Nobody ever knocked on his door, not even people trying to sell things.
He pulled the towel from his mouth and rolled to his knees. With trembling muscles, he shoved himself to his feet. He looked down to see if he was dressed. Jeans. No shirt. Barefoot. He ran a hand over his face. His fingers came away stained with blood.
Bloody nose.
Knock, knock, knock.
Whoever was out there was persistent. Why did people always knock three times? He never knocked three times.
At the sink, he washed his face, then dried it with the kitchen towel he'd dropped on the floor. On weak legs, he went to the door.
It was Gillian.
He was suddenly aware of how shitty he looked. He needed to shave, and he wished he'd put on a shirt before answering. But how could he have known Gillian would be there? She'd come to his house only once, right after he got out of prison. She'd brought him a basket of fruit and cheese-along with some white flowers, because she knew he liked flowers. He and his grandmother used to plant them together.
"Hi, Gavin." She was looking as sweet as ever. "Can I come in?"
"Oh. Yeah." He opened the door wide and stepped back. After she was inside and the door was closed, he started moving around the living room, picking up dirty clothes and empty food wrappers. "I wish I'd known you were coming," he said, unable to make eye contact, ashamed of the way his house looked, the way he looked.
"You don't have to straighten up for me," she said, taking a seat on the couch.
Right beside her lay a girlie magazine. He swooped down and grabbed it, turning it over on the table he'd made from a door. On the back of the magazine was a garish ad for a phone sex line. He grabbed the magazine again, dropped it to the floor, and shoved it under the couch with his bare foot. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, wondering if he had anything other than beer. But then, maybe she'd want a beer. That would be nice, if they drank a beer together.
"No, thanks." She smiled up at him.
Most people were either afraid of him or suspicious of him. Gillian was the only person he knew who looked at him in a completely open way that seemed to mean she was genuinely glad to see him.
"I came to tell you that I'm going to be out of town for a while."
"For your job?"
"I can't go into any detail about it. I just wanted you to know in case you stopped by my place."
"What about your bird?"
"My mother's going to take care of him-are you feeling okay?"
He scratched his head and pretended to yawn. "I was asleep when you knocked." He hadn't told her about the recent attacks. She knew about his epilepsy. She was one of the first people he ever told. But he didn't want her to know it had gotten worse since getting out of prison. He had enough things to be ashamed of.
"Since I'm going to be gone, I wanted to give you my mobile phone number in case you need to get in touch with me. I won't have my phone on much, but I'll check it once or twice a day so you can leave a message on my voice mail and I'll call you back when I can. I'll also leave my pager number."
She was going undercover. "This is about the Lucia Killer, isn't it?" he asked, his heart beginning to thunder. He could feel it in his chest and in his head.
"I can't tell you what I'm doing."
That's what it was.
"Don't go. Don't do it."
"I've already made plans. Don't worry. It won't be any big deal."
When he was little, his grandmother used to tell him that the seizures brought him closer to God. Sometimes when he came back she'd say, "How was your visit with God, sweet pea?"
Now that his seizures were more severe, he figured he spent a lot more time with God, a lot more time letting him whisper in his ear. But was it really God?
His seizure seemed to have opened a direct path to Gillian's brain, and he suddenly felt as if she were made of transparent glass. He could see through her skull to the gray matter beneath. On a threadlike rope were sentences that exposed her to him. It was her slanted handwriting, written in little snippets of information.
I'll be working on the murder case.
Something secret.
Something I can't tell.
I love you.
What?
He stared at her brain.I love you. That's what it said.
He continued to stare at the lettering, wishing he could save it somehow. As he stared, she continued to talk as she dug into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. She jotted something down, then pushed the paper across the door table. He saw her mouth move, saw her smile up at him.
She got to her feet.
I love you.
Why hadn't she ever told him how she felt about him? Why had she been hiding it, playing this game?
I wanted you to discover it for yourself.
Had she spoken those words out loud? Yes. He was sure she had. And now his heart was singing with happiness.
At last certain of her feelings for him, he stepped forward and boldly grabbed her by both arms. He pulled her to him and pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips blossomed under his, all soft and welcoming and warm. He pushed her backward on the couch and fell on top of her, his mouth never leaving hers. He released her arm to shove a hand up her shirt, immediately working his way under her bra, her breast filling his hand.
He breathed in her intoxicating scent, his head full of her, his blood pounding, roaring through his veins. I love you, I love you!
He felt her hands on his back, pulling him close, tugging at him, pushing slapping, shoving, shoving, shoving- He broke away in surprise.
"What the hell are you doing?" she screamed.
Stunned, he jumped to his feet, away from her.
She was lying on the couch, her shirt twisted under her armpits, her bra above one breast, her eyes large and angry and frightened.
"I thought, I didn't mean-"
She sat up, dropping her blouse to cover her nakedness.
"Gillian, don't be afraid of me. Please don't be afraid of me. You're the only friend I have. Please-"
"This is how you treat your friends? You try to rape them?"
Rape? "No." He raised an imploring hand to her. "No-"
"If it is, then fuck you, Gavin Hitchcock. Fuck you."
He heard the front door slam shutand her stomping footsteps, followed by her car squealing away from the curb.
And he realized it hadn't been God whispering in his ear at all-it had been the devil.
Chapter 18
Three days after her abduction and subsequent escape, Holly Lindstrom checked the peephole and then answered her front door. Standing on the step was a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl. She had blond hair with lighter streaks, cut very cool, curving in under a small, pointed chin. She wore a white crop top and beige hip-huggers with jogging shoes. Her flat stomach was tan, and her belly button was pierced.
Holly had secretly gotten her belly button pierced once, but it ended up getting infected and she'd had to tell her parents. The stud was taken out, the site cleaned, and she'd been put on antibiotics. The whole episode had been gross, but whenever she saw someone with a cool navel ring, she still wanted one.
"Yeah?" Holly asked.
"Don't you recognize me?" the girl asked, smiling broadly. "I'm your cousin, Gillian."
Gillian? Oh, shit! Holly thought in disbelief. Gillian? This was the cop who was supposed to be living with them?
Holly was standing there with her mouth hanging open when Gillian let out an excited squeal, wrapped her arms around her, and gave her a huge hug, the screen door hitting her in the ass.
"I can't believe I'm going to be living here with you," Gillian said. "Come help me get my stuff."
Holly followed her outside. "This is your car?" Holly asked, staring at the Mustang convertible.
"Isn't it great? It's a '65. Dad restored it for me." Gillian put down a huge suitcase and then made a face. "That was last year. Before I started getting into trouble."