Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,55

white.

“Who is he to you again?” he asks me, ignoring Stephan’s presence altogether.

“We’re friends,” I state, pulling my hand free and dropping my gaze.

“You want to help me get this bath panel off, friend?” he grinds out, raising a brow. Stephan smirks, not intimidated one bit.

“Sure thing, someone from her past.”

“Guys, can we stop this already?” I groan.

Moving into the bathroom, Jack drops to a knee and begins unscrewing the bolt that keeps the panel on. With every turn, the smell becomes more toxic. “Should it smell that bad?” Stephan asks, tugging on the panel to loosen it. He pops it right off with ease. Staring at what they’ve uncovered, Stephan backs himself against the wall.

“What is that?” I ask, nausea threatening. A duffle bag has been stuffed inside, wedged against the pipes.

“It’s not something in the drains. The pipes are warming the bag,” Jack informs, matter-of-factly.

“What’s in the fucking bag?” Stephan grabs the neck of his shirt, lifting it to cover his nose and mouth.

Jack reaches for the duffle, but stops when I scream, “Don’t!” I tremble, my brain buzzing. “We need to call Hernandez,” I choke out. “Don’t touch it. Fingerprints.” I usher them out of the room, closing the door behind them and staring at it. Something bad is in the bag, I know it, and it’s been there this whole time. I race past them into the kitchen and vomit into the trashcan, stomach acid burning up my throat. A warm hand rubs my back as another hand collects my hair. “It’s okay,” Jack murmurs. “You should go get Charlotte, so she doesn’t go in there by accident,” Jack tells Stephan.

“I need some air.” My mouth is dry, raw. “And water,” I add, moving to the window while Jack looks for a bottle of water. Pushing the pane of glass open, I gulp at the fresh air, the cold breeze chilling the tears falling to my cheeks. Looking up, my vision blurs, seeing into the empty apartment.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

No. I stumble backward, turning and racing to the bathroom, pushing the door open.

“Lizzy?” numerous voices call out as I drag the bag from beneath the bathtub and unzip it. A blood curdling scream blacks out my vision. I’m not sure if it’s me screaming or Charlotte.

“It’s her,” I blurt, faintly aware of my own voice. “It’s our neighbor.” She was here all along.

Twenty-Two

Flashing blue lights don’t have the same effect they did before. They’re becoming my normal. Death, fear…it’s all second nature. I’m a curse.

“I’m going to need you to come to the station,” Hernandez informs me, a crease etched on his forehead. “Am I under arrest?” I laugh, delirious. When he doesn’t answer, I snap my gaze around the room, then back to him. “Oh my god, I am, aren’t I?”

“No, but you do need to come answer some questions.”

“She’s the victim here,” Stephan grinds out, stepping up and resting a hand on my shoulder.

“And you are?” His tone is silky smooth, strong.

“I’m her friend. We spoke before about Abigail.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m afraid this is a murder investigation and I have to follow protocol.”

They both turn to look down to me when I speak out, almost hypnotic. “This whole time, she was here. When? How could he have put her…” Sickness threatens again.

A cup is placed in my hands. “Drink up,” Jack tells me with a reassuring nod of his head.

“And you were here when she found the bag?” Hernandez turns his attention to Jack.

“Yes. I removed the bath panel. I stayed the night.” Jack’s eyes flick to Stephan’s, his words a claim and warning.

“I see. Well, you’re all going to need to give statements, so stick around. I’ll get some officers to escort you down to the precinct.

I find myself once again in an interrogation room. Dull yellow lights. Dirty white walls. A crap chair that’s cold. “Am I a suspect, Detective?” I ask, pushing away the rancid coffee he places in front of me.

“This is just—”

“Protocol, yeah. I heard you the first few times. I think doth protest too much.”

“Stephan said you called Mr. Clark by the first name Jack,” he digs, trying to get inside.

“He misheard.” My tone hardens, teeth clashing.

Pointing to my cut, he frowns. “What happened?” Is that a genuine concern? Probably not.

“Fell.”

“I’m here to help you, Lizzy. I’m not your enemy.” The words are just that: words.

“No? Then why am I here and Willis is still out there killing?”

Silence.

Pushing the words through clenched teeth, I ask, “Are we done,