Chapter 29

Ethan had driven into Philadelphia in the Jaguar, not planning on seeing Rebecca just yet, but wanting to check in on the gallery and Chris. There were a few specific things he had to do at his desk—a belated call to an artist they would no longer be representing, a number of emails he hadn't answered—but mostly he needed a moment of calm. Kidnapping Lily Kintner and holding her at his Tohickon house felt like a triumph. But it was also risky. He needed to think about his next moves.

Chris was in the office when he walked in, and Ethan thought he must have been looking at porn or something on his computer, because he physically jumped when Ethan said hello.

"Everything okay, Chris?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah. Just didn't expect you and you scared the crap out of me."

"I'm not here long, but I'm finally going to pull the plug on Dennis Maxwell."

"Oh, thank fucking god. I've already had to talk to him twice this morning."

"I'll call him and let him know we're not moving forward with him. What else is going on around here?"

Chris made a weird show of turning his eyes to the ceiling as though thinking about it, then finally said how quiet it had been. He was lying, of course, and Ethan stared at him for a little longer than usual, just to make him uncomfortable, wondering exactly what he was hiding. It could be something harmless—Ethan knew, for instance, that Chris had been fucking one of the framers, a married guy who drove over every few weeks from Delaware, and that they'd been doing it here in the gallery. But it could be something else.

"Has anyone come around looking for me?" Ethan said.

Again Chris made a show of thinking about it, then said that he didn't think so. He really was a terrible liar.

"Okay, fine," Ethan said. "Do you mind leaving the office while I call Maxwell?"

After Chris left and shut the door behind him, Ethan sat at his desk and thought for a moment. He knew that Lily was working hard at delaying the inevitable. He assumed it was just a natural instinct, the desire to stay alive as long as possible, and the hope that maybe someone would figure out where she was if enough time elapsed. But there was another possibility. Did she have a partner, someone who had helped her to figure out that he'd been responsible for the Alan Peralta murders? There was a chance, of course, that she did. But so what? Even if this other person knew the name Ethan Saltz there was no way that Ethan Saltz could be connected to Robert Charnock or to Brad Anderson. Still, he wondered. He knew he'd been careful, but even the most careful people make mistakes. And it wasn't as though he'd changed the way he looked or anything. There were a few photographs floating around on the internet of Ethan Saltz, although he'd made sure that Robert Charnock was never—or hardly ever—photographed in public.

He got up from his Herman Miller chair and left the office. There was a small kitchenette down the hall, and that was where he found Chris, making his chai tea.

"Hey, Chris," Ethan said. "I'm going to ask you again: Anyone been here looking for me?"

Chris's jaw dropped just a little and he took a deep breath and said, "Oh god, Robert. I'm so sorry. He told me not to tell you."

"Who told you?"

"It was this guy, this private investigator. He came around and told me that you're part of a financial scam or something. I told him nothing. I mean, there's nothing to tell him, right? And it seemed entirely possible that he had the wrong guy from the start, because he kept mentioning some other name."

"What other name?"

"Um, it was Evan Saltz. No, that's not right. Ethan Saltz."

"We have a client named Evan Saltzman," Ethan said, trying to keep his rage under control. "Was that who he was looking for?"

"No, no. The name was different."

"But you didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No, of course not, Robert. Nothing important, anyway. I mean, I did say that the name of Ethan Saltz was familiar because we had a client with a similar name, but of course I didn't give him any information. I'm not stupid, Robert."

"What else did he ask?"

"That's it. It was no big deal, really, but he did say you were in trouble. Financial trouble."

Ethan took a deep breath. "Did he give you his name?"

"Yeah, yeah." Chris dug into the front pocket of his trousers and pulled out a card, handing it over to him. Ethan read it: Ted Lockwood, Private Investigator. Then a phone number and an email. No mailing address.

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know. A normal white guy. Thin. Messy hair. Looked like he hadn't slept for a couple of days."

"What was he wearing?"

"Pretty basic Levi's, I think. A light blue oxford shirt and a jacket that was probably a Harris tweed."

"Okay, Chris. If I find out you're holding out on me—"

"I'm not, Robert, I swear. He freaked me out, though. I mean, are we in trouble?" Chris was whispering. "Should I be worried?"

"No, don't worry. I think I know who this guy is, and he's just a pest. Don't worry at all."

Ethan imagined taking two steps across the linoleum and twisting Chris Salah's head so that he was facing the opposite direction, but then he told himself there'd be time to deal with Salah later. Right now he needed to get back to Tohickon. Before leaving, he told Chris to take the rest of the day off, and to not talk to any more people about gallery business.

He hit traffic leaving Philadelphia and tried to keep his rage in check. He'd been foolish keeping Lily alive as long as he had, and now there was someone else to worry about. A moving truck pulled out in front of him just as he was going to catch the tail end of a green light, and Ethan howled in his car. Martha Ratliff's face loomed in his mind. In some ways she was to blame for the shit show that was coming down on him now. Lily Kintner, too, but he'd be able to take care of her soon. If only he'd make it through this fucking light.

An hour later he parked outside of the Tohickon house. It wasn't dusk yet, but it felt like it, inky clouds blocking out the afternoon sun. For some reason, he hadn't quite figured out yet how exactly he was going to kill Lily Kintner. The easiest way would be to hit her again with a tranquilizer dart, and then he could just smother her with a pillow. He did know what he planned on doing with her body. Even though the house had a finished basement, one section of it had a dirt floor, a walled-off pantry through a door at the back of the basement. It was at most about ten-foot-by-ten-foot, unused shelving lining the walls. He'd already dug a grave, knowing one day that he might have use for it.

Sitting in his car for a little while longer, Ethan wondered why he'd waited this long to kill Lily. He wasn't squeamish about what he had do, but the truth was he wanted to spend a little more time with her, talk with her some more about killing people, about morality. He'd never met anyone like her before. Even if she was lying to him about her past, he still hadn't met anyone willing to lie about such things. And for one moment Ethan felt as though he knew what it might be like to be in love with someone. Not that he was in love with Lily. But he knew what the feeling was, an anticipation in seeing them again, in hearing their voice. A desire to prolong the time spent with them.

It was like a sudden, unpleasant glimpse into normal life. Was this how people lived? Waiting around for other people to provide feelings for them? He laughed out loud in his car, the sound of it almost startling him. Had he gone temporarily insane?

Fuck it, he thought, and made a decision to kill Lily Kintner with his hands. He was twice her size, and she was shackled to the floor. It would feel good to take her long slender throat and squeeze the life out of it.

He walked around to the back of the house and retrieved the key he hid under one of those fake rocks. He stepped into the house, feeling right away that something was a little off. The air was too still. It meant nothing, though; he'd had that kind of feeling before. But when he opened the door that led down the carpeted stairs to the basement, the feeling continued; the house was quiet, like there was no life in it. He walked down the stairs, hitting the switch along the way that lit up the fluorescent ceiling lights. As soon as he got down there, he saw that he had been right about there being something wrong. Lily was still on the cot, wrapped in her sheets, perfectly still. Her head was at an unnatural angle, and her mouth hung open. He moved halfway to her and saw the blood that lined her throat and pooled beneath her head.