“Me too.”
He chews on the side of his lip. “Do you…?” He doesn’t even finish the question. He knows the answer. “Look, you’ve got my number. You know where I work and where I live. So… I’m here, if you ever want to… you know.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. We both know I’m never going to call him. “Bye, Brady. Thanks.”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah…”
I slam the door closed, then I start the engine and take off. I don’t look back, but when I glance in the rearview mirror, Brady is still standing on the street where I left him.
Watching me.
Chapter 15
Twenty minutes later, I walk into my own empty house from the garage. My clogs echo throughout the room with each step on the hardwood floor.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out.
I stand in the foyer, unable to move forward. I close my eyes and imagine some other kind of life. Where I would say those words, and somebody else—someone like Brady—would come out to greet me. Would put his arms around me and tell me he’s been keeping dinner warm in the oven.
I push my ridiculous fantasies aside and go to the kitchen. My stomach growls painfully. Maybe I should’ve let Brady order that pizza after all. What difference would it have made if I had stayed there another hour? It might’ve been nice…
No. I was right to leave. I didn’t like who I was when I was with him. Itscaredme.
My laptop is on the kitchen counter, where I left it last night. Even though I’m starving, I go straight for my laptop.I open up the screen and go to the Google search engine. And even though I shouldn’t, I type in the name Brady Mitchell.
This is a completely pointless exercise, considering I’m never going to see him again. It’s a relief to see that his social media presence is minimal. He’s not tweeting crazy stuff about wanting to shoot up a mall. He doesn’t seem to have a Twitter account at all. He just has a Facebook page, and there’s a perfectly nice, normal headshot of him. But that’s all I can see because the profile is locked.
It makes sense, because Bradyisnice. Maybe I made a huge mistake running out of there like that. But if I want to, I can call him. So the fact that I’m not reaching for my phone is telling.
I close the browser window where I’ve been searching for Brady and bring up a new search bar. This time, I type in a different name: Amber Swanson.
The first website that comes up is a news article.Twenty-five-year-old bank teller found floating in San Joaquin River.
I quickly skim the details. Most of it is what the detective told me. Amber’s body was discovered early this morning by some teenagers. She had last been seen two days earlier and had not shown up for work since that time. The coroner reported she had been dead about a day.
So between her disappearance and her death, she was held captive somewhere. Alive.
The article also mentions the fact that the body was found with her hands severed. They don’t mention any connection to Aaron Nierling. And why should they? He’sin prison. Eighteen life sentences, certainly no chance of parole.
It’s a coincidence. Plenty of sick people out there do sick things.
I close my eyes and try to remember Amber. She was pretty out of it before her surgery, but she was very sweet at her follow-up appointment. Much like Henry Callahan, she thanked me for saving her life.You did a great job, Dr. Davis. And the scar is so tiny! I can totally hide it under my bikini.
Like with Callahan, I decided to do an open surgery rather than using the cameras. It’s always my preference when I have a choice.
I click on another link, which goes to one of Amber’s social media profiles. There’s a picture of her wearing a bikini, sitting on the beach, a pair of Ray-Bans on her nose. She’s grinning at the camera. She looks so young and happy. She had so many years of life left in her.
I hope they catch whoever did this to her. I hope that person goes to prison for a long time.
I hear a thump coming from the back door. It’s the cat again. I shut my laptop and get up to grab a can of cat food. Beef this time. It’s getting late—poor thing must be starving.
Thump.
“All right, I’m coming!” I call out. Not that she can understand me. I don’t have a sense of what cats are aware of, although that particular cat sometimes seems very smart.
I yank the lid off the can of cat food and drop it in thetrash. I wrench open the back door and…
There’s nothing there. No cat.
