Page 27 of Requiem & Reverie

Before Jonah can make his sweep of her block, I hustle toward my car and leave, catching sight of his bouncing spotlight two streets over.

* * *

Back in my hotel room, I pull up the security cam website on my computer, on a much bigger screen, and review the footage. Bastard entered the house much the same way I did, climbing up the roof of the porch. Only, instead of entering Nola’s bedroom, like I had, he must’ve gone in through the bathroom window. Ten minutes later, the footage shows me leaving through her bedroom window.

Nola enters the bathroom, and I gotta believe he’s hiding behind the shower curtain in that scene. She leaves soon after, but instead of following after her, he stays in the room. It’s not until she’s out of sight that he exits to the hallway, perhaps confirming she’s left the house, and enters the room again. There’s something in his hand I didn’t noticed the first time I viewed the footage, and I zoom in on what appears to be glasses dangling from his fingertips.

Oliver’s glasses?

It’s hard to tell.

In a few steps, he stands beside her made bed and runs a gloved hand over the bedspread. Picking up a pillow, he holds it against his face, as though breathing in the scent of her.

Then, just as before, he moves toward the mirror, but instead of focusing on his face, I take note of a logo etched into his shirt. Rewinding the footage back a couple seconds, I study his movements as he enters the room. The subtle draw of his coat that brings the logo into view.

It’s then I realize it’s not sloppy on his part or happenstance.

He wanted me to see it.

Lincoln Park Conservatory.

9

Nola

A chill carries on the air, even though I’ve made a point to close and lock all the windows. My senses are heightened, tuned in to the smallest sounds throughout the house. Jonah’s footsteps downstairs. The incessant drip of the bathroom sink, counting off my slowly unraveling calm. The wind against the panes like the cold breath of darkness waiting to drag me under any moment.

The way the shadows of passing cars outside move across the wall feels like a quiet watcher in the room.

I try not to think about the victims too much, but knowing their killer was in my house without my awareness, I can’t help it. What they must’ve felt, while he mutilated them. How alone. Cold. Helpless.

Perhaps what my son is feeling right now.

Clutching the edges of the bathroom sink, I squeeze my eyes and shake my head in a poor effort to dislodge the image of him lying without those pale blue eyes I’ve spent hours staring into.

I fear for Oliver to the extent that I’ve become numb to my own possible demise. A butcher was in my house. Looking to make me the next sacrifice in his sick and twisted game.

And yet, I hope he returns. I hope that son of a bitch is crazy enough to return back here, and maybe I’ll be one step closer to finding my son.

The sooner he comes for me, the faster this nightmare will come to an end.

As crazy as that sounds, I’m willing to be reckless for my son. I’m willing to throw myself into the hands of a killer to spare my son’s life.

In the meantime, I have to tell Jonah what I know, but not in a way that puts Oliver, or Voss, at risk. Perhaps making him see a possible connection between Oliver’s kidnapping and the other abductions.

But how?

My whole body shakes as I stand before the mirror, noting the dark circles beneath my eyes, the blotchy tone of my skin from hours of crying, new lines on my face where I’ve worried more than I ever have in my entire life.

Along with another police officer, Jonah has swept the house and the backyard twice, looking for any evidence of the trespasser from earlier. They’ve found nothing, so far.

I relieve myself quickly and flush the toilet, eyeing the closed shower curtain beside me. Hairs stand on the back of my neck, imagining an intruder standing on the other side of it, and I reach for the first object in sight. A toilet plunger.

Weapon in hand, I throw back the curtain, but find no one there, and blow out a long-held breath. An object on the floor steals my attention, though, and I reach down to lift a Ziploc bag from beside the shower drain. Contained within the bag is a phone. Just like Denny’s, with a black case protector and a small chip in the corner like the one he used to bitch about all the time.

With concentrated effort, I carefully place the phone into the sink and slide the bag open to remove it. There’s a notification on the screen, which I click on, and it takes me to an email app I don’t recognize and the accompanying message:

Let’s play a game of trust, Nola. Keep this phone nearby and wait for a text.