TWENTY-ONE
Serena parked in her driveway at home. She didn’t get out of the car. She turned off her cell phone and sat silently in the darkness.
She remembered the first time it happened with Deidre, when she was eighteen. She was in the shower. Deidre knew that she went into little fugues sometimes under the water, letting it pour over her head as the memories came back, hoping it would somehow rise above her mouth and drown her. In Phoenix, she used to take showers after Blue Dog, her mother’s drug dealer, was finished with her. Brown water, lukewarm, then cold.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there that first time. Frozen. Lost. She felt like a quadriplegic, aware of her surroundings but unable to move or react, helpless to stop what was happening to her. Forced to rewind her past and watch it occurring over and over. As if, in the two years since she had escaped from Phoenix, she had not escaped at all but been consumed by a single, silent scream.
Then she felt someone else crawl inside her cocoon. Without a sound, out of nowhere, Deidre was there with her. Behind her, in the shower, naked flesh against naked flesh. Deidre’s lips were by her ear, and she was cooing over and over, “It’s okay, baby.”. Deidre’s hands encircled her stomach and held her gently, nurtured her, saved her. Serena leaned back against her, and something seized inside. A cofferdam of fear and shame began to grow fissures and give way. Serena sobbed. Her whole body trembled, and she was indescribably cold, frigid to her soul, except for the warmth of Deidre behind her. The more the tears fell, the more Deidre held her and soothed her.
It’s okay, baby.
Serena turned around and buried her head in Deidre’s shoulder, and still Deidre held her, letting her cry herself out. She didn’t know how long they stood there, as she climbed out of her flooded cave and back into the light. The water of the shower was still on; it was cold, but they were warm. When Serena finally looked into Deidre’s eyes, she felt free. She stared with exhilaration into Deidre’s damp, beautiful face and felt love and gratitude overwhelming her, morphing into passion. Deidre began, and Serena didn’t stop her. She joined in. Their lips came together. Their slippery bodies seemed to merge. She felt Deidre relishing her touch, and the more Deidre responded, the more Serena strove to give her pleasure. Kissing her. Massaging the hollow of her back. Hearing her whispered pleas to go further. Sliding fingers inside her, everywhere, front and back, deep and probing. Wanting to climb inside her.
In her memory, they seemed to glide, dripping, from the shower to the bed, then to spend hours together as night fell outside, making love to each other over and over in the squeaking twin bed where Serena usually slept alone. When they had sated each other, they fell asleep, exhausted, entwined.
They spent six months as lovers. She knew that Deidre wanted it to stay that way. In the beginning, so did Serena. She was afraid of men and felt safe in Deidre’s arms. She had no mother, and Deidre played that role for her, too. That was enough for a while.
As Serena’s confidence in herself came back, though, she realized that their relationship was built on sand. She loved Deidre, but she didn’t want to be her lover anymore. She wanted to see what she could build for herself, on her own, not leaning on anyone or running to someone to rescue her.
They argued about it. Deidre became hysterical. It finally dawned on Serena that Deidre was the frightened one, the one who needed love and was afraid of men. Deidre was the one who couldn’t live without Serena.
Serena ended it anyway. That was how Deidre’s new life started-the dive into prostitution and drugs. She always thought Deidre did it to get back at her, to throw it in her face. Serena still blamed herself. Her fault. Her guilt. Deidre had been there for her at the worst time in her life, and in the end, Serena walked away when Deidre needed her help. She just let her die without going to see her, without trying to comfort her.
Serena sat in her car, watching the memories play out in her head. She was eighteen-again. That was how it felt. When Claire walked out on that stage, Serena saw Deidre. When Claire touched her, she felt Deidre’s hands. They were nothing alike, but that didn’t matter. Claire was right. Serena wanted her. She wanted to follow Claire back into that shower, strip, kiss, touch, and find a way to make love to Deidre again. To tell her how sorry she was. To tell her everything would be fine.
It’s okay, baby.
TWENTY-TWO
What’s next?” Amanda asked. They stood outside Moose’s house.
“I’m calling Walker Lane again in the morning,” Stride said. “I don’t care what the hell Sawhill says.”
“ Walker won’t admit killing Amira.”
“No, but he may know who’s doing this and why. This isn’t some random vendetta. It’s personal.”
“If Walker did kill Amira, why didn’t Boni erase him?” Amanda asked. “Assuming Moose is right about Boni and Amira being lovers.”
Stride thought about the penthouse suite in the Charlcombe Towers and Boni Fisso looking down on his old casino-and his new Orient project. “It’s one thing to kill members of the family, but a CEO and a celebrity like Walker-that’s a lot harder to cover up. If Walker Lane was murdered or disappeared, people would ask questions.”
“ Walker did disappear,” Amanda said. “He ran to Canada.”
Stride nodded. “Maybe he was running from Boni. Maybe he’s still running.”
He heard his cell phone ringing. He grabbed it, expecting a call from Serena, but he didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID.
“Stride,” he answered.
He heard a man’s voice, flat and unemotional. A stranger. “Have you found her yet?”
Stride knew without having to ask. From the moment he had seen the killer leave the fingerprint for them at the Oasis, he had suspected that a time like this would come. The man would find a way to make contact. To make it personal.
He snapped his fingers sharply at Amanda to alert her. She read his face as he gestured at the phone. He punched the speakerphone button. “We’re at Moose’s house now,” he said.
“Not her,” the voice retorted impatiently. “Not the girl.”
“Who are you talking about?” Stride asked. He mouthed to Amanda, Another victim?
“You’re going to have to move faster, Detective. I don’t have time to spoon-feed you clues. I drove out in a silver Lexus. That should narrow it down.”
Stride listened for gloating in the man’s voice and didn’t hear it. He didn’t sound unbalanced, like a monster. “Why call me now?” Stride asked.
“I’m doing your job for you, Detective. I’m going to catch a murderer.”
“Why commit murder to catch a killer?” Stride asked him sharply. “These people, the ones you killed, were innocent. Why not just come in and tell us what you think you know about Amira’s death? Let us get justice for her.”
“Like you’ve done for forty years?” the man asked.
“You killed a little boy,” Stride snapped. “That’s worse than any thing that happened back then.”
There was a long silence in which he thought he’d succeeded in finding a vein and drawing blood. He heard the man’s breathing become more rapid and harsh.
“You don’t understand what happened back then,” the man said finally.
“Explain it to me,” Stride said. “And tell me what all of this has to do with you.” He wasn’t talking to an older man-at most, maybe someone his own age. There was no way he had been a participant in the events that happened at the Sheherezade.
“Are you there?” Stride added when the man didn’t reply. “Hello?”
The silence stretched out into dead air. He checked his phone and found the call was over. The caller had disconnected.
When he punched a button to redial the number, it rang and rang without being picked up.