“There could be so many clues here,” I murmur, chewing on my thumbnail again. Guess that’s my thinking tic. “In the titles. In the stories themselves. In the publication years. In the authors’ lives.”
“Don’t do that to yourself just yet,” Chasm warns me grabbing my wrist before I rub my hands all over my face. They’re pretty gross, actually, and probably covered in mildew. Not a good idea. “Don’t get overwhelmed. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all.”
I nod, but I’m not convinced.
Considering Tess’ chosen profession, the significance of the typewriter, the story of her grandmother, and the clues in Fleeing Under a Summer Rain, I’m just not buying it. But goddamn it, this is a lot. There are almost too many possibilities here.
“Looks like this is the last room on this side of the hall,” Maxx comments, the beam of the flashlight gliding across the partially tiled wall that marks the end of this particular hallway. “So twelve rooms on the left, twelve more on the right.”
“Damn,” I murmur, staring through the endless darkness behind us, in the direction of the book stacks. Most of them were found inside three different rooms, so we’ve kept them separate so we can remember which. Room three, room five, and room nine. Is there significance to those numbers?
“Let’s keep going; this place gives me the creeps,” Chasm murmurs, his pretty voice echoing in the empty hallway. Theoretically, someone could lock us down here, but why bother? It isn’t like the Slayer doesn’t already have us all by the short and curlies.
We continue cleaning out the other cells, but this side is even more decrepit than the last. The sheetrock in one of the rooms has collapsed completely, obscuring whatever was once in there.
“This could have asbestos or lead in it,” I comment, staring down at the messy pile. The soft drip-drip-drip of water is the only companion sound to our labored breathing and murmured conversation. “Don’t touch it. At least not yet. If we feel we’re missing something, we can get gloves and dig through it.”
“I like when you’re assertive, you know that?” Chasm remarks, and Maxx heaves an annoyed sigh.
I ignore them both, unlocking the door to the next room. Same, same in here. A mattress on the floor, another book. Chasm grabs it before I do, glancing at the title.
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles,” he remarks, and my entire body lights up with excitement.
“Agatha Christie,” I breathe, snatching it out of his hand. He gives me an odd look as I flip the book open, searching for any writing inside the cover. Any highlights in the pages. Anything at all.
“Agatha Christie?” Chasm repeats, glancing in Maxx’s direction. Not sure if he can even see him in this gloom, but clearly, they’re both confused. I examine the book, but it’s free from debris and mildew like the rest of them.
“This is the clue,” I whisper, in awe at finally having something solid in my hand. Hopefully something solid that will lead me right to Parrish. “This is it.”
“How do you know that?” X asks, his voice patient and even and so incredibly calming in the dark.
“Tess told me a story about her grandmother, about how she wanted to be a murder mystery writer like Agatha Christie. The grandmother with the typewriter, by the way. And then, in the car with Justin yesterday, he quoted this exact book.” I snap the cover closed and shake it for emphasis. “Something like, ‘Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend. You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.’”
“And that isn’t creepy at all,” Chas murmurs, staring down at the book with so much hope in his amber eyes that it nearly breaks my heart. I know I’m right here; this isn’t even an assumption. This is fact. The thing is, are the other books part of the clue? Or is it just this? And if it is just this, then what? How do I glean what Justin expects me to glean from this book?
I’ll tell you how: I read it.
“I need to dive into this right now. Read it cover to cover. Maybe twice. Maybe more.” I tap the book with my knuckles. “But I don’t want to leave the other books here. Bring everything. And let’s hit the last two rooms and make sure we haven’t missed anything else.”
“Got it,” Maxx says, guiding us into the next room with the light.
We finish up quickly, haul the load up to Chasm’s car, and dump all the mildewy books in his trunk.
“Better than a dead maid’s corpse,” he remarks absently, and somehow, the statement just sounds normal now. The shock factor has worn off, and that’s a pretty sad fucking deal.
“Better than JJ’s body,” I agree, giving the girl as much respect as I can. Her family will never know what happened to her or where her body is if I don’t figure out a way to stop the Slayer. I get that he didn’t kill her, but one of his associates did, and that makes him guilty in a way.
