Page 22 of Requiem & Reverie

“You …. You never called the police? You never reported it?”

For the first time, I see what I surmise as shame in Voss’s eyes.

“I wanted to. She told me that your dad was a police officer. But see, Carl, he made me …. He tried to make me an accomplice.” Eyes closing, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do it. I refused to let him hurt her. So, when he came after me, I knew he planned to kill me. I left Nora there, in the woods, and I ran toward this old bridge at the nature preserve, over the river. Carl found me there. I fought him, and I threw his limp body over the bridge. I was scared. Didn’t know what to do. Swore I killed him that day.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“I held him down. Strangled him until he stopped fighting me. Stopped moving. And I pushed his body over the bridge. I watched him fall into the water. For the first time in my life, I felt … free.” He’s quiet for a moment, with an introspective stare, and I wish I were privy to the thoughts in his head. “I ran away that day. I couldn’t tell anyone because I was certain I’d killed him. Until I got a message from him a couple weeks ago.”

“What kind of message?”

“A game of chase. He invited me to hunt him down. Told me you were next.”

A chill skitters over my skin, springing goose bumps, and stirs a sickness in my gut. It occurs to me that nothing in the last few weeks has been coincidence. “You don’t work for Wall Street, do you, Voss?” I ask, but already know the answer.

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Your instincts were right all along, Nola. I am a killer. An assassin for hire.”

Once again, the nausea in my stomach twists, and I push myself away from him. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I don’t kill innocent people. I’m hired to go after high-profile criminals. To gather information.”

“Are you like … FBI?”

“Maybe like a dark ops version of the FBI. We’re typically hired by the wealthy and corrupted, so I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re all that good.”

“Who is this man, your uncle? What’s his name?”

“His birth name was Carl Jenson, but there’s no evidence to support he’s dead, or alive. If he is alive, he’d be in his forties by now. I’m fairly certain he’s behind The Sandman murders, though.”

“The women? So … not Harv, then?”

“Not Harv. I have a feeling Beth and Harv are dead. Which is why I’m here.”

I can’t even bring myself to cry anymore. The deaths I’ve had to face over the last couple of months just seem to keep burying me farther and farther beneath the surface. “Why are you here?”

“You need to tell me of anyone associated with those two.”

“They’re … swingers. They could be associated with anyone. The guy is in his forties?”

“Nine years older than me. About forty-five.”

The only person who comes to mind is Dale, who’s in his forties, but he’s always been so supportive of me. I refuse to believe he’s capable of something so sadistic. Any time I’ve needed something, Dale’s always jumped in to help. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

“You do that. And if you think of anyone, you’ve got my number.”

As ridiculous as it sounds, now that he’s told me what feels more like truth, my instincts are to trust him. The niggling feelings from before no longer beat at my skull, the way they do when things don’t add up right. Everything he’s said makes sense. “The watch. Denny’s watch. Why did you have it?”

“Carl likes to play games. He sent me on a scavenger hunt for the watch. It’s possible he murdered your husband, too.”

Hearing that stabs my chest with more panic. “Then, he’ll kill …. He’ll …. Oliver?”

“Not yet. I think he took Oliver for a reason.”

“Voss … can you bring him back to me?”