Chapter Twenty-One

Twenty-One

I was glad Spike had brought three bottles of wine. I'd thought it a little excessive when he'd first shown up, but seeing as Elspeth had downed two glasses before she was even able to speak, it now seemed like good planning.

We were all sitting at my kitchen table, with Rosie beneath it, reacquainting herself with her soup bone. I'd introduced Elspeth to Spike, but she kept giving him scared sidelong glances—as if he was an undercover cop or a bodyguard I'd hired for the sole purpose of keeping her in line.

She poured herself another glass. I placed my hand on her arm. "You want to tell me what's going on?" I said.

Elspeth swallowed her wine, then set it down on the table. A tear spilled down her cheek. "Trevor," she said. "I…I knew him. I liked him."

"I know you did," I said. "I'm so sorry."

"We weren't, like…dating. But we were sort of…getting to know each other." She lifted the glass to her lips and drained the rest of it. This was her third glass of wine in less than ten minutes. And she was toothpick-thin. I was getting worried about her blood alcohol level. Spike and I glanced at each other. I wondered if she'd pass out before revealing whatever it was she'd run all the way here to tell us. She poured herself another glass and took a swallow. I saw Spike's hand moving toward the bottle and sliding it away from her. It seemed like an unconscious reflex. Bar owner's instinct. I shook my head at him. He slid the bottle back.

"If I tell you guys something," Elspeth said, "will you promise not to tell the police?"

I blinked at her.

"Why don't you want us to tell the police?" Spike asked.

"Because," she said, "it will get me killed."

Spike raised an eyebrow. I looked at Elspeth. "I promise you that we'll do everything we can to keep you safe," I said. "But that's the best I can do."

She swallowed more of her wine. "Okay, I understand." Her voice was clear, her speech un-slurred. I was impressed. For someone who weighed maybe a few pounds more than Rosie, this girl could definitely hold her alcohol.

"Dylan Welch isn't really missing," she said.

I stared at her. "How do you know that?"

"Because he's been talking to me," she said. "And because he killed Trevor."

Spike's jaw dropped open. So did mine, but unlike Spike, I managed to shift it back into a position where I was able to speak again. "Do you have proof of what you just said?"

Elspeth nodded. She was crying now, silently, her shoulders heaving, her face wet from tears. I excused myself, grabbed a box of Kleenex from my nightstand, and headed back to the kitchen.

When I returned, Elspeth was scrolling through her phone as Spike watched her, his big arms folded over his chest.

"What's going on?" I said.

Spike said, "She's finding the proof."

I placed the Kleenex in front of Elspeth. She took one and dabbed at her eyes while continuing to scroll. Finally, she tapped the screen. Dylan Welch's voice oozed out of it. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, babe. But your boy got smoked . When the cops call, play dumb. I know you're good at that . Ha.

I felt nauseated—a visceral response to that rich-boy lilt, the pseudo-gangster phrasing. The obvious sociopathy. It was Dylan Welch, no question. Missing or not, loved by his mother or not, he was truly a shithead. I looked at Elspeth. Asked the obvious questions. "When did you get this message? Who is he talking about?"

"Trevor." She looked at me like I was an idiot. "I got it this afternoon when I was leaving work. The police called, like…a couple hours later? I didn't pick up. I was too scared. But I knew. Dylan killed Trevor."

"Is that a voicemail?" Spike said.

"It's an audio text message," Elspeth said. "He's been sending them since he supposedly went missing. Telling me to do things."

"What kind of things?" I asked.

Elspeth took another swallow of wine and went back to her phone. "I'll find you the first one," she said as she scrolled. "Okay, here it is." She tapped the screen.

Els. It's Dylan. I need you to go to my apartment. Take the gun that's under the bed in a box. Put it in your car. Drive to 67 North Washington and park it there. Doors unlocked. Then walk or take the T to work.

"I texted back that I didn't want to do that, and then he sent me this." Elspeth tapped her screen again, and again we heard Dylan Welch. You're in a good place now, Els. You're solidly on the ground floor of an up-and-coming company and the elevator is right there, babe. You're in line for a promotion. Marketing job with your name on it, plus shares in the biz. Don't fuck it up and ruin your rep. I can make it so you never work again.

"What did you say then?"

"I told him no again. Then he sends this." She played the next audio message. We listened. It was still Dylan's voice, but deeper, more menacing. As though someone had swiped from him even the pretense of compassion. Okay, bitch, you wanna play like this, fine. Here's what's REALLY happening: I'm watching you. My friends are, too. You know what we love to do? You'll never guess, so I'll tell you. No, no. I won't tell you. I'll just let you find out.

She slid her phone to me. Attached to the audio message was a video—a sniper's-eye view of Elspeth taken through her apartment window. She was in her bathroom wearing a towel, blow-drying her hair. Completely oblivious. "I said yes after that," she said.

"Understandable," I said. I slid the phone back to her.

I looked at Spike. He was gaping at Elspeth. "What a shit holiday season you've been having," he said.

She actually laughed at that. "Right?" she said. "Merry Christmas to me." Then she started to tear up again.

"Hey," Spike said. "Hey, kid." He poured her more wine.

I thought back to my visit to Gonzo—how stressed Elspeth had seemed when I'd introduced myself. The twitching eyelid. The bizarre response ( Find who? ) when I'd told her I'd do my best to find Dylan. I'd assumed Rhonda Lewis's latest visit had freaked her out. But apparently she'd been hiding something far freakier, for weeks.

"What else has Dylan Welch asked you to do?" I said.

"He gave me a list of files on his work computer and told me to go into his office after-hours and permanently delete them," she said.

I thought of the scant number of documents I'd seen on his computer, how I'd attributed it to laziness. "Do you know what the files were?"

"I didn't open them," she said. "They had numbers in their titles. I didn't care. I just wanted to get out of there before I got caught."

I nodded.

"Now I think they must have been something really bad, right? And maybe Trevor found out about them. And Dylan…or…or one of his friends…They wanted to shut Trevor up."

I nodded again. What could I possibly say to that? It made sense.

"Was Trevor acting different before he died?"

"Kind of."

"How?" Spike asked.

"He used to really love going to work," she said. "But over the past few days before the factory went on break it was like…he couldn't get out of there soon enough. It seemed like he hated his job. Hated the lab. He talked about burning it all down and then going to med school."

I looked at her. "He used that phrase? ‘Burning it all down'?"

"Yeah."

"That seems a little dramatic if you're talking about quitting a job. Did Trevor often say things like that?"

"No," she said quietly. "No…he didn't. He wasn't dramatic at all." She poured herself more wine and drank it. Spike and I drank our wine. Outside the apartment, someone rode by on a motorcycle, the roar of it echoing down my street.

"Maybe it's my fault Trevor died," Elspeth said.

"Stop," Spike said.

"I got him his gun," she said. "I enabled him."

"Don't think that way," I said.

Elspeth drained the rest of her glass. Rosie chewed on her bone. For several moments, that was the only sound in the room.

Finally, I spoke. "Is there anything else that Dylan asked you to do?" I said. "I mean…besides erasing those files?"

"He left a burner phone in my car and gave me a number to call," Elspeth said. "When the person answered, I had to tell them ‘Dylan Welch is dead' and hang up."

"And you did that?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. "He…He made me text him after each date I had with Trevor. Tell him everything we talked about. It was just boring stuff. But it made me feel sick. Like…Like I started making excuses not to see Trevor. Just so I wouldn't…I wouldn't have to…I didn't want to do any of those things, but I felt like I didn't have a choice."

Spike handed her a Kleenex.

"Of course that's the way you felt," I said.

"He has eyes on me," she said as she wiped her face. "He told me he has eyes on me. He called me. He left me those audio messages. Every single day he would remind me that I was being watched. The only reason why I felt safe coming here is because the cops are after him, and I figured maybe he's laying low."

Elspeth started to cry more. I put my hand on her shoulder. "You can stay here if you want," I said. "Call in sick tomorrow."

"I can't," she said. "I mean…thank you. But I have to act, like…normal. He's watching. He's got…friends." Her speech was starting to slur. She put her head down on the table. Rested it on her folded arms like a kid at naptime.

"If this makes you feel any better," I said, "Dylan definitely has more enemies than friends."

Elspeth said nothing. Her eyes were closed. I started to repeat myself, but Spike shook his head. "She's toast," he said.

Elspeth was snoring softly. She sounded like Rosie.

"Looks like she is staying here," Spike said. "Whether she wants to or not."

I nodded. "I'm going to turn down the bed in the guest room."

"Make sure there's a trash can next to it," Spike said.

"I will." I stood up. I was a little unsteady on my feet, but otherwise I felt okay. I poured three glasses of tap water—one for me, one for Spike, and one for next to Elspeth's bed, along with a bottle of Advil, should she need it.

Returning to the table, I found myself detouring to the living room window, pushing aside the draperies, and searching the streets for Dylan or his "friends." Anyone connected with him who might have noticed a young woman dressed completely in white and silver, talking on the phone in front of my apartment, seemingly on the verge of a panic attack. I didn't see anyone. The hairs on the back of my neck said otherwise.

"Hey, Sunny?" Spike said.

"Yeah?"

"You want me to stay, too? I can take the couch."

"Would you mind?"

"Of course not."

I smiled. There was no one in this world who understood me as well as Spike did.