Chapter Four
Detective Simon doesn’t keep Greta Larsen waiting. The last time Jack’s sister was called into questioning, she complained so much he could barely get any information from her. She’d said the room was too dry, and would damage her voice. Simon decides he’ll treat this rich woman the way she thinks she deserves be treated to get what he wants. So, today Simon enters the interrogation room with a cup of freshly brewed tea, sweetened with honey. It’s the drink Greta had asked for last time, but they didn’t have.
“Thank you,” Greta says with an annoyed sigh. She cups the mug in her hand, taking a tentative, but enthusiastic sip, like she’s been dying of thirst. “Before we start, Detective, you should know I’m on voice rest, and can only speak sotto voce.”
Simon can barely hear her. He leans forward. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t talk very loudly. I have a performance coming up.”
“Of course.” Simon pretends to be impressed, indulging her. This is a woman who was born into the lap of luxury, and has remained there ever since, coddled and taken care of. Simon has a passing knowledge of the operatic arts, and knows enough to know that only those with trust funds are able to pursue and succeed at it. “Is the air warm enough for you, Ms. Larsen?”
Greta tightens her shawl around her shoulders. “It’s fine.”
“Heard anything from Jack?” Simon always asks this hopeful question first.
Greta shakes her head.
“Are you sure? Any strange calls, hangups, that kind of thing?”
“No, nothing. Jack and I aren’t very close, Detective. Ever since I moved to Chicago, I’ve seen him once, twice a year. If he were going to call someone, it wouldn’t be me.”
“I see. Then who would he call?”
Greta gets a distant look in her eye. “I don’t know any of his friends.”
Simon suspects she’s lying, but she hasn’t exhibited any tells.
“I understand Jack was undergoing treatment for mental issues. Do you have any idea what those issues were?”
Greta nods, and she grows even more haughty. “Anger issues. He got himself into trouble all the time.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Greta purses her lips. “Did he do it? Did my brother kill my father?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s possible.” Her eyes grow solemn. She lifts the tea, letting the steam envelop her face. “Detective, I’m not close to my brother, but I do care for him. He’s always been…” She shakes her head, searching for the word. “Troubled. The fits of anger, it started when he was kid. He’d go on these rampages. I used to be so terrified of him I’d lock myself in my room.”
No sister-brother privilege here, Simon thinks, excitedly jotting this down.
“I’m making this worse for him,” Greta says, mostly to herself. “Can I ask a legal question?”
“Sure.”
Greta bites her bottom lip, staring at him hard. “If a person is not themselves when they commit a crime, like not in their own mind, can they be convicted?”
“And how does this pertain to Jack?”
Greta considers the detective for a moment, then sits up straight, clearing her throat. “I’m afraid my voice is feeling a bit strained. I should stop talking.”
Fuck, Simon thinks behind a calm smile. She knows he’s babying her, and is taking advantage of that. He’d have to be tougher.
“Of course, Ms. Larsen.” He ruffles through the papers on his desk. “There’s just one thing I needed to notify you of, ah yes.” He pauses a moment to lean forward and stare directly into her eyes. “If you have relevant information about this case, and you don’t tell me, you could be charged with aiding and abetting.”
All pretense drains from Greta’s face. She speaks at a normal volume. “If you have any other questions, you can call my lawyer.” She pushes the mug across the table. “And your tea is shit.”
*
Jack’s crouched behind the wood pile at the edge of the trees, keeping an eye on the cabin to make sure Amber doesn’t try anything. He hasn’t held a cellphone since he left Manhattan. With all of the ways they can be tracked, he’s refrained from getting one. Even a burner phone makes him paranoid. But this is Amber’s phone, registered to her. No one’s looking for her, and any call she makes should go unnoticed.
There’s not much battery left, maybe an hour’s worth. Jack turns the device in his palm, almost in disbelief that this small object could connect him to his old life in Manhattan. He hadn’t planned on contacting anyone, but things have changed. He needed advice. He needed a way out.
There are only two people he can call, Joel and Henry, his only two friends on earth. But who should he call? Joel’s the one who warned him about the detective’s mounting evidence, the warrant for his arrest. He’s a lawyer, and has contacts inside the police department. Joel was also the one who advised him to run, to stay in hiding until everything was sorted out, and not do anything stupid. Joel had been in this with Jack since the beginning, but Jack wasn't in the mood for a lecture.
Henry’s Jack’s cousin. They’ve been close since they were kids. Together, they’ve gotten in and out of trouble more times then Jack can count. This had been no exception. Though Henry didn’t know the exact details of Jack’s whereabouts, he’d set Jack up with a fake ID for his new identity.
Friends help you move. Best friends help you move bodies. Henry is that friend.
Jack dials the number he knows by heart, Henry’s second line he uses to buy drugs and women. Henry answers on the second ring, sounding slightly annoyed. It takes Jack a second to find his voice. Just hearing his cousin brings up a well of memories he’d buried under the snow in White Oak.
“Where are you?” Jack says, finally.
The line goes silent, then, “Jack?”
“Where are you?” Jack repeats. He doesn’t have time for niceties.
“I’m in my car.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. What’s going on? What’s this about? Where are you, man?”
Jack steadies himself against the pile of wood. There’s a slick layer of ice on the timber.
“The less you know, the better. Don’t tell anyone you heard from me, okay?”
“You don’t have to tell me that. Are you okay?”
“I have a problem.”
Jack quickly sets up the situation. He ventured into town thinking he could go unrecognized with his beard and dyed hair, but a diner waitress figured out who he was. So he took her.
“Took her?” Henry asks.
Jack’s fingers are getting so cold, he feels like if he moves then, the bones might snap. He makes a fist anyway.
“Took her. Kidnapped her. With a weapon and everything.”
“Jesus, Jack. Is she still alive?”
“Yes,” Jack says in a forceful whisper. He glances towards the cabin. Amber is staring out of the window, peeking at him. When she sees him looking, she quickly closes the drapes. “What am I going to do?”
Henry sighs. “It’s okay, man. I’ll help you figure this out.” After a long silence, he speaks again. “You have to get rid of her.”
“I’ve already thought of that. I can’t do that.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll help you.”
“No.”
Henry goes silent again. When he speaks, his voice is hurried. “What difference does it make? You’re already on the run from another murder charge.”
Jack grits his teeth, remaining silent.
“What I mean is, this is a high stakes game you’re playing,” Henry says. “You have to go all in. Leave no witnesses. Where the fuck has Joel got you, man? You can’t clear your name out there. Get rid of the girl. Clean it up like it never happened. We’ll get some real lawyers on it.”
“Joel is on it.”
“Is he? Is he still working your case? I haven’t heard anything about it. My guess is, Joel thinks you’re guilty, so he’s letting the cops chase their tails looking for you.”
“And your solution is for me to kill an innocent girl?”
Henry laughs. It sounds hollow in Jack’s ear. “You don’t sound like a Larsen, Jack. Have you forgotten that this world is made for men like us? Who is this girl, some waitress? Insignificant in the scheme of things. It’s Darwinism. Survival of the fittest.”
Jack’s heard Darwin used as an excuse for the upper crust all his life. It’s almost like a religion to them. They don’t think they’ve gotten to where they are without divine intervention, as if they were chosen in some way, and those beneath them are expendable. There’s movement at the cabin that catches Jack’s attention. Amber’s standing on the porch wrapped in a blanket.
“The fire’s out,” she says. “It’s freezing in there.”
“Where are you?” Henry says in his ear. “Don’t stay where ever you are, forgotten, rotting. What are you going to do? Play house with her forever? Give up everything that’s rightfully yours?”
Amber’s cheeks are tinged blue, and her nose red. While Jack stares at her, her face morphs with the memory of his father. The top of her skull fades away, revealing blood and viscera that’s meant to stay hidden. He abruptly hangs up on Henry, but his cousin’s words ring in his ear. He’s not shocked Henry advised him to commit murder. If it was the other way around, and Henry was asking Jack for advice, Jack would’ve told him the same thing.
Kill her. Get her out of your way. Save yourself.
It’s the way they were raised. Not only are they wealthy, but they’re men, free to be reckless, to make colossal mistakes, cause unknown pain, and never pay for it. It was how Jack avoided doing any real time, even though he’s put a few people in the hospital, and how his father bedded every secretary that passed through his office and never faced a divorce.
Amber takes a step down from the porch. “Who are you talking to?”
Jack wordlessly shoves the phone in his pocket. He tries to grab a piece of wood from the pile, but they’re stuck together after the freezing rain last night. He grabs the axe leaning against the pile, and starts trying to chip at the ice.
“That won’t burn,” Amber says. “It’s too wet. Who were you calling from my phone?”
Jack dislodges the blade from the frozen wood. “There’s more in the barn.” He swings the axe over his shoulder, and starts that way. But from the barn, he can’t see the front door of the cabin. He’ll need to keep an eye on Amber. He slips his arm around her, finding her waist beneath the thick blanket, and holds her tightly. “Come with me.”
Amber cooperates, and together they walk to the barn. She doesn’t seem afraid of the axe he holds. She’s not afraid of him at all. Jack wonders if he’s become one of those men his father always talked about, the soft, pliable losers who spoke of equality and compassion, who didn’t have the balls to worship the gods of money and power, to be those gods. Jack presses his hand flat against Amber’s stomach. Why is he allowing her to live? Mercy is for the weak.
“You know those calls can be tracked,” Amber says. “For a fugitive, you aren’t very careful.” Amber snorts at her own joke, but Jack remains quiet. She shuts up quickly. Too soon to laugh about it, okay, mental note.
There’s something different about Jack. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, but she was starting to grow comfortable around him, comfortable, as in, perhaps she won’t be the raped and murdered type comfortable. But now, he’s stiffer, colder. The way he looks at her makes her skin prick with panic. She never should’ve let her guard down. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.
It doesn’t help she has a little crush on him. How could she not? He’s the hottest guy she’s ever seen, and she’s been in close proximity to him more than a few times. True, sometimes a knife was involved, but that only makes Jack more forbidden, which makes her craving for him stronger.
When they enter the dark barn, it’s fear Amber feels now, not desire. Any warmth Jack possessed has melted. She hadn’t thought anything of the axe at first, now she watches it closely as it balances on his shoulder. He paces the barn, looking down at his feet. His face is blank, like his mind has been switched off.
Who was he talking to? Amber wonders. What did they say? Did they tell him the obvious way out of this mess was to kill me?
She picks up a few pieces of wood from the pile, and cradles it against her chest.
“Let me help,” she says.
Jack doesn’t speak. His body is squared towards her. He grips the axe, and swings it down from his shoulder. He plays what will happen over and over again in his mind, lifting the axe, and letting it fall down on her neck. But he can’t force his imagination to conjure the next image, of Amber’s broken body hitting the ground.
To Amber, he looks like a man slowly turning into a beast, all humanity draining away and replaced with cold blood. She steps to the side. Jack turns his head, tracking her movements. Amber hugs the wood tighter. A sharp splinter slips in under her thumbnail. She ignores the pain for now.
“I’ve been thinking about your case,” Amber says. Her voice is steady, which surprises her, because her knees are practically knocking together. “I know you didn’t do it. And you don’t have to do this.”
Jack blinks and focuses on her. A dim light has been turned on behind his eyes. Amber keeps going.
“Why would you be so sloppy with evidence if you were trying to set it up to look like a suicide?”
Jack jerks his face to the side. He squints his eyes, thinking about this. Amber, seeing this as maybe her last chance, keeps prodding.
“Who would have the most to gain from your father’s murder?”
“Me,” Jack grunts. “I would’ve taken over Larsen International.”
Carefully, Amber lays the wood by her feet. She steps towards Jack, making her voice soft. “But the cops were on your trail right away. You never took over, someone else did.”
“My Uncle Harvey.” Jack’s mouth is suddenly dry. He didn’t have the best relationship with his uncle, and neither did his father, but Uncle Harvey wouldn’t do that to family, unless, he was simply taking what he wanted, survival of the fittest.
It’s enough to wedge doubt into Jack’s brain. Dozens of questions swirl through his mind, so quickly he can’t pay attention to each. Was Jack framed? Was Uncle Harvey behind it? Was Henry? He lets his thoughts lead him down the path of paranoia, and asks, was Joel?
Amber takes a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage she has inside of her. She takes Jack’s hand, pries it away from the axe handle, and slips her fingers into his.
“I can help you, Jack,” she says. “Tell me everything you remember from that night.”
*
“So when you experience a blackout, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re completely out of control. You know what causes these blackouts, excessive drinking and drug use, and yet you don’t change the behavior.”
“You have to do what you love.”
“You love losing track of your own mind, of waking up with blood on your hands, and not knowing what happened? Jack, I can’t adequately treat you if you don’t get your substance abuse under control. Did you ever call the addiction specialist I referred you to?”
“I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to know what I’ve done.”
“That’s good. That’s acknowledgement. But it suggests you’d get into fights, hurt people, even if you were in your right mind. Do you believe that? Are you capable of violence without drugs and alcohol?”
“I’ve never had the chance to find out.”
*
“Start again from the beginning,” Amber says. She’s sitting across from Jack at the wooden table inside of the cabin. A fresh fire blazes in the stove, allowing her to shed the blanket. Her fear is gone, replaced by a consuming interest. Jack’s case is more fascinating, and mysterious, then she thought. “Do you have a paper and pen around here?”
Jack’s mood is still dark, but at least now it’s not directed towards her. It’s inward. He’s lost in unspoken thoughts. Amber repeats her request for a pen and paper. Rousing himself from his stupor, he searches the cabinets and drawers until he finds an ancient looking pen and scrap of paper. Amber has to scribble a bit before fresh ink begins to flow.
Jack sits down, raking his hands through his hair. “I don’t remember anything. This is pointless.”
“It’s not pointless.” Amber sits at the edge of her seat, her face spread with a giddy smile. “Everything’s a clue.” Her chest swells with hope. Maybe she can write a book about this. She’s read plenty of them to know how it’s done. This is her chance, her way out of White Oak.
Jack doesn’t understand why she’s so interested, and why she’s so keen on helping him. He’d kidnapped her, after all. She should be trying to escape. He can’t look at her, because when he does, he can’t tear his eyes away from her flushed cheeks, the scraggly waves of hair, the small gap between her two front teeth, every little detail adding up to something exquisite.
Would I have killed her?Chopped her up with an axe?
He’d considered it, that he can’t deny.
“I went partying that night. I partied every night.”
Amber scribbles a few hurried notes. “So, you got to Club 64 around eleven-thirty, went to the VIP room, ordered bottle service.” Amber can picture the scene, lights and glittering dresses flashing, the plush couches reserved for the elite, and Jack, in all his playboy glory, popping bottles of champagne and snorting lines of coke. “You stayed there until around two am, closing time. Then you went off with Chloe, the waitress.” Amber is careful not to convey her jealousy when she says this, and her tone comes off as starkly professional.
“I fucked her in the bathroom,” Jack says, perfunctorily. “Snorted cocaine off of her ass.” He sneaks a glance at Amber to see what she thinks about this. Her expression is hard to read. She looks down at her notes, biting her lip.
“Do you normally pick up waitresses for one night stands?” she asks.
Jack picks up on the higher pitch of her voice. For a moment, it makes him forget about everything else. It feels good, so much better than his normal state of turmoil, so he goes with it.
“Is that relevant to your investigation?” Jack asks.
Amber feels the heat rise in her face. She’s glad there’s no one here to judge her for her irrational desires. Yes, moments ago, she’d been worried Jack would kill her by hacking her with an axe, but she’s attracted to darkness more than she is to light.
She ignores his question. “You don’t know what time you left Club 64?”
“According to second hand information, I was thrown out for trashing the bathroom.”
“Who gave you this information?”
“Joel.” Jack’s eyes dart to the side.
“There’s video of you entering your father’s office at four am, well within the estimated time of death.”
“I don’t remember that,” Jack says.
“I know.”
“Do you believe me?”
He hardens his eyes at her, testing her. Amber clutches the pen, determined to hold on to her faculties.
“Yes,” she says, her breath deepening with her voice. “Why do you think you went there at that time of night?”
“When I woke up, I remembered I was looking for the yacht keys. I wanted to fuck the waitress again, this time on the boat.” He shakes his head at his shame. “That’s when I saw Father. His head was blown off. There was a gun in his hand. I freaked out and called the cops.” Emotion rises in his voice. Jack pushes it away with sarcasm. “So what’s your professional waitress opinion? Did I do it?”
Amber glances back over the notes, organizing her thoughts. “I think you were set up. Other people knew about these blackouts, right? It was part of your reputation. Someone knew they could use that.”
“So, it’s a vast conspiracy. Don’t you think the obvious answer is I blacked out, went crazy, killed my father, then made a stupid attempt at covering it up?”
Amber’s eyes flit down. “That’s also a possibility.”
Jack rests his head in his hands, laughing darkly. “Either way, I’m fucked. And maybe I deserve to be.”
“Either way, you’re innocent. If you did it, you weren’t yourself. It wasn’t a conscious choice.”
“Innocent.” Jack grumbles the word. The picture Amber’s painting of him is a stark difference to the man he knows he is. He turns his cold stare on her. Amber sucks in air, puffing out her chest. He notices her hard nipples beneath this T-shirt. What would she say if he gave into his desires, if he threw her on the table and ravaged her with his cock? Would she still think him so innocent?
“Jack.” Amber’s voice echoes through the dark thoughts in his head. “This is going to sound stupid, but on some level, I always knew you were wrongly accused. That’s why when I saw you in the diner, I didn’t tell anyone I knew who you were.”
Jack leans into her, a gleam in his eye. “I thought you just wanted to ride my dick.”
There’s a flourish of lust in Amber’s belly, but it doesn’t detract her. “That too,” she says, coyly.
Jack refuses to believe that anyone could see anything good in him, because it’s simply not there. He doesn’t deserve her mercy, her compassion. He doesn’t deserve her. She’s here against her will, after all.
“Let’s go back to your uncle,” Amber says, serious again. “That’s your mother’s brother, correct? What did that relationship look like, between Uncle Harvey and your father?”
“They hated each other,” Jack says.
Amber’s face brightens. She scribbles furiously on the notepad. “That’s it, don’t you see? Harvey set you up. With your father dead, and you in prison, he could take over the company, which he did.”
The thought exhausts Jack. He’d finally grown accustomed to hating himself. It’s hard to transfer that loathing onto someone else. Amber taps the pen against her chin.
“The question is, was he working alone,” she asks, drawing into herself. “Or was someone else involved. You say Joel and Henry are your best friends. Are you sure you can trust them?”
“Yes,” Jack says, resolutely.
“Think, Jack. Have either of them ever displayed violent tendencies?”
Jack grows quiet, his eyebrows pinched. Amber can tell there’s something he’s not telling her. He looks at her with dark eyes. “All three of us have.”
Amber continues carefully. “We have to look at everyone.”
Jack slams his hand on the table, making Amber jump. “Not them. If I can trust anyone, it’s them. The only real relationships I’ve ever had are with them. They would die for me. I’d die for them.”
“I understand it feels that way-“
Jack gives her a look that makes her immediately stop talking. The pen drops from her hand, and clangs on the floor. He rises from his seat and leans over the table. His dark eyes are fixed on hers, and she can feel the heaviness of his breath.
“You have no fucking clue who I really am,” Jack says. “What I’ve done, what I’m capable of. Your whitewashed world has kept you safe until now. What, you read books about killers, and you think you know all about them? You think you know what goes on in my mind?”
Amber’s leaning back so far, the chair is starting to tilt. Jack draws in even closer, planting his hands on her shoulders.
“You don’t know shit,” he growls. He tightens his grip on her, holds her for a terrifying moment, then suddenly lets go. The chair holding Amber descends backwards. She hurls her weight forward to keep from falling, and plants her feet on the ground.
Jack tears away from her in a huff. He goes to the door and throws it open, allowing the cold air to replace the heat. Jack digs in his pocket, then holds up the car keys for her to see. He lays them on the counter next to the door.
“You should leave,” he says, his breath fogging in the cold. Something catches his voice, and what he says next sounds almost human. “Before something happens to you.”
Wordlessly, he stalks to the bedroom and closes the door behind him.