Killer Instinct, page 14
“It’s possible.” I pace across my bedroom. “Reggie, I honestly don’t know. Just when I think I might have it figured out, I get confused again.”
“Something else you should know. Your mom said your real father signed over rights to you, right?”
I stop pacing. “Let me guess. That’s a lie.”
Reggie sighs. “Sorry, Lane.”
I promise you that’s the last bit of information I kept from you. I promise. Mom’s words come back to me, and I shake my head. Unbelievable.
I click off with Reggie and go straight downstairs to Mom’s office. Victor’s sitting at her desk. I don’t even bother saying hi. “When did you adopt me?”
He looks up from the computer. “When you were three. Why?”
“Can I see the paperwork?”
“What’s this all about?”
“I was looking through the paperwork that came from the law firm,” I lie. “My real father never signed over rights to me. Mom said he did.”
He takes off his reading glasses. “Your Mom and I—”
“Just tell me the truth,” I demand.
“Lane . . .”
I’ve never lost my temper with him. I’ve never taken that tone. It surprises me, too.
“I understand you’re upset,” he calmly responds. “Please know every decision we’ve made has been in your best interest.”
I’m so sick of hearing that. “How is it in my best interest to continually lie to me?”
Victor pauses and I can see it all over his face. Guilt. Love. Exhaustion. Confusion. I want to understand, really I do, but I need honesty. Now.
“You’re correct. Your real father never signed away rights to you. But that doesn’t make you any less my daughter.” He reaches for me. “I raised you. You are my own.”
I ignore the tenderness that sparks inside me. “Why didn’t he sign away rights to me?”
Victor takes my hand. “He said he wanted to. We spent years sending him paperwork only to have it returned undeliverable. Eventually we lost track of him altogether.” He squeezes my fingers. “We can talk to Mom more about this when she gets out of the hospital if you want.”
“I don’t want to talk to Mom.”
“Lane,” he softly reprimands me. “Don’t say that.”
I don’t respond as I stand in front him, no deflation at all in my frustration.
He lets go of my hand. “You have any more questions, you come to me. I’ll be straight up with you.”
I nod, even though deep down I know there’s more. But, and I never thought I’d think this, in this moment I trust Victor more than my mom.
My past has scarred me for the future, and I have to be able to trust someone with that. The truth of the matter is, both my parents are trained liars. I can’t trust either one.
• • •
“The woman you saw get stabbed to death was your preschool teacher,” Reggie tells me.
I pull into Patch and Paw for my Saturday shift. No wonder I’d been clinging to her hand in the picture. “And the FBI hasn’t worked this out?”
“I’m sure they have. But why would they tell you? Lane, your mom still doesn’t know that you know about the murder you witnessed in that room. She saw you freak when you two visited Four Buchold. I’m sure if she knew I sent you that picture, she would’ve told you more details.”
I doubt that. “Of course the woman I saw get killed was a preschool teacher. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. That is the Decapitator’s modus operandi.”
“You can’t think of everything.”
“And the other women throughout the years? Am I connected to them in any way?”
“Not that I can see,” Reggie answers. “As far as Seth and your uncle, it’s hit or miss. The two of them are like ghosts. They’re hard to track. They move around, sometimes together, sometimes separate. They seem to operate on cash only.”
I turn my Jeep off. “Any connection to the women?”
“Just the first one being your teacher. None of the others, though. You’re right about your stepdad. He’s been on the investigative team for years.”
“Longer than my mom?”
“Yes.”
“How did I not know this? I feel like we’ve gotten nowhere.”
“You don’t think your stepdad is involved in some capacity other than investigative, do you?”
I sigh. “I don’t know what to think. I’m frustrated. I’m confused. And I’m irritated as all hell. At this point I just want the Decapitator to come up and introduce himself to me.”
“Lane, don’t say that. A serial killer introducing himself? Please don’t say that. I’m worried enough about you and your family as it is.”
“You know I’m not being serious,” I say to soothe her, even though I am.
Neither one of us says anything for a couple of seconds.
“Lane, promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” And I will be careful, in my own distinctive way.
We click off and I head inside.
“How’s your mom?” Dr. Issa asks before I even set my stuff down.
“Fine. She comes home today.” Everyone knows Mom’s the lead investigator on the case. She’s on the news frequently.
And everyone knows if she doesn’t solve it soon, it’ll be another year before the Decapitator strikes again and gives everyone another chance to catch him.
I pick up the work list, fully aware Dr. Issa is still standing, looking at me.
I turn. “Did you need something else?”
“Just . . . just wondering if you’ve talked to Zach.”
“I’m not your brother’s keeper,” I snap.
Dr. Issa blinks in surprise.
I’m surprised too. I’ve lost my control more in the last few days than I have in my whole life.
“I know you’re not my brother’s keeper,” he quietly responds. “I won’t bring it up again.”
With that, he’s gone. I don’t normally experience guilt about anything, but I do right now. Dr. Issa doesn’t deserve my ire.
One thing is for sure. I’ve got to get back in control. It’s the only way I know how to effectively function.
• • •
On my way home I swing by Giant to get a box of tampons, and see Zach standing in front of an ABC liquor store.
What the hell?
I don’t get out of my Jeep and instead park and watch. He stands there for several good solid minutes and then opens the door and walks right inside.
What is he doing? There’s no way they’ll sell him liquor.
Time ticks by, and I continue watching the door, waiting, waiting . . . Several people come and go and still no Zach.
I open my Jeep and jump out. I’m going in after him. He’s making a huge mistake. I don’t know what’s driven him in there, but he’s going to regret it, big time.
The door opens and he strolls right out, no bags in hand. He catches sight of me standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring back at him. I do the only thing I can do. I lift my hand and wave.
He walks right toward me, and as I watch him approach, I make my mind up not to say a word. He knows I saw him. He should be the one to speak. Or not. It’s not like he owes me an explanation.
“Busted.” He laughs a little.
“What were you doing in there?” So much for me not saying anything.
“I do that sometimes. Go inside. Walk the aisles. It’s reinforcing. It’s challenging. My counselor at rehab suggested that, actually.”
“Oh. Well . . .”
“Were you worried?”
I think about that but don’t immediately answer. And I don’t bother reminding him he said he doesn’t want to be friends.
He smiles—“Thanks”—and reaches out, surprising us both, and clasps my hand. The contact only lasts for a quick squeeze, and then he releases it. “See you at school.” And with that, he turns and walks away.
I stand for a second watching his back. I like Zach. Seeing him nearly throw everything away makes me realize I like him more than I thought. Now what am I going to do about that?
Chapter Thirty-One
MOM COMES HOME ON SATURDAY and basically goes right to bed. Sunday we have a family day at our house with movies, grilled burgers, and cards. Neither Victor nor I mention our conversation to Mom. At this point I don’t want to bring anything else up. It will all be smothered in half truths anyway.
By Monday Victor is back at work, Mom’s still recuperating at home, and I’m at school.
Zach comes up to me after the last period. “Hey, you.”
My insides flutter a little at his unexpected appearance. My reaction surprises me.
“Heard your mom came home.”
“Yes.”
“I’m happy.”
“Thanks.”
We both stand there for a second just looking at each other. I’m not really sure if he’s waiting for me to say something else or not.
“Belinda’s in rehab.” He breaks the silence.
It takes me a second to digest the switch of topic. “Okay.”
“I’ve been visiting her.”
Of course he has. It’s exactly what she wants. It’s exactly the type of person he is. And one of the reasons why I like him.
“Anyway”—he glances around the hall—“that’s all, I guess.”
I close my locker and spin the dial. “Later, then.”
I walk off, and even though I don’t look back, I have the distinct sensation he’s watching me. Just the thought of it makes my insides flutter again.
Our FBI watchdog follows us home. Daisy jumps on Facebook, Justin starts his homework, and, while I make a snack, I flip on the news.
“He’s bold. I’ll give him that much,” one reporter comments. “Leaving the leg right in front of the FBI headquarters.”
I freeze in my snack-making and stare at the television. They flash pictures of FBI headquarters and investigators milling about, and from far away some news crew has managed to snap a few photos of the shrink-wrapped leg.
“What happens if they don’t catch that bad man?” Justin asks.
I grab the remote and flip the channel. I don’t want Justin seeing this.
“What will happen?” Justin repeats.
He’ll kill again. Next September. God knows where. “The FBI’s going to catch him,” I assure my brother, even though I highly doubt it.
The Decapitator will be delivering the hands and feet in a cooler soon, and that’ll be the end of it.
Maybe he’ll contact me next year when he starts up again. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe this is my one and only chance to figure this puzzle out.
The office door opens and Mom storms out.
“I thought you were up in bed,” I say. “I was just about to bring you a snack.”
She slowly heads straight up the stairs. “Your dad’s in charge of the case now.”
Justin shoots me a look like he, too, has picked up on Mom’s mood. I shake my head at him, and he nods his silent understanding.
This is the great thing about my brother. He’s one of those go-with-the-flow kids. Now, if I had done that to Daisy, she would’ve flipped me off or given me choice words or any other million infuriating things.
I go find Mom. She’s sitting in their window seat, staring out at the yard.
Quietly I take a seat beside her. “Are you saying you’re not the director anymore?”
“No, I’m still the department’s director. I still have other work, but I’m just not the lead on the Decapitator case.”
“Does this have to do with the leg?”
She turns away from the window. “This has everything to do with the leg. And the fact I went to Four Buchold Place alone. And the fact your uncle is now the prime suspect.”
The Decapitator basically flaunted his freedom right at FBI headquarters. I get it. “He’s made your whole team look inadequate.”
“Fresh eyes, fresh leadership is good,” she diplomatically points out.
“Actually, I never knew you and Victor were working the same case.”
“We weren’t. But he’s got a history with it, so he was a natural pick to step in.”
“Is this going to cause problems between you two?”
“Of course not.” Mom nods to her door. “Give me some time, please.”
“Sure.” As I leave, I hear her throw something across the bedroom. She’s definitely pissed.
• • •
That night Victor’s not even at dinner, and Mom barely speaks.
As I’m looking through my homework, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize. MAYBE YOUR STEPDAD WILL HAVE BETTER LUCK.
I don’t bother responding and instead work on my assignment.
About thirty minutes later, he’s texting me again. I GET IT. I’M ANNOYING U. GOOD.
I turn my phone off. He’s right. He’s annoying me.
I go to bed early, and as I’m drifting off to sleep, I register Victor coming in and giving me a kiss good night. He smells like alcohol, and in that sleep/dream haze I mumble, “Sure you should be drinking?”
“Just a glass of wine,” he whispers and touches the tip of my nose with his index finger. It’s been so long since he’s done that. Like years, I think.
I wonder if he will have better luck than my mom.
• • •
The next morning in first period Reggie texts me. YOUR OLD PRESCHOOL TEACHER & SETH WERE DATING.
And the FBI didn’t know this? Surely they knew something that huge.
But . . . that explains why she was at 4 Buchold Place. It doesn’t explain how she became the first victim.
At lunch the assistant principal finds me in the cafeteria. “Lane, your mom called. She wants you to come home right now.”
I stand up. “What about Daisy?”
“She said just you.”
I throw my half-eaten burrito away, get my stuff from my locker, and, as I drive home, try to call Mom. She doesn’t pick up. Panic has me immediately dialing back. It goes straight to voice mail, and I gun my engine. My brain’s going about a million worried miles an hour when I race into our house. “Mom?”
I go to the office first, find it empty, and head straight upstairs.
She’s sitting at my desk, my laptop on, my room turned upside down around her.
“Sit down,” she orders, not even glancing up.
She pulls up the password-protected nanny-cam footage first. Then all the password-protected files and the text message log. Beside my laptop sit the small white no-return-address envelopes I’ve hidden under my mattress.
Mom finally looks at me. “I knew you were hiding something from me.”
She’s one to talk.
“How’d you figure out my passwords?”
She shoots me a glance like that’s the most ridiculous question I could’ve asked. There’s something to be said for having FBI parents. Pretty much nothing can be kept a secret.
She motions to the laptop, to the envelopes. “He’s been contacting you?”
“Obviously.”
She narrows her eyes in warning. “Explain yourself, young lady.”
“I don’t know why he’s been contacting me, but I’ve been playing things out.”
“Playing things out? This isn’t a game.”
“I know that.”
“You nanny-cammed my office?”
“I was desperate. Reggie wasn’t willing to hack your computer.”
Mom just looks at me. “I don’t know who you are, but I can’t trust you.”
I pull up the picture of me at three years old holding my teacher’s bloody hand. “And I can’t trust you. What else are you keeping from me?”
Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe it’s turned into this between you and me.”
I’m not sorry. She’s just as guilty as I am. I point to the picture. “You knew what happened to me at Four Buchold and you didn’t tell me. You watched me have that horrible flashback and acted all innocent like you had no clue. I don’t know who you are.” I’m glad to throw that back in her face.
“You were there the night I got stabbed,” she accuses me. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you left me there.”
It wasn’t like that.
She huffs. “What, were you afraid the Masked Savior was going to get busted?”
I don’t bother denying my other identity.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous this secret life of yours is?”
“I’m careful.”
“You’re just a teenage girl!”
“What? Are you saying you’re worried for me?”
“Of course I’m worried!”
Yeah, but she didn’t actually say it until I prompted her. “You seem more angry.”
“Yes, angry!” She holds up a flash drive. “I’ll be turning these files, the text communication, and the envelopes over to the FBI. I will not be giving them the nanny-cam footage or the fact that you wear a ski mask and fight crime.” She stands up. “You and I will deal with that later when I’ve calmed down.”
“Well, I’m angry too!” I fire back.
At my doorway she turns and glares at me. “I want you to think about this. If you had handed this information over as you got it, we would’ve caught this horrible killer by now. Do you realize how many hours have gone into looking for your uncle?” She holds up the last communication I got from him and reads, “‘I know who the FBI thinks I am and they’re wrong.’ According to that statement it may not even be him. But because of you and your sick curiosity, another person is probably going to die.”
Her words send prickly chills racing across my neck.
“And I am making an appointment for you with a psychiatrist. There is something not right with you and, frankly, it scares me.”
