued an APB for you. They think you’re with Justin.

I look over at Justin, whose face has gone pale.

He mobilized the SWAT teams, Murphy. We’re coming after you with everything we have. You should surrender at the station before something bad happens. I can coordinate it with you. Please, call me before this gets out of hand.