The phone rings twice before that familiar voice greets me. “Aaron Jansen.”
“You asshole,” I say, not bothering with an introduction. I’m storming through the parking lot in the direction of my car. I had called into my office voice mail the second I handed over the guest book and replayed Aaron’s last message to me from Friday night.
You can call me back directly on this number.
“Chloe Davis,” he responds, the hint of a smile in his voice. “I thought I might hear from you today.”
“You visited my mother? You had no right.”
“I told you I’d be reaching out to your family in my voice mail. I gave you fair warning.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, you said my father. I don’t give a fuck about my father, but my mother is off-limits.”
“Let’s meet. Obviously, I’m in town. I’ll explain everything.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I am not meeting with you. What you did was unethical.”
“You really want to talk to me about ethics?” I stop, inches from my parked car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just meet me today. I’ll make it quick.”
“I’m busy,” I lie, unlocking my car and easing inside. “I have appointments.”
“I’ll come to your office, then. I’ll wait in the lobby until you have an opening.”
“No—” I exhale, closing my eyes. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. This back-and-forth is pointless, I realize. He’s not going to give up. He flew to Baton Rouge from New York City to meet with me, and if I want this man to stop digging around in my life, I’m going to have to
speak with him. Face-to-face. “No, please don’t do that. I’ll meet you, okay? I’ll meet you right now. Where do you want to go?”
“It’s still early,” he says. “How about coffee. My treat.”
“There’s a place on the river,” I say, pinching the skin between my eyes. “BrewHouse. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up on him before slamming my car into reverse and driving in the direction of the Mississippi. I’m only ten minutes from the café, but I want to make it there before him. I want to be sitting at a table of my choosing the moment he walks through the doors. I want to be in the driver’s seat for this conversation, not riding along as a powerless passenger. Not on the defensive, caught off guard the way I was just now.
I pull into a nearby spot and duck into the little café, a hidden gem on River Road partially cloaked by live oaks dripping in gray-green foliage. It’s dim inside, and I order a latte, my eyes landing on a bulletin board of flyers by the cream-and-sugar stand. Wedged between violin lessons being advertised with those little paper flaps and an upcoming concert poster is Lacey Deckler’s face, MISSING scrawled across the top in Sharpie. It’s stapled on top of another piece of the paper, the corners peeking out. I reach over and push the picture aside with my finger, revealing Aubrey’s poster behind it—already, she’s been replaced, taped over like a broken vending machine.
I slide into a table in the corner, choosing the seat that faces the front door. My fingers tap anxiously against the rim of my mug, and I force myself to hold them still, despite the nervous energy radiating from my every pore. Then I wait.
Fifteen minutes later, my latte is cold. I consider getting up to ask them to reheat it, but before I can move, I see Aaron walk in. I recognize him immediately from his picture online—he’s wearing another checkered, button-up shirt, the same stupid blue-blocker glasses—though he’s not as skinny as he was in his headshot. He fills out his clothes more than I had expected him to, his leather computer bag hanging heavy over one shoulder, pulling the fabric tight against a bicep I was not expecting to see. I wonder how long ago that picture was taken; immediately after college, I suppose. When he was still just a boy. I continue to stare, watching him amble
through the café, browsing the pastry cooler and squinting at the menu bolted behind the coffee bar. He orders a cappuccino and pays with cash, lazily licking his fingers before counting out the bills and dropping his change in the tip jar. Then he eyes the artwork on the wall while he waits for his espresso to brew, the scream of the steamer making my skin crawl.
For some reason, his calmness is bothering me. I was expecting him to run inside, eager to beat me the way I was eager to beat him. I wanted him panting, sweaty, playing catchup. Thrown off guard by my waiting. But instead, he shows up late. He’s acting like he has all the time in the world. He’s acting like he’s the one calling the shots—and that’s when I realize.
He knows I’m here. He knows I’m watching.
This calm demeanor, this careless attitude. It’s a show put on just for me. He’s trying to unnerve me, to get under my skin. The thought pisses me off more than it should.
“Aaron,” I yell, waving my hand too animatedly. He jerks his head up and looks in my direction. “I’m over here.”
“Chloe, hi,” he says, smiling. He walks over to the table and puts his bag on the chair. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“It’s Doctor Davis,” I say. “And you didn’t give me much of a choice.” He grins.
“I’m just waiting on my cappuccino,” he says. “Can I buy you anything?”
“No,” I say, motioning to the mug in my hands. “I’m good, thanks.” “You been here long?” he asks. “Your drink looks cold.”
I eye him, wondering how he could possibly know that. I must look confused, because I see him smirk just slightly before motioning to the condensation beading along the inner rim of my glass.
“No steam.”
“Just a couple minutes,” I say.
“Huh,” he says, eying my drink. “Well, if you want me to have that warmed up for you—”
“No. Let’s just get started.”
He smiles, nods. Then turns back toward the bar to grab his drink.
Well, it’s confirmed, I think, bringing my latte to my lips and wincing at the room-temperature liquid, forcing myself to drink. He’s an asshole. Aaron slides into the chair opposite me and pulls a notebook from his bag as I set my mug down. I steal a glance at his press card, clipped neatly to the lip of his shirt, the New York Times logo printed large at the top.
“Before you start taking any notes, I need to be clear,” I say. “This is not an interview. This is a very frank conversation of me telling you to stop harassing my family.”
“I hardly think calling you twice would be considered harassing.” “You visited my mother’s assisted-living home.”
“Yeah, about that,” he says, pushing his sleeves to his elbows. “I was in her room for two, three minutes tops.”
“I’m sure you got some really great information,” I say, glaring at him. “She’s a real talker, isn’t she?”
He’s silent for a while, staring at me from across the table.
“Honestly, I didn’t realize her … disability … was as severe as it is.
I’m sorry.”
I nod, satisfied with this tiny win.
“But talking to her isn’t why I went,” he says. “Not really. I thought I could maybe get a little bit of information, but mostly I went because I knew it would get your attention. I knew it would force you to meet with me.”
“And why is it that you’re so desperate to meet with me? I already told you. I don’t speak with my father. We don’t have a relationship. I can’t give you anything of value. Honestly, you’re wasting your time—”
“The story has changed,” he says. “That’s not the angle anymore.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure of where this conversation is now headed. “What’s the angle, then?”
“Aubrey Gravino,” he says. “And now Lacey Deckler.”
I feel my heartbeat start to rise in my chest. My eyes dart around the room, though the café is practically empty. I lower my voice to a whisper.
“Why would you think I have anything to say about those girls?”
“Because their deaths … I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think they have something to do with your father. And I think you can help me figure
out what that is.”
I shake my head, squeezing my hands tightly around my mug to keep them from shaking.
“Look, you’re reaching here. I know you think this makes for a good story, but as I’m sure you know—given your beat, and everything—this kind of thing happens all the time.”
Aaron smiles, impressed.
“You’ve researched me,” he says.
“Well, you know everything about me.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “But look, Chloe. There are similarities.
Similarities you can’t deny.”
I think back to the conversation with my mother just this morning. The creeping déjà vu I had just admitted to, the unsettling familiarity of it all. But this isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way, the first time I’ve re-created my father’s crimes in my mind. This has happened once before, and last time, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.
“You’re right, there are similarities,” I say. “A teenage girl got murdered by some creep roaming the streets. It’s unfortunate, but like I said, it happens all the time.”
“The twenty-year anniversary is coming up, Chloe. Abductions happen all the time, but serial killers do not. There’s a reason this is happening right here, right now. You know there is.”
“Whoa, who said anything about a serial killer? You are jumping so far into that conclusion. We have one body. One. For all we know, Lacey ran away.”
Aaron looks at me, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Now he’s the one who lowers his voice.
“You and I both know that Lacey didn’t run away.”
I sigh, glance over Aaron’s shoulder and through the window outside. The breeze is picking up, the Spanish moss swaying in the wind. I notice the sky is quickly morphing from robin’s-egg blue to a bloated storm gray; even inside, I can feel the heaviness of impending rain. Lacey is staring at me from her MISSING poster; her eyes followed me here, to this very table. I can’t bring myself to meet them.
“So what is it that you think is going on, exactly?” I ask, still staring outside at the trees in the distance. “My father is in prison. He’s a monster, I’m not denying that, but he’s not the boogeyman. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
“I know that,” he says. “I know it’s not him, obviously. But I think it’s someone trying to be him.”
I glance back at Aaron, gnaw at the inside of my lip.
“I think we’re dealing with a copycat here. And I’m willing to bet that before the week is over, someone else will be dead.”
