CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Listen to this,” Jared said to Z, playing a song for her on his laptop. They were sitting side by side at the massive kitchen island at Z’s house, picking at the remains of a plate of pizza bagels. It was the only thing Jared knew how to make in an oven, but they were always baked to perfection.

Z listened to the melancholy beat of the song, the near whisper of the singer’s voice rising with the guitar riff behind him.

“I don’t know, it’s kind of depressing,” she said honestly.

Jared cocked his head at her. “Since when is anything too depressing for you?”

It was a good point. Z wasn’t used to not feeling dark all the time. Until now, life had always felt as though she was trying to walk up the down escalator. She still didn’t know if she could fully trust Patricia and Nash yet (after all, they’d introduced themselves by secretly drugging her), but getting to see who she was without the depression was worth it so far. When was the last time she’d actually wanted to get out of bed in the morning?

“No, I mean, I like it. Obviously.”

He smiled. “I knew you would.”

Good. She’d saved it. It wasn’t that difficult to keep the secret about the serum from Jared — they didn’t really get into deep personal conversations. Sometimes Jared felt more like a golden retriever than a boyfriend. Someone who was just inexplicably happy to hang out with her at all times. When she’d overheard Jared calling her his girlfriend a few months ago, she hadn’t argued the point. It wasn’t as if she was dating anyone else, and she knew he didn’t expect her to do typical girlfriend things like have dinner with his parents, show public affection or go to prom. Instead they saw bands together a few times a week, something they totally bonded over. If there was one thing Jared knew, it was music. Every genre, every sound.

“Tell me what you think of this,” he said as he clicked on another song. “I’m kind of obsessed with it.”

As a male falsetto burst from the computer against a choppy beat, Scott strolled into the kitchen in his gym clothes.

“Whoever this guy is, he sounds like a drowning cat,” Scott said, nodding toward the laptop.

Jared laughed and Z shot him an annoyed look.

“What?” Jared said with a shrug.

Scott grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’m going for a run,” he said to no one in particular.

“It’s supposed to rain,” Jared said to him.

“It’s always supposed to rain in this crappy town,” Scott muttered as he walked out.

Z turned to Jared. “Why are you so nice to him when he’s so rude all the time?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever heard of killing someone with kindness?”

“I’ve heard of killing someone,” Z mumbled.

*    *    *

A few hours later, she climbed into bed, wriggling uncomfortably beneath her comforter. Now that Jared wasn’t there to distract her, she couldn’t avoid thinking about tomorrow, already feeling nervous.

She was supposed to meet Nash outside an apartment in Falcon Rock in the morning. It belonged to Sadie Webb, the waitress from the Tipsy Tavern Gabby had seen in her vision, whose bracelet had somehow made it to Lily’s cabin. Z probably wouldn’t have to say anything tomorrow, but she was still anxious. Her sole purpose was to listen to what Sadie said and act as a human lie detector. Maybe Sadie would bring them one step closer to finding out what had happened to Lily.

As Z stared at the ornate light fixture on her ceiling, she finally zeroed in on the source of her nerves. The fear of failure. It would be the first time she was meeting Nash alone, without the rest of the group, the other Lost Causes, as they’d named themselves that night in Falcon Rock. Without the others around, the burden of pulling through with the next lead would be solely on her. And that was nerve-racking. For years, Z had managed to evade feeling the pressure to succeed. If nothing mattered, then you couldn’t ever really fail. Tonight, though, she felt the weight that came with actually wanting to accomplish something — and the accompanying self-doubt. What if she couldn’t hear Sadie’s thoughts while Nash was questioning her? So far she’d only conjured up her ability at random moments. She had no idea how to make it work on command. What if she couldn’t deliver? Besides knowing the sky-high stakes of moving the case forward, Z didn’t want to let down the other Lost Causes, who would no doubt be keenly waiting to hear how she fared on her solo assignment.

It proved to be a sleepless night, and with only an hour left until she needed to leave, she dragged herself downstairs to the kitchen for some caffeine.

She was sipping her triple espresso, an untouched bagel in front of her, when she heard the quiet tapping of footsteps on marble floor. She grimaced as her mother swept into the room, her post-facial skin tight and glowing. Nicole Chapman hadn’t grown up with money, but she wore it comfortably like a second skin. She made her way to the fridge and pulled out a Perrier.

“Good morning, Zelda.”

Z cringed as she always did when her mother called her by her real name. She and her brother had been named after F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, a couple famous for their dramatically dysfunctional relationship. Though her mother had never bothered to read The Great Gatsby, she had apparently been collecting 1920s flapper dresses at the time of the twins’ birth, so she found the names chic. Her parents could hardly blame Z for turning out depressed after naming her for a woman who lived her last years in a psychiatric hospital. Not to mention the fact that there was something sick and incestuous about naming a brother and sister after a married couple.

“It’s getting crisp out there. After a year in Florida, I almost forgot what fall looks like,” her mother said more to herself than to Z. They could go days without having a direct conversation. Z always told herself it was because her mother was superficial, living in her own two-dimensional world. Was it actually because her mother had long given up on her? Though her parents had provided Z with beautiful cars to drive, luxurious homes to sleep in and credit cards she refused to use, they’d also given her nothing. They didn’t care when she was depressed. And they certainly hadn’t noticed that she was now happier. (Not even when she’d laughed — laughed — at a kitten GIF the other night.) If nothing else, they were consistent in their lack of ability to muster interest in their daughter.

Z got up and tossed her bagel in the trash, finally accepting the fact that she was too nervous to eat it. Just as she was about to walk out of the kitchen, the ringing in her ears stopped her dead in her tracks.

I wonder if she saw Steven come home last night.

Z looked at her mother, who was leaning over the counter on her elbows, absently flipping through Veranda magazine. She’d always wondered about her parents’ relationship, which appeared flawless in public. It was hard, even for Z, who lived with them, to get a read on where they stood with each other for real. Sometimes it seemed that the only people who really knew her father were the people who did business with him.

“Where was Dad last night?”

Her mother’s head shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Where did Dad go last night?” Z asked again, trying to sound more casual this time.

“You’ll have to ask him. I never heard him come home.” She gave Z a withering look, as if Steven’s odd hours were somehow Z’s fault, and huffed out of the kitchen.

*    *    *

Nash was already waiting for Z when she pulled into the designated spot a block away from Sadie’s apartment building. He was leaning against the white van in gray pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, and could easily have been mistaken for a college student. The residential street was deserted except for a man raking the leaves off his front lawn as if each one was personally insulting him.

“Are you ready?” Nash asked.

Z nodded, but there was one thing she needed to do first. She pulled a slip of paper out of her back pocket and handed it to Nash.

He unfolded it, reading what Z had scrawled on it. “What’s this?”

“The name of the bartender who tried to roofie Sabrina.”

Nash kept his eyes on the paper.

“You are an FBI agent,” she reminded him. “I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.” It was the least she could do, considering she now had the energy to care about justice being served.

“Noted.” Nash folded the paper and put it into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

Z tried to keep up with his brisk pace as they approached the apartment building.

“This woman could be dangerous, right?” Aside from Sadie’s bracelet, which had Lily Carpenter’s blood on it, there was the fact, Z remembered, that Sadie seemed to be in the habit of carrying a gun.

“She could be,” Nash said. “That’s what you’re here to find out.”

Z tried to ignore the implicit pressure he’d just put on her. “Fine. But wouldn’t it make more sense to bring her into the office for questioning?”

“People tend to clam up under those circumstances. Or worse, lawyer up.”

“How are you going to explain why I’m here?” She was aware she sounded like Jared when he bombarded her with a million questions, but the fourth espresso she’d had on the way had left her more jittery than she’d realized.

“Just follow my lead.”

Sadie Webb’s address was a neglected four-story apartment building that hadn’t had any major renovations done since the eighties. The pale yellow stucco was faded and peeling, and the clothes strewn haphazardly across several of the balconies gave the dingy building its only pop of color.

When they reached the entrance door, Nash punched a combination of numbers into the keypad outside. The door made a loud buzzing sound and the lock unclicked. Z didn’t even ask how he knew the combination.

She was practically twitching with self-doubt as they entered the building. What was she doing here? Why were Patricia and Nash so sure she was up for this task, when Z herself was far from convinced?

“What if I hear your thoughts instead of hers?” she asked Nash.

“You won’t hear my thoughts.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

Z raised an eyebrow. She was not exactly an open book, but Nash was like an impenetrable vault. Was it because he was in the FBI and trained to subvert his thoughts? Or was it more than that? Did he have his own secrets to hide?

The elevator had a yellow Out of Order sign taped to the doors, so they climbed the four flights of stairs to Sadie’s apartment. It was hard to keep up with Nash’s long strides because the soles of her combat boots kept sticking to whatever had been recently spilled in the stairwell. With each step, she became more anxious, but it was pointless to continue asking Nash questions. She wasn’t going to get any real answers from him and he certainly wasn’t going to give her a pep talk. When they reached apartment 4D, Nash rapped on the door purposefully. He tried again when no one opened the door after a few moments. Z strained to hear footsteps on the other side of the door, but it was difficult with the techno music blasting from a neighbor’s apartment.

“Do you have a weapon?” Z whispered, not sure what she wanted the answer to be.

“I do.”

Just then the door opened with the chain attached, and the woman Gabby had described from her vision peered out at them suspiciously.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“I need to ask you a few questions, Ms. Webb,” Nash answered.

“You a cop?”

Nash showed her his badge. She scrutinized it with a practiced eye, as if this was not the first law enforcement official to show up unannounced at her door.

“FBI, huh?” Sadie glanced at something or someone behind her in the apartment. Z willed herself to hear what Sadie was thinking, but all she heard was her own heart beating. Was there someone else in the apartment? Was Sadie sending some sort of signal? “You’ve got five minutes, then I’ve got to go to work.”

The door closed loudly, then the chain rattled and it opened again.

“Come on in,” Sadie said in an overly enthusiastic voice dripping with sarcasm. She took a good look at Z for the first time and studied her so harshly that Z looked away. “Who’s she?”

“She’s a spiritual adviser to the FBI,” Nash told her.

“Spiritual adviser? Like a psychic?”

Z wasn’t sure how to answer. Luckily, Nash replied for her. “Something like that.” He stepped into the apartment. “Didn’t you say you had to get to work soon?”

The apartment wasn’t just clean, it was immaculate, without a particle of dust. The faint scent of lemon and cleaning solution suggested the small living room and adjoining kitchen had been freshly scrubbed down. Had Sadie washed important evidence away? There were only two small windows, but the shades were drawn, making it a little hard to see.

Z sat next to Nash on the brown velour couch, her hands clasped on her lap. Sadie perched on the end of the matching armchair across from them as if to say she wasn’t bothering to take the time to get comfortable.

“How do you know Lily Carpenter?” Nash asked directly.

“Who’s that?” Sadie asked. Z strained to hear something, anything, praying for the ringing in her ears to consume her.

Nash held up a photograph of Lily on his phone.

Sadie squinted. “Isn’t she the one who got popped? I’ve seen her on the news, but I don’t know her or anything.”

Nash gave Z a quick look, but she could only shrug. Nothing was coming to her.

“Does this look familiar to you?” Nash held up a plastic bag containing the rose-gold bracelet.

Sadie nearly dove off the armchair, trying to grab it. “Where did you find it? I thought that bastard stole it!”

Nash’s posture was alert, like a guard dog’s when first hearing the sound of an intruder. “What bastard?”

Sadie avoided the question, keeping her eyes firmly planted on the bracelet. “I want that back. It was the only thing my piece-of-crap father ever bought me before he croaked.”

“If it belongs to you, then I’m sure you can explain how it ended up at a crime scene. It’s evidence in a murder investigation.”

Sadie crossed her arms over her chest. “A murder investigation? I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t seen that bracelet in weeks.”

“What happened to it?”

“I … I … lost it.”

It didn’t take a psychic to know she was lying. Z had to find a way to hear her. Patricia had told them the serum heightened abilities that were already within them. If there was any way this was going to work, Z had to trust that and ignore all her inner noise.

Z breathed in the lemon-scented air, then slowly exhaled on the count of three. Her mother’s yoga instructor said that helped clear the mind. She tuned out the sound of her beating heart and forced the bass from the techno music next door to melt into the walls. She heard Nash ask Sadie another question, but she focused all of her senses on Sadie’s mind. She took another deep breath, the techno music now almost feeling hypnotic. The ringing in her ears erupted so loudly that she winced.

If he did that to me at the motel, who knows what he’d do if I gave the feds his name. He’d probably kill me.

“… but I can’t help you if I don’t know anything,” Sadie was saying indignantly to Nash when Z snapped out of her trance-like state.

“We know what he did to you at the motel,” Z said quietly. Nash glanced at her, expressionless. Now he was the one following her lead.

Sadie stiffened. “How the hell did you find out about that?”

Z exhaled and the ringing began again.

It’s not like I went to the cops. It must’ve been that stupid cow at the front desk. She was looking at the bruises funny.

“The front desk clerk told us,” Z said. This was easier than she’d thought it could be.

Sadie groaned. “It was my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have gone there with some jerk I didn’t know …”

He didn’t look like a guy who was going to punch a girl in the face.

Z felt sheltered and small, with a burst of empathy for this woman. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

Nash shifted his weight on the couch. “And is this the man you met at the motel?”

He pulled out a paper from his back pocket, unfolding it as he placed it on the coffee table, revealing a zoomed-in grainy image of Sadie Webb and a man. Nash and Patricia hadn’t mentioned anything about a photo.

Sadie glared at him. “How did you —”

“This is a street-cam photo from outside the Tipsy Tavern the night you met him.”

They must have pulled photos from that night after Gabby identified Sadie. Z tried not to look too eager as she peered at the photo. The man was young, no more than thirty, and unquestionably attractive, though in an edgy way, with a beard and long brown hair to his shoulders. He looked as though he’d be at home riding in a motorcycle gang or playing bass in a death-metal band.

His arm was slung around Sadie and his lips were curled into a sinister smile. Or maybe Z was just projecting. Soon after this photo was taken, he’d assaulted Sadie in their motel room. Was he already thinking about it at that point? Relishing the thought of how his fist would shatter her cheek?

“That’s him,” Sadie said, a little of her earlier resistance chipping away.

“And he stole your bracelet that night?” Nash confirmed.

“He knocked me out, and when I woke up a few hours later, my bracelet and wallet were gone.” Z winced, picturing Sadie lying unconscious on the floor while this man ripped the bracelet off her wrist.

“Was that all he took?” Nash asked.

Sadie hesitated. “My gun, too.” She sighed. “If I’d gotten to it faster, none of this would’ve happened.”

“What type of gun was it?”

“I was just about to register it, if that’s why you’re asking,” she answered defensively. “It was a .357 Magnum.”

Something flickered in Nash’s eyes.

“I need the man’s name,” Nash said, leaning forward.

Sadie shrugged. “I don’t know it. He made this big deal about no names and no job talk. I thought it was sexy at the time.”

Nash eyed her skeptically. “Do you remember if he paid you at the restaurant with a credit card?”

“Cash.”

Z glanced at Nash, expecting him to leave. They needed the name, and she didn’t know it. But Nash just kept staring Sadie down, not moving a muscle. A tactic he’d learned in FBI training?

A second later the ringing nearly blasted out Z’s eardrums.

I don’t care how long this guy looks at me like that, I’m not telling him I saw that psycho’s license when he paid. Devon Warner. I’ll never forget that creep’s name.

Devon Warner.

Z had gotten the name herself.

“Well, thanks for your time,” Z blurted, standing up. Nash instantly stood to leave as well. He knew Z had what they needed.

And it was just in time because, as soon as they stepped out of the apartment, Z’s nose started gushing blood.