CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THEY’D BEEN HERE before. Done exactly this. All of it, right from the moment Beth had found Dexter inside the jewelry store and told him Charleen needed him.
There was a difference between need and want. Neither of those words were in the greatest use in Charleen’s life. It was evident in the way she couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t look him in the eye right now.
It hadn’t stopped him from dropping everything to make sure he was wherever he needed to be. Never driven so fast in his life—minus the time he’d actually been with Charleen in her car.
A ripple of awareness—foreboding, something—already charged the air. There was more here. Something else that happened. And he couldn’t leave. Not until he saw it through. He didn’t care if that took days. Months.
What did that say about him? What did any of this say about him? This insane need to carry her through this crisis.
“He didn’t disappear.” Charleen crossed her arms in front of her. Locked them tight. “Just because Dr. Hicks is not answering his phone doesn’t mean anything.” She brushed past him, her movements jerky, her face a mask of something—anxiety, fear—he wasn’t sure. “His wife is dying. That’s likely the reason he’s not taking calls.”
The fingers of dread settled around his chest. There was no amount of logic that would make this go away. There was only one way through.
“Charleen.” He followed her. Discarded his footwear. Caught her arm before she reached the steps leading to her second story. “Look in the wallet. Look at the picture of him and his wife.”
Confusion rushed across her face. “What are you talking about?” Her fingers tightened around the leather she still held in her opposite hand. “We saw that picture last night. There’s nothing special about it.”
Her arm vibrated beneath his fingers. The pulse at her neck picked up pace. “You’re acting strange.”
She tugged away from him. “I always act this way.”
He shook his head. “Airport strange? There’s a difference between that and your normal standoffish behavior.”
Her mouth formed a firm line. “Maybe because everything is strange right now? I mean, this doesn’t happen to you every day, does it?” She held up the wallet. “People don’t leave weird clues for you to follow. Leave you wondering if it’s a good or bad thing. Right? This doesn’t happen to you?”
“I’ll give you that.”
She hadn’t looked in the wallet, just held it in her hands in a death grip. “Good. Fantastic.” Fire flashed inside her eyes. Made the color a deeper green. “Let’s talk to Dr. Hicks so we can move on. Hopefully he’s not interested in stabbing us in the back. Or picking apart my brain for science.” She started up the steps.
“If something is bothering you…”
She stopped. Heaved in a breath. “Give me a minute, okay? I’m not used to having anyone to bounce this stuff off of.” Her hands flexed on the railing. “I’m not used to any of this. It’s not going to be an overnight change.”
While everything inside of him wanted to press for answers and point out the fact that he was in the same shoes, he held it in check. Combating her self-preservation took precedence—this tiny step forward was what counted. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” A wobbly smile formed on her lips as she sank to the carpeted surface. “This is beyond my scope of weird.”
A zip of something quickened his pulse. He joined her on the steps. “I can help.”
A scoff erupted from her mouth. “If you get involved, you’ll put yourself in danger.”
He’ll put himself in danger… Over and over.
“Seems like I’m already right there.” And he wasn’t going anywhere. Not without answers. Not without her. The truth slammed into him. It was why she never left his mind. Why her kiss lingered inside him. Why the chaotic way she lived called to him. “I called Amanda and asked her to stop by.”
“What?” Charleen stood. “When?”
He mirrored her motion. “When I was on my way over here.”
She moved down the stairs and to the living room, panic written all over her movements.
He followed, the sense of deja vu still crowding around him. He knew she’d clean up her notebooks in panic. He’d try to comfort her. Wouldn’t succeed. Not at first. “Charleen.”
Her hands were full of loose pages, her movements hurried as she picked up the books she’d launched across the room. “If I can’t have the cops look into this, I can’t have Amanda seeing it either.”
“Do you have anything to hide?”
She froze, turned toward him. “Have you been present at all in the last twenty-four hours?” Panic etched its way across her face. “Guardian angel. Time travel. Weird premonitions. People disappearing. Dying, then coming back to life.”
Weird premonitions.
The words brought up something hazy in his mind. He stepped toward her. Took the materials from her hands and set them aside. Did the same with the wallet, but pulled the picture from it first. Wanted more than anything to make this all easier. Get her to trust him.
He needed the victory in a terrible way.
A tremor vibrated her hand as she reached for the picture. “I would’ve recognized her last night. When I first saw this.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “Have you ever interacted with her before?”
“When I was six. She—” Charleen’s green gaze hit his, confusion swirling. “I think she was pregnant. She was dancing with a man. Smiling and laughing.”
“Was it Dr. Hicks?”
“I never saw his face.” She thrust the picture back toward him. “She saw me and told me I shouldn’t be there—whatever party they were attending. And that was it.”
___
Everything inside Charleen was a quaking mess of nerves. In the middle of it all, the only thing that made even a little bit of sense was the man standing in front of her. Watching her. Waiting for something.
Trusting her.
That would change. When he discovered the truth. If it was the truth. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be his wife. The images were borne of hope, not reality.
She wouldn’t leave him. Not in that horrible moment at the rehab center. Alone. Wondering. Unless…
“You went forward in time?” Dexter moved closer. He’d set the picture aside, both hands finding her shoulders. “You remember it?”
“I…do.” His touch was familiar. Soothing. “It was like I walked back to the foster home I was living in at the time, but almost in a trance.”
“Like sleepwalking?”
Ask her about sleepwalkers. What they’re capable of…
She grabbed his forearm. “There was a boy I ran across on the way. A little older than me. He was standing beside a house.” He was angry, his gaze on the two-story structure. He had brown hair and green eyes, his skinny frame shouting benign neglect just like…Josiah. No. That wasn’t right. Couldn’t be. She’d absorbed in the early eighties and Josiah wouldn’t have even been a thought at that point. “He told me his family had died. Left him all alone.”
She’d been reeling from meeting Simone. Trying to rack her brain on how she could find permanence with a woman who was dead. How she could make sure the older woman lived. She hadn’t known the truth about Simone. Not then.
Hadn’t realized that her choices had set her up for failure.
“You’ve told me this before.” Dexter stepped back, shock rushing over his features. “All of this. Which doesn’t make sense. Or maybe it does.”
Had she told him somewhere in all those forgotten moments? “I asked him to think of somewhere—”
“Safe.”
A knock sounded on her front door. Had Charleen’s heart surging upward. “I can’t do this right now.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”
It wasn’t something he had control over, but the sentiment touched her all the same. She wouldn’t question the source of this sudden shift. He couldn’t sense the truth. There wasn’t any way. She wasn’t even sure of it. “You…you gotta stick to the truth. Lies get tangled and…”
He pulled her close. “I can handle the truth. Just don’t slingshot me anywhere. Deal?”
“I don’t know how.”
His hands cupped her face. “You do. It’s all right here, Vi.” His warm lips found her forehead. A buzz floated through her system, the wake of it taking over as he left her side. Answered her front door, the voices of Amanda and Robinson filtering to her.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t come out and say, hey I think I might be that woman you’re looking for.
But he’d called her Vi. Again.
“Hey.” Amanda appeared in front of Charleen. The other woman scanned the room. There was still notebook paper everywhere. The gloves Charleen had discarded in agitation. “Everything okay?”
No. No, it was not okay. Maybe it never had been.
“Dexter sounded off on the phone. You hung up on me. A lot of strange stuff has been happening. It had me worried.”
Maybe strange would take over the rest of her life.
“Charleen found something interesting in her bathroom.” Dexter shoved his hands in his pants pockets, his rolled up sleeves and unbuttoned shirt a sight she doubted any of them saw very often. Robinson stood behind him, his gaze assessing far more than Amanda’s had. To him, Charleen was a threat. That would likely never change. Not with the way Amanda had been the target of far too many a psychopath.
Robinson folded his arms across his chest. “Have anything to do with the letter Simone Archambault gave Amanda yesterday at the hospital?”
“What?” Charleen straightened. “What letter?”
“Robbie.” Amanda glared at her husband. “Can we approach this with a little sensitivity?”
“Screw sensitivity.” Charleen moved toward them. “Whatever you have to say about her isn’t going to hurt me. It probably won’t even surprise me.” Because Dexter was right. The details were all somewhere in her mind. “I know she’s not dead. That she’s been in WITSEC for the exact amount of time I’ve been alive—disappeared so she could rid herself of me. So she wouldn’t have to spend her time in WITSEC running with a child.” She moved beyond the three of them, careful to avoid Dexter’s gaze. “Beyond that, her motivations are a mystery to me. I think everyone here understands that sharing blood doesn’t mean you’re headed down the same road.”
Amanda tracked Charleen’s movements, turning to face her as she passed. “The day she disappeared, a woman committed suicide in that house where we found our vic. She slit her wrist and bled out. The woman fits the general description of Jane Doe. Dark hair. Slender body. Five two. Same wound.”
Everything inside Charleen froze at Amanda’s words. She resisted the urge to touch the scar on her wrist. The image of a blade moving toward tender flesh popped into her mind. It was shrouded by panic. And rage. Charleen flicked it away and turned. “This happened in the seventies? Did she poof through time and space and end up in the hospital?”
Dexter shifted, one hand moving to the opposite wrist and clasping.
Amanda shook her head, her body at the opening of the living room and advancing. “What are the odds Simone shows her face and another woman—a different woman, same general description—ends up in trouble? That our vic’s body is gone from cold storage? There’s a connection. It has to do with this.” Amanda held out an envelope wrapped in plastic. “She asked me to give the letter to Dexter.”
Charleen wouldn’t let Dexter get dragged into this anymore than he already was. “That makes no sense. He doesn’t even know her. None of us do.”
Except it did. Right now it did. Last week it wouldn’t have, but this morning—here. Charleen would take anything from him. Would trust him blindly. Save him. Follow him.
Have a soft spot.
And Jane Doe?
Amanda stopped a few feet in front of where Dexter still stood. “She said if I gave it to him, he would give it to you. That whatever is inside is important. Then she vanished. If the letter has anything of value in it, I want to know.” She handed it to Dexter.
His gaze hit Charleen’s as he took it. “Because?”
“As of this morning, it’s considered evidence.” Robinson handed Dexter a pair of gloves. “We found her prints all over the crime scene. Both scenes—got the confirmation on our way over here.”
___
After all this time, he should be eager for answers. Ripe with possibility. Thirsty for the truth.
All Dexter had was a giant ball of dread that expanded in his gut, three sets of eyes watching his every move as he gloved up and removed the envelope from its package. Pulled the papers out. He got a glimpse of the handwriting, familiar in its loopy grace. It had a slight slant to it.
He knew it. Had seen it scrawled across many a page. All the pages in the living room. Every nerve inside him buzzed with anticipation. The kind he’d never expressed before. Never had any solid evidence to do so with.
“Do you guys mind? You’re staring.”
“Same as at the prison, handsome.” Beth appeared from behind him. “You handle that just fine.”
This was different. This was personal.
“Coffee, anyone?” Charleen moved past him, her gaze on the floor and her steps quick. “I’m sure you guys haven’t had eighteen cups yet.”
Neither Amanda nor Robinson moved. Everything inside Dexter wanted to call Charleen back. Ask her to stick around.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not removing these gloves. I have no desire to find myself behind bars because of an avoidable mistake. No desire to get entrenched in something that has disaster written all over it.”
Stick to the truth.
It wasn’t. Not even close. If that disaster was Charleen, he’d step in front of it. Immerse himself in it. Change it if that were necessary. Embrace it. Be that person that showed up for her every visiting day. All the days between.
When had that happened?
Amanda headed in the direction Charleen had gone.
Robinson let out a burst of air. “Sorry, man. All of this has me a little on edge. It’s weird. The details are sketchy.”
“Your wife’s involved. It’s been a rough couple of years. I get it.”
Robinson nodded. “Take your time.” Then he walked off. Left Dexter alone with the letter. He straightened the creases. Tried to prepare himself for the unknown.
Dexter,
Last month a young man you’ve been counseling sharpened the edge of his comb into a point and aimed for your throat. He missed. He hit your right arm instead. The frequency of these occurrences has increased, I imagine, leaving the warden and the state questioning their resources. Asking for answers in situations where honesty is required but usually not given.
They won’t remove you from service. You’re a valuable asset. Easily subduing inmates when no other dares. Caring about others in a way that so few do. It means your purpose would change, your ability to help those willing diminishing greatly.
You have to believe that there are still people who are willing to change, even if they aren’t yet aware.
When we met you told me you are always cautious—that your work at the prison taught you that early on. It never stopped you from pressing on. That drive for truth and understanding is something I fell in love with immediately—I would probably do it all over again easily. Even in another set of circumstances. You love freely and forgive wholly. You always see the possibility in anyone—not in blindness, but in a way that allows you to see a person on many different levels.
The world needs that.
We save lives.
You with your work at the prison and me with what I do. Neither of us can afford to compromise the mission. It’s important. It means something. More than the average person can comprehend. So whatever you’re thinking about doing. Don’t. Please.
But if you are compelled to continue—because I can’t see into the future at will—I need you to understand that the plan was never to leave you. There wasn’t a choice—not one I made lightly. You saw the writing on the wall regardless of our precautions and discussions. It never would’ve stopped. Our son would’ve forever been a pawn. We would’ve done anything to keep him safe.
On that matter, we were far too transparent.
He’ll make my death seem like a suicide, Dexter, and for a while you will believe it. You will hear our family discuss the loss of our child. How it shook me. How I wasn’t the same person.
It will make sense. Especially given our last interactions. You will mourn, beg, and plead.
But you know me as no one ever has. You see me. You know I would never do that.
Because this is my life. This is what I do day in and day out. And when you lose a part of it—however small—the wheels seize and the track rusts over. And nothing works right again until you figure out how to get off the train and see the problem from the other side.
This is where I am. Seeing the problem. Fixing it.
Vi