Page 90 of Dark Verse

“Well, we won’t keep you long, now that you’re home,” Officer Okrent says. “But we do have some updates on your case.”

I sit up a little straighter at this.

“Have you found the man who did this?” Knox asks.

“No, not yet. But we do have some questions for you,” the detective says.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out some photos. She lays them out on the coffee table in front of us.

Knox and I lean forward.

The first photo looks like security footage, with a gray car centered. The second photo is from a front porch camera. This front porch. I recognize the chairs on the edges of the frame and the front lawn in the evening light. A masked and hooded figure is centered, but their features are well hidden. A creeping sensation begins in my stomach as I stare at it.

“Is this from our camera?” Knox asks, clearly recognizing the background as well.

“Yes,” Officer Okrent confirms.

Knox huffs angrily. “That fucker came right in through the front door?”

He phrases it as a question, but the evidence is clear to see.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Detective Vallejo asks, laying down a third photo.

I look down, and that creeping sensation increases, turning my stomach into tight knots. The photo looks like it has been taken from social media. She’s average in every way. Average height, average weight, average features. She smiles in the photo, and she points to her own chest, Knox Knight and the Nightshades visible on her shirt. I recognize her but cannot place exactly where I’ve seen her before.

“No,” Knox says.

“I know I’ve seen her before,” I say at the same time.

“Her name is Gillian Wilson.”

As soon as Vallejo says her name, the memories of our first date flood back to me.

“Oh my god…she’s…she’s that woman. That fan that’s been to a few of your gigs. She was there at FullSpectrum. She was there that night we found that iFind tag in your pocket…”

It’s been two months since that night, but that experience takes on a whole different meaning suddenly, everything snapping into focus in a way that makes me nauseous. We never knew who slipped that tracking device into Knox’s jeans, but now I have every reason to believe it was her.

“We were able to trace the car registration back to another member of the Wilson family. She also left some DNA in the bedroom.”

“I thought I got her with that knife. I’m glad there was enough blood,” Knox concludes.

“Yes, we did test the blood and…” Officer Okrent pauses, looking suddenly shy.

“What?” I ask him, but Detective Vallejo answers.

“She also left her underwear in the closet she was hiding in. We were able to match her DNA.”

The world tilts at an even more aggressive angle.

I stammer, “Her underwear?”

Taking another look at the photo of the masked figure, I see the time stamp in the corner. We didn’t get back to the house until around 6:30 that night. The bold letters in the corner clearly read 3:17 pm. A crawling sensation like flies on my skin erupts on my arms and legs.

“She was in this house for hours?” I ask, and they both nod in confirmation.

“Jesus Christ.” Knox breathes, looking unsteady for the first time since I woke up in the hospital.

“About two hours before you and the band members arrived back here from the store, according to their statements and your own security footage.”