Chapter 68

  Petal

  “You don’t remember who I am, do you?”

  The man sounds bitter as he asks that question, casting me quick glances from the side while he drives us away from the house. He’s a tall man, almost as tall as Jayson, and he seems to be about the same age. I study his face, the light eyes and the blond hair that flees in thin ruffles from his head. He seems familiar, but I can’t place him at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “My memory—”

  “Has been erased. Yeah, I know that,” he interrupts me, while his hand tightens around the steering wheel. “I can’t believe he did that, again.”

  He’s said that before. Again.

  “Was this not... the first time?” I wonder out loud.

  The man huffs. “No. With you, he has done it before.”

  “When?”

  “Long time ago.” He grimaces, moving his lips as if he was trying to stop himself from saying something wrong. “You were a human guinea pig for him. He erased something from your mind, and when word got out about it, people fell on their knees in front of this lunatic. Suddenly, everybody wanted a piece, and he was all too happy to provide.”

  My mouth falls open as I listen, unsure what to make of his words, let alone how to respond.

  “Jayson Bowlan took advantage of you,” the man continues, arching his eyebrows with intent as he throws me a look from the side. “What he did to you was wrong on so many levels. He changed you; he messed you up. You were a different person when you came to, and instead of punishing him, those idiots rewarded him with fame and money.”

  He scoffs with disgust, shaking his head while the street lights cast changing shadows across his strained face.

  “He’s a murderer, you know,” he hurries to add, giving me no chance to follow up on his former statement. “He kidnaps women, locks them away like he did with you, and then he kills them. That’s what he does.”

  A tight clamp closes around my throat. I feel like I’m being pushed underwater, unable to come up for air.

  No, it can’t be. I don’t want to believe this.

  “The Bridgewater murderer?” My voice is so weak that I’m not even sure he could hear me, but the guy nods emphatically.

  “Exactly,” he says. “That’s what they call him.”

  The newspaper headline flashes up before my eyes, and my busy mind is connecting dots before I know it. The sedative, the time frame. Four years since that mysterious evening at his house. The evening that I can mostly remember in the form of emotions and fragmented images, but I know it didn’t end well.

  Four years since that murderer was striking terror in this area. Using sedatives to control his victims, just like Jayson does for his job.

  It all makes sense.

  But on the other hand, it doesn’t.

  “I got you out right in time,” the man says. “You’re lucky we got there before he...”

  His voice breaks off, and he shakes his head as if to cast away a dark thought.

  “You know, you and I, we go way back,” he says now, meeting my questioning gaze with a reassuring smile. “We were close, very close. Went to school together, graduated together. We were friends, Liliane. Very close friends. And even more than that.”

  Liliane. Is that my name? Why does it not touch anything within me? It was different when Jayson told me his name. I felt something, a reaction, a foggy memory dancing around inside my head while teasing me with images I couldn’t place.

  But this name, the one that the man uses to address me, it doesn’t do anything to me.

  I turn to him, narrowing my eyes with focus. “What’s your name?”

  “Christopher,” he replies with such implicitness that I feel instantly ashamed for asking.

  “Christopher,” I repeat, tasting the name just like I did with Jayson when he first shared it with me. “Christopher.”

  He side eyes me, looking slightly annoyed as I keep repeating his name. There’s a spark of familiarity every time it rolls over my tongue, but nothing more than that. A spark, short and not bright enough to provide a light I could follow. It may be true that I’ve known this man before, but is he saying the truth about us being close?

  “Why are you doing that?” he wants to know, sounding bothered. “Why do you keep repeating my name like that?”

  “It... it helps me remember,” I reply, lowering my gaze as I’m washed over with a wave of shame. “Names, things, words—if I focus on them long enough, I sometimes manage to remember.”

  He nods. “So, it’s not all lost then? You can access your memory if you just try hard enough?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” I say, shaking my head. His words hurt. It sounds like he’s blaming me for this, as if the ability to remember just depends on my sheer will to do so.

  If only it were that simple.

  But maybe there is some truth to it? After all, there was a way for me to look behind the wall that’s been erected inside my head. The images were hazy and lacked detail, but they were still, still providing hints to the things that have been taken from me.

  Taken, because I wanted them gone.

  Maybe it is true that I’m denied access to most of my memories because I don’t really want to remember.

  But why would I want to forget someone who has been a close friend to me all my life? Why would I want to forget this Christopher guy?

  And if what he says about Jayson is true, why am I still alive? Why did I never feel like my life was in actual danger? And what was the girl’s role in all of this? I could feel that the connection with her was deep and genuine. If she really was a friend, why would she help a murderer to get me? Or did she simply not know that was what she was doing?

  Is this so hard to believe, because Jayson is a master at brainwashing people or because it simply isn’t true? My instincts tell me it’s the latter, but I don’t trust myself.

  Right now, at this very moment, I don’t trust anything—or anyone, for that matter.

  And that includes this policeman next to me, my alleged savior who claims he rescued me from a murderer.

  “How did you find me?”

  He stops the car at a red light, letting out a sigh as he turns to me.

  “Malia came to the station and ratted him out,” he says.

  “Malia?”

  His eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head.

  “Malia, your best friend. Oh for fuck’s sake.”

  I flinch when he slaps the steering wheel with such force that it must cause him pain.

  “You’re really blank this time, aren’t you?” he asks, disgust lacing his expression. “That fucker made you forget everything.”

  I try to ignore the insulting tone in his voice.

  “The black-haired girl,” I say. “Her name is Malia?”

  He rolls his eyes when he nods. “That’s right.”

  “So, she’s okay?” I press.

  He arches his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, of course she is. Why wouldn’t she?”

  I sigh with relief. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, the first in a while. That’s one less thing to worry about. Despite everything else, she is okay. And her name is Malia.

  “Malia,” I whisper. “Malia.”

  “Oh, not that again,” Christopher complains, starting the car with a sudden jolt that pushes me back into the seat.

  “Sorry.”

  I mouth the name silently, turning away so he won’t see my lips moving. As I see the town pass by through my window, I realize that I don’t even know where I am, where I’ve spent the past few days.

  “Where are we?” I ask. “What town is this?”

  He can’t suppress another sigh at my question, revealing that I should very well know where I am.

  “Newport, Rhode Island,” he says.

  “That is not my hometown,” I say, following an odd moment of clarity.

  “Correct,” he says. “You’re from Barrington, Massachusetts.”

  “Is that where we’re going?” I ask.

  He presses his lips together, refusing to look at me. “No.”

  “Where are we going? The police station?”

  Again, he doesn’t respond right away, letting a few moments of tense silence pass before he deigns me with a rather cryptic response.

  “We’re going somewhere where we can be alone,” he says, casting me a look from the side. “Just you and me, Liliane. Like it was always meant to be.”

  Chapter 69

  J

  “You were right. He’s not taking her to the station.”

  Carlos’s eyes are fixated on the tablet in his lap, watching a green dot moving along the street at a good distance before us.

  That dot represents Petal, and our distance to her is just as far as I’m comfortable with, far enough so Christopher won’t notice that he’s being followed, but close enough to ensure her safety.

  “Didn’t call the station either, nor her father,” Carlos adds, as he checks on Christopher’s phone activity on another screen. “You’d think that’s the first thing they’d do, right.”

  I nod. “I don’t think Christopher plans on reuniting Robert with his daughter any time soon.”

  Carlos throws a look back to me, his eyebrows arched in question. “What do you think his plan is?”

  I sigh, shifting on the backseat as my gaze wanders out to the window.

  “I don’t know,” I respond truthfully. “If he plans on hiding her somewhere, he’ll have to go into hiding himself.”

  “And you think he already has a place in mind?”

  “If he is who I think he is, yes,” I say. “He’ll take her to the same place as the others. But after that...”

  I break off, shaking my head, while Carlos turns his focus back to the tablet in his lap.

  I don’t think Christopher is going to kill her. Not like he did with the others. Petal is special to him.

  I can relate to the bastard in that regard. He doesn’t want anything other than I do. He wants to have her all to himself, he wants to own her.

  The only difference is, she doesn’t want to be with him. She never has. His unwelcome advances were the reason their friendship fell apart. She thought she had a friend in him, he thought she was meant to be his girlfriend, insisting that the whole town agreed. And her father. He may have been right about that part, but what does it matter?

  He never considered her wishes. No one did.

  And that includes me.

  I pushed her away, denying her something she wanted, just like they did. And telling myself that I did it for the right reason doesn’t make it any better.

  I thought my own pain was proof enough to tell that I was indeed doing the right thing. I sacrificed, I suffered for her. I lived in anguish so she could have the life she wanted.

  When she came back to town a few months ago, failure casting a black shadow over her as she tried to finally put her own dreams to rest and live the life her father always forced on her, I was no longer able to silence my own yearning. I never asked her to come, but I did show up at her flower shop, hoping for two things, none of which were present.

  I hoped the magic had gone. I hoped that four years of not seeing her would finally bring some sense into me.

  And I hoped to see her happy. I hoped to see her smiling, emitting the confidence of knowing that she chose exactly what she wanted for herself.

  Neither of the two were true when I saw her that day. That’s why I stepped inside. That’s why I showed myself to her, knowing that she’d come to me.

  I didn’t expect her to come with a demand this strong. I didn’t expect nor want to erase her memory to the extent she asked me to.

  But I was intrigued right away. Some people call me a freak, a lunatic, a psychopath even—and they’re not entirely wrong.

  I have a taste for the twisted, as does she. And this time, I didn’t deny either of us to act on that desire. I took her by the hand, leading the way as she dived into the darkness.

  I didn’t know where it would lead us, but I certainly didn’t expect to end up here, in a police car, chasing the man whose experience of being rejected by Petal has turned him into a killer.

  I can’t say the latter for sure, but the suspicion has been there for a while. When I talked to him at the police station for the first time, asking about possible relations between her disappearance and the legendary Bridgewater murderer, I could see his mind working, but not in the way one would expect. He rejected the idea, but formed another as he saw me in front of him.

  It was just a bad feeling back then, not enough to alarm my connections at the station. A man like me, with wealth and a name to himself, never has to worry about a lack of insight into things regular civilians are not supposed to see. I have good friends at the station, most of them older, more experienced and more influential than young Christopher.

  He’s known as a good guy, trustworthy, loyal and hardworking. When Petal rejected him and took off to California, Christopher and her father weren’t the only ones to mourn that decision.

  He’s so good for her, they said.

  How could she do this to him, they said.

  His popularity, the nice smile, the hurt boy look—all of it helped to fool them. They trusted him. No one saw it coming.

  No one ever had a closer look at him, until I asked them to. Until I asked them to check the autopsy report of the latest victim. Until I told them to check on the other victims as well, trying to find anything that might have been unusual.

  They did. And while what they found is not enough evidence to accuse him of the crimes committed, they certainly shed a different light on Christopher.

  The autopsy report of the latest victim had been tampered with. There was no mentioning of sedative in the original report, but that copy had been overwritten, using Christopher’s login data. He added that information in an apparent attempt to frame me for the murder. I don’t know if he already suspected Petal to be with me at the time he started his little intrigue, but boy must he have been elated when Malia showed up at the station to tell them where they could find her.

  I was already in contact with Carlos and his colleagues then, and I told them to play along, to let Christopher be the hero who rescued Petal from my grip. They knew about the legal contract I had with her and had no reason to suspect me of foul play, especially because Malia backed my story, albeit not with the right intention.

  I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see if Christopher would actually be stupid enough to take the bait and take Petal all to himself. Yes, I used her as bait, trusting in the fact that he wouldn’t hurt her, at least not right away. If he really is the Bridgewater murderer, he has killed before and would probably lack the inhibition to do it with her, too.

  But so far, that is nothing but a theory. He may just have tampered with the autopsy report to frame me, not caring whether they’d arrest the wrong man while the actual Bridgewater murderer was still out there—continuing with his sick deeds while enjoying his greatest catch yet.

  Petal.

  If he plans to take her into hiding, he’ll bring her to the same place as the others, I’m sure. And the fact that the green dot on Carlos’ tablet has passed the police station and is now leaving the town area, speaks for my theory.

  He took the bait.

  Now we’ll just have to wait and see what he does with it. With her.

  Chapter 70

  Petal

  “Just you and me, Liliane. Like it was always meant to be.”

  My blood freezes at his words. I tense up, suddenly feeling very lost and very helpless.

  Did I just go from smoke to smother?

  “What do you mean by that?” I probe, my heart racing with fear.

  A smirk spreads across his face.

  “Don’t worry, Liliane, I’ll treat you well. Better than he did, for sure,” he says. “Your friend, Malia, told me about the things he did to you. I promise you, you’ll never have to live through any of that with me.”

  He takes a deep breath, his features softening while he turns to me in an oddly robotic motion.

  “I love you, Liliane. I have loved you for years. I’d never let anything happen to you,” he adds. “And I can promise you that he will pay for what he did. You no longer have to worry about him.”

  “Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” I ask, ignoring his eerie declaration of love. “Why won’t you answer my question?”

  He lets out a heavy sigh, slowly shaking his head.

  “You’ll see, we’re almost there.”

  “Where?” I probe, my eyes scanning the landscape outside as we keep driving. It’s almost completely dark around us now. No buildings, no people, no lights and no traffic. We’re driving out to the middle of nowhere.

  My pulse speeds up, fueled by rising panic as I try to think of something that could declare my darkest thoughts and assumptions null and void.

  I may not remember knowing this man, but he’s a policeman. He can be trusted. Right?

  “Why are we not going to the police station?” I keep asking. “Where are we?”

  He doesn’t respond this time, but just keeps driving, moving us further and further away from a place I could feel safe at.

  “Christopher!” I urge. “Please talk to me; you’re scaring me!”

  He hushes me, moving his right hand over to my side. I flinch when he pats my upper thigh in a calming, yet possessive, manner. His touch makes me recoil, and I feel like I’m being choked in the worst way. I try to move away from him, but he only tightens his grip, his bony fingers digging into my flesh through the jeans Jayson made me put on just moments before this man showed up.

  My breathing turns erratic, almost impossible to control, but I try my best at it anyway. I need to remain calm, focused, alert. It’s my only chance.

  My hand moves up to my neck, tracing the outline of the metal collar that’s still closed around it.