James Patterson - Murder House

I drop my eyes and smile. Still trying to make this easier for me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe someday I’ll feel about him the same way he does about me. If there is a someday in my future.

“At least tell me where you’re going,” he says.

“No, Justin.”

“Then take my car.”

“No. They find your car and that’s the same thing as you coming with me. You’re aiding and abetting. I’ll walk. Better I stay off the roads, anyway. And I’m in no hurry. I need the sun to go down before I make my move. I’ll wait until midnight, probably.”

“Call me on your cell, then. At least tell me you’re okay.”

“Turning my cell phone off right now,” I say. “So they can’t track me.”

Justin lets out air, shaking his head. “Oh, Jenna. Don’t say good-bye to me. Just — tell me this isn’t good-bye.”

I walk up to him and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “This isn’t good-bye,” I say, before I head out his back door.

My thoughts zigzagging in every direction, trying to make sense of it all — Noah, Isaac, Aiden — not to mention the entire Southampton Town Police Department after me, heavily armed and prepared for combat. But something is telling me that the key to this is Aiden Willis. If I can get hold of him tonight, if I can surprise him and subdue him, I can finally put an end to this.

The walk from East Hampton isn’t bad. It’s about seven miles, which under different circumstances would be a typical day’s jog for me, and it’s safer than driving. When you’re on foot, you’re nimble. You can escape into crowds, cut corners, hide among foliage — you can obscure yourself in any number of ways.

The sky overhead is threatening rain, which will royally suck if it happens, but the good news is that in the meantime, it darkens the sky and brings the rough equivalent of nightfall prematurely.

I make it to the beach and kick off my shoes and tromp along the sand, the restless Atlantic Ocean to the south, the carefree breeze playing with my hair. I don’t look like a fugitive, and unless the police are conducting beach patrol, I’m practically invisible to them.

So I sit in the sand, less than a mile from my destination, watching the foamy tide crash ashore and recede, waiting for the moment to arrive. If my guess about Aiden is right, he’s settling in right now, nestled in his hiding spot, his guard slowly lowering.

Somewhere in the house at 7 Ocean Drive.

At midnight, I make the decision — it’s time. Hopefully, he’s asleep, or at least close to it. Not expecting company, in any event.

I step out of the sand onto the parking lot and look up at the mansion. No lights are on. No visible sign of life. Not that I expected Aiden to be hosting a party.

I walk along Ocean Drive until I reach the front of the house, my nervous system catching up now, sending warning signals to me, filling my chest. Justin’s revolver in my right hand, the flashlight in my left.

I try the driveway entrance, expecting resistance, planning to push it open and squeeze myself between the twin gates. But it’s not locked. I push one side open and enter, then close it back up, without allowing my imagination to wonder why the gate would be open.

My breathing erratic, my legs heavy, I walk up the driveway to the fork — to the right, the walk heading up the hill to the house; to the left, the driveway continuing on to the carriage house or whatever it is.

For some reason, I don’t take the familiar path, the one I’ve traveled several times during my investigation, up the sidewalk toward the house.

This time, I stay left, remaining on the driveway, walking toward that oversize carriage house.

Not knowing why. Unable to place it in my brain, but feeling something inside me growing, spreading like poison.

And then a flash through my brain like lightning.

Walking, shoved from behind, forced forward, wondering what it is, a stable, a garage, a separate house, where is it he’s taking me?

Walk. Move! Walk faster, you stupid girl!

I suck in a breath. I should turn around now. I know that. If I had any sense, I’d turn and run. Instead, I shine my light forward, just briefly, to see if there’s anything in front of me, up the driveway toward the structure.

I move slowly—

Faster! Walk faster!

— as I approach it. Tall double doors for an entrance. On the ground, at my feet, a long chain with a broken lock.

Somebody unlocked this door recently.

He’s here. Aiden is here.

I put my flashlight in my mouth and raise my gun. With my free hand, I pull on the door handle and yank it open.

In one motion, I drop to a knee, remove the flashlight from my mouth, and click it on, sweeping it over the space inside.

Open air. Two stories tall. Big, yes, but empty.

Empty.

Stains on the concrete floor from automobiles, once upon a time. A rack on the wall for tools, though none are present right now. A carpenter’s desk, too, a wooden top with steel legs, with an old saw and a vise on top.

Empty. But a different kind of empty.

I shine my light along the floor by the desk. There are circles on the floor, dust markings, from where the legs of the tool desk rested not long ago.

“Someone moved that desk,” I mumble to myself. Recently. Very recently.

Why move it?

I shine the light along the floor.

In the area where the desk once stood, before being moved, there is a break in the concrete. An outline. A square. Lying on top of it, a short length of rope.

I squat down for a closer look. Same color paint, but the surface of the square looks different.

I try to pick up the rope, but it’s stuck to the floor, attached somehow.

And the surface is... wood, not concrete.

A wooden square with a rope attached to it.

I grab the rope and, this time, pull on it hard.

The wooden square jars loose.

“What the hell...”

I pull harder, and the piece of wood pops upward.

A burst of cool air escaping from beneath it.

“A hidden door,” I whisper.

There’s something underneath this floor.

My gun poised, I pull the trapdoor fully open. I turn on the flashlight, dust particles floating in the beam, aiming it down into the darkness below.

A ladder, a wooden ladder, leading down several steps to a floor.

My lungs thirsting for air, my head spinning. A small tremor spreads through my limbs, immediately turning into a full-scale tremble, my hand shaking so hard I can hardly hold my gun. I don’t dare cock the revolver’s hammer, putting the gun in ready position, for fear I’ll start shooting, maybe even hitting myself.

The ladder so wobbly

I don’t know how far down it will go

The boy yelling at me, “Move! Move!”

I drop to my knees and suck in air, desperately seeking breath while my lungs seize up.

I was here. I was in this carriage house. I went down this ladder.

Sweat stinging my eyes, my shirt stuck to my back, my vision spotty, my heart pounding so fiercely I can hardly move.

“Move, Murphy,” I whisper. “Move.”

I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. I fish around the open space with one leg until my foot finds a rung on the ladder.

I move slowly, hoping to minimize the noise, praying I don’t lose my grip, the ladder itself quaking along with my hands, my arms and legs.

Darker, the lower I climb.

Colder.

White noise filling my ears, bits and pieces of memories, the sounds of the boy’s voice taunting me—

Move! Keep moving, stupid girl

— my body shivering so violently, my feet hitting the floor, something hard like marble. I remove my gun and aim it in all directions, spinning, somehow keeping my balance, as I shine the flashlight all around.