Page 67 of Stay Awake
“We’ll drive over and take a look in person,” said Lavelle.
He and Halliday were eager to find out exactly what had happened to Liv Reese two years earlier. Krause had made it pretty clear he thought she was the perpetrator, not the victim. He’d been scant with details and deliberately cagey. Knowing Krause the way he did, Lavelle guessed that he resented other cops looking into his old case.
“What’s the connection between the two cases?” Regan asked.
“We don’t know,” said Lavelle. “All we know is that Liv Reese’s fingerprints have turned up at the scene of another homicide.”
“Who was the victim?” Regan asked.
“Her ex-boyfriend,” said Lavelle.
Regan was silent as he absorbed that information. “In that case it sounds as if we’ll have plenty to discuss when you get here.”
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
Two Years Earlier
Amy’s lying on her back in a bikini on the rooftop of our building when I come up and arrange my beach towel alongside hers. Her oversized sunglasses reflect the pristine blue sky and a snippet of street art graffiti on the rustic brick wall behind us.
I hike up my mint-green sundress with spaghetti straps to avoid tan lines before relaxing on my towel. It’s a rare treat for us to be here alone. Usually the rooftop is crowded on weekends. Judging by the pile of crushed beer cans and empty tequila bottles in the trash, I’m guessing everyone else is sleeping off hangovers.
I sit with my back against the brick wall and read my novel. Two chapters into my book, I glance up when the rooftop door creaks open. Someone watches us from the shadows of the stairwell before turning away. Footsteps clatter down the metal stairs and the door slams shut.
It’s probably nothing, just another resident checking to see if the deck area is available. Still, it creeps me out. I’ve been getting thatfeeling a lot lately. Too many weird things have been happening. Each time, my anxiety builds to a boiling point. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.
Amy thinks I’m being paranoid, but it’s not just me. Shawna’s skittish, which is totally out-of-character. She was a pretty chill cat, until recently.
This morning, I received a Snapchat message as I pushed my shopping cart along the canned food aisle at our local supermarket.
Mint really is your color,the message said, referencing the color of my sundress.
Looking up from the phone, I scrutinized the shoppers in the aisle around me. They were too busy taking products off the shelves or pushing their carts to show the slightest interest in me. Within seconds, the message disappeared and I was left wondering if I’d imagined it.
This time I took a screenshot of the text before it disappeared. It’s exactly the sort of evidence of harassment the cops told me to bring them so they can investigate further, although I still haven’t decided whether to show it to the police.
What’s that expression: “Once bitten, twice shy”? I haven’t contacted the cops since I fell asleep on the sofa and woke to find signs that someone had been in the apartment. My face burns as I remember Detective Krause joking about whether my stalker will leave a loaf of bread in the fridge next time instead of milk. I’m not inclined to risk being mocked again by showing the cops a screenshot of another ambiguous message. They’ll only explain it away, like the last time.
Thinking about the text message I received at the supermarket makes me look nervously around the empty rooftop. I feel like I’m being watched again, which is silly because it’s just me here, and Amy. She looks dead to the world as she lies tanning in her coral bikini with her sunglasses covering her eyes.
I assume Amy’s asleep until she reaches for her phone, which is ringing on silent mode. She rejects the call without even looking at it.
“Who is it?”
“Brett,” she mutters. It’s the first sound out of her in an hour.
“You don’t want to speak to him?”
“I’m not talking to Brett right now.”
I’ve shared an apartment with Amy for years. Usually I’m blasé about the ups and downs of her roller-coaster relationships. But Brett has lasted longer than any of Amy’s other boyfriends. He wines and dines her. He showers her with exorbitant gifts, and takes her on luxury weekend breaks. He indulges her every whim and Amy laps it up. For the first time, I’ve wondered whether she might settle down.
“Why aren’t you talking to Brett?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say that our relationship is getting close to its ‘use by date.’ It’s been heading in this direction for a while. I haven’t told Brett that it’s over, so don’t say anything.” She changes the subject. “How’s everything with you and Marco?”
“Pretty good,” I say, still shocked Amy’s thinking of dumping Brett. “I’m crazy about Marco. You know that! The thing is…” My voice drops off.
