“Maybe Suzanna didn’t tell her,” Nate shrugged. “It was an unremarkable date, by all accounts.”
“But this harassment…” Laura said.
Thornton shook her head. “There are a few other men who had similar reactions,” she said. “I think the fact may have been that Suzanna was used to this kind of behavior from men she met on Tinder. I was compiling a list of people we might want to speak to, judging from the language they used, when I heard that you were looking for Darnell. I thought he might be the best priority.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Laura said, then hesitated. “But we don’t want to miss the other leads, either. Sergeant, can you distribute this list among yourself and some other detectives, get alibis from as many of them as you can? If we can rule them out, so much the better.”
Thornton nodded, already gathering her own notes to take them back downstairs to the rest of the team.
“In the meantime, we’ll head back out to speak to Scott Darnell,” Laura said, grabbing a copy of the text messages. She wanted to read them out to him and see what he had to say for himself – because she couldn’t imagine any way that a man could possibly justify the kinds of things he had said.
In fact, she couldn’t imagine how a confirmed stalker who was obsessed with one of the women and, very clearly upset with the other, could possibly talk himself out of being their prime suspect in both of the murders.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He found a spot on the opposite side of the road and parked. It was perfect. He would be able to see from here, and he wouldn’t even need to get out of the car. He made sure that all of the interior lights were off, that the streetlights weren’t shining in through any of the windows to illuminate him. If she looked out, she would only see a dark car. That was the best way to do it. He didn’t want her to know she was being watched.
That was always the truest test. When someone was alone, when they had no idea that they were being observed, they would be their truest self. It was all well and good being the perfect muse when someone was watching you. But his muse, his perfect one – she was the same all the time.
That was what excited him the most. Knowing that he was about to see perfection at its finest, its most pure. He was going to get a glimpse of something that the rest of the world never saw, something truly special. And it was all going to be a perfect show just for him.
He hunched in the seat, eventually scooting over to the passenger side in order to get a better angle of her windows. She had left the curtains open, turned on the lights against the encroaching darkness of the evening. He couldn’t see anything. He needed to get closer.
He stole out of the car into the darkness of the night, dressed all in black so that no one would see him. A quick run across the street and he was right by the side of her house; a glance through the windows to check she wasn’t there, and he darted around back. There were bushes lining the side of the house, and he could creep into them, get cover, crouch down at just such a perfect angle to see right into the windows without being seen. The house was quiet, and the windows were empty.
She was at home, though, and when he saw her come into view at last, she wasn't acting as though she was being watched at all. Her hair was up in a messy bun, rather than the sleek curls she normally wore.
She had changed since getting home, too. Instead of the chic and fashionable outfit she had been wearing outside, now she was in slouchy, old clothes. Pajamas, maybe, or just something that was more comfortable for a relaxing evening. That was alright. It wasn’t perfect – it meant that there was a hidden side to her – but it was also fine. She was flowing with the rhythm of the day. Some moments called for stiletto heels and skinny jeans, and some moments called for soft textures and oversized fits. He understood that.
In fact, if anything, it was an indication that she was able to go with the flow of the universe better. That she didn’t resist and stay rigidly the same. That made her even more worthy of his worship. It was better than those fake girls who were always trying to be perfect for social media, always filtered and manicured and never able to take the bad with the good.
No, his muse – she knew both the ups and the downs. She knew how to be. She was perfect.
He watched her settle down in front of the television, switching it on. The glow of it bathed her face in an unnatural blue light, flickering occasional through different colors. She seemed absorbed, but after a short while she picked up a fashion magazine and began to flip through the pages. After that, her phone rang, and she stopped whatever show or movie she was watching to answer it.
He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he watched her. As she spoke, she fished out a thin blanket and laid it over herself, keeping herself warm. She scratched her chest, a movement that struck him as unexpectedly lewd. He frowned.
She reached up a hand to her face and pulled off two strips of fake eyelashes, the long lashes he had admired in her when she blinked and waved them around. They were false. He swallowed, taken aback. Without them, at this distance, her eyes seemed to be so small. Like they were almost disappearing. She stuck the eyelashes onto a side table without looking, and one of them fell onto the floor. When she looked around and noticed, she left it where it was.
He began to feel a sick sensation right in his stomach. A burning in his chest. What was happening? Why was she being like this? Was this some kind of joke? What had happened to the beautiful, fairy-like goddess who seemed to light up the whole street as she floated along on the current? Who was this dirty, vulgar, fake person taking her place?
Then he knew. It was all an act. It had to be. She was just as fake as the others. She made herself seem perfect on the outside – just to fool people like him, he expected. To make them fall in love with her, with a person who did not actually exist.
She was all fake.
An anger was swelling up inside of him. How dare she put on this face to the world, make them think that she was something she was not? He had trusted her. He had loved her, worshipped her. He had made her his muse. And it turned out she was no muse at all – all style and no substance, completely vapid behind the façade. He gripped the leaves of the bush he was crouching in and ripped them off the branch, then tore them to shreds in his hands, his eyes still fixed on her.
She had let him down. She had lied to him. And he knew with a sudden certainty what he was going to have to do now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Laura pulled the car up outside the house, peering at it past Nate’s head in the window as she did so. It was a small enough house, but with three cars parked outside and all of them looking like cheap second-hand models, it was clear enough that they were looking at a shared home. Three roommates, maybe more if someone was out right now or didn’t own a car. It was late enough at night that she suspected everyone would be home from work or school, so long as they didn’t work the graveyard shift.
The more people they could expect at any location, the more complicated things could get. That was unfortunate. But they had to talk to Scott Darnell – and if all went well, hopefully, they would need to arrest him.
Hopefully, because if they were right with their suspicions, then they could get a murderer off the streets faster than expected. Not only did that mean going home to sort out the two little girls who needed her, but it also meant the women of Seattle would be safe.
At least, from this particular killer.