“The boy did this, you think? You wouldn’t be asking otherwise. You think Simon Dobias killed my daughter?”
She raises a calming hand. “We have to follow everything up, Mr. Lemoyne. You understand.”
98
Vicky
After finishing my first shift with a break before my second, I drive home to my apartment in Delavan, a measly little studio apartment only ten minutes from Safe Haven in Elkhorn, Wisconsin. The place is barely large enough to swing your arms around, but it’s mine, and the stove and fridge and heater work.
I don’t miss the ninety-mile drives to and from Grace Park, when I “lived” with Simon, starting back in July, having to commute every day up here for work.
I will, however, miss Simon’s comfortable bed. I’ll miss that huge kitchen and the pot of coffee ready for me when I wake up. I’ll miss never having to think twice about a full refrigerator, a stocked pantry. I’ll miss that rooftop oasis he created.
I’ll miss Simon, too. His thoughtfulness and his quirks. His sense of humor. Most of all, the way he looks at me. I wish that had been enough for me. I wish I could have said yes when he proposed to me—both times he asked.
If I ever married anyone, it would be Simon. But I never will. I will never latch myself to another person. I learned how to live alone, and I guess I learned it too well.
We had a good run, starting three years ago, when I moved to Chicago after my sister’s suicide. I was a mess, and he wasn’t. He sobered me up. He pulled me out of my funk. I never took drugs again and I never sold my body again. He was the first man who ever treated me like I was worthanything. He put me on a pedestal. But I saw how much more he wanted from me—children, marriage—so I cut it off. That was never going to be me. And I don’t want him to settle any more than I want to settle for myself. I moved to Wisconsin and started working for Safe Haven.
And didn’t speak to Simon for months.
Until last May, when he saw Lauren on Michigan Avenue.
After finishing a microwave dinner at my apartment, I drive to the forest preserve in Burlington, thirty minutes away. I’ve been coming three times a day—first thing in the morning, at lunchtime, and after work. I take the hiking trail and follow it around a couple of bends to a vista point about a half-mile up with a large wooden plaque describing the history of the lake down below. I reach behind the plaque and peel off a container attached by Velcro. Inside the container is the burner phone Simon gave me for the post-Halloween fun.
I power it on and give it a moment for the messages to load. First, the message I sent Simon on Halloween night, after I drove up here to Wisconsin:
Mon, Oct 31, 11:09 PM
Gavin saw me. He knows about alias. He wants half the $$ on 11/3 or he exposes me to you. Gave me good kick in ribs too. Need my help??
And then the responses from Simon over the last few days, with a new message today:
Tues, Nov 1, 12:06 PM
No I will deal with him. Nothing much in papers today.
Wed, Nov 2, 11:39 AM
Newspapers but little detail. Working out time to talk to police don’t worry
Today 4:34 PM
Good news/bad. Gavin taken care of. Met with police, they know full alias name too (receptionist?) but otherwise flailing
“Shit.” They know the name Vicky Lanier. The cops know. He’s probably right—it was the receptionist. Emily, I think her name was. That’s the only thing I can think of, too.
But his text says “otherwise flailing.” Meaning they don’t know what to do with the name Vicky Lanier. That was the hope. There’s no trace of me otherwise. That name will take them nowhere.
And at least Gavin’s taken care of. What does he mean by that? What did Simon do? My guess, knowing Simon, he somehow talked Gavin down.
It all comes down to fingerprints for me. If I left a stray print anywhere in Nick’s apartment or at his office, I’m done. They’ll run it through the national database and find me in five seconds, registered with the state of Wisconsin.
Simon figured they’d process the fingerprints within a day or so after finding Lauren. Which means I could find out any second now.
Either I’m scot-free or I’m cooked.
99