Page 30 of Irreversible

Maybe it’s time to change direction.

Try not to antagonize all the time,I remind myself, in Tanner’s voice.

“All right, I’ll figure it out. Tell me about when you were taken.”

Of course, I know more than I’m letting on. The disappearance of Everly Cross is just one of many pieces that ultimately led me here, and unlike most victims, there were plenty of photographs of her activities in the hours before. I pored over every bit of it after Sara was taken, looking for anything that could connect the dots.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Everyone was convinced I was reaching. Even with a history of solving cases no one else could, it wasn’t enough. The minute someone close to me became a victim, anything I said was tainted with the possibility of emotional bias. My instincts were tossed into the pile of wishful thinking and outlandish connections.

Well, every last one of them can go to hell. After I’ve dismantled this operation, piece by bloody piece, I’ll gladly join the bastards and make them suffer for eternity.

But that’s for another day.

“My husband and I were just getting home from a party.” Everly recounts the details I asked for. “Someone broke into our house.”

“And took you, obviously.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer. So, yes, they took me.”

I might smile if I weren’t so busy examining the cuff that connects my ankle to the heavy chain. Police issue, with a double-locking ratchet system. “Go on.” The cuff isn’t difficult to spring when you know what you’re doing, but I need some kind of tool. I suppose a stray bobby pin lying on the floor is too much to ask for. Shit, I’ll take anything at this point—evena piece of duct tape could work in a pinch, but unfortunately, my captors don’t seem to be idiots. “Had you felt as though you were being watched that day, or any other?”

“Yes.”

Interesting. I don’t remember seeing that documented. “Really? Tell me more.” I move on from the cuff and down to the chain. I’ve yanked on it plenty, but now I study each connecting point for any hint of weakness.

“Well, I was modeling, and an ad I was in went viral. So technically, there were millions of people watching?—”

The chainclanksto the floor. Now I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or dumb. “I meant, tell me something useful. Like whether you thought you were being stalked or targeted.Specifically.”

“Okay, but your question wasn’t veryspecific.”

“Touche.” Between the douchebag who put me here, and this conversation with Beverly minus the B, I can’t remember the last time I spoke this much in one day. It’s exhausting. Pressing two fingers between my eyes, I attempt to massage the ache into something slightly more bearable. “God, I’m bad at this.”

“To be fair, it’s not every day a person gets kidnapped. This kind of pressure throws all of us off kilter.”

A sound akin to a scoff comes from my throat. “I thrive under pressure; it’s patience that’s not my forte.”

“Ah. Then no, not specifically. Occasionally, I’d get a weird message on social media, but nothing that seemed particularly threatening. Someone else usually handled those and called it to our attention if it was something we needed to know about.”

Of course, the department had combed through every email, message, and contact on record, looking for leads, and they’d all been cleared. But my interest is in whether there was something she knew that we didn’t.

Resting back against the wall, I’m close enough to pick up on the sound of crunching in between pauses. Is she snacking over there? What kind of setup does she have?

When she speaks again, the words sound slightly muffled. “I guess someone who thrives under pressure is probably not bad to have as a neighbor.”

“Are you chewing on something?”

“Sorry.” Her voice is farther away now, accompanied by the sounds of items being shuffled. “I had some carrot sticks left over from earlier.”

Carrot sticks. Not exactly the stale bread and gruel one pictures when they’re held prisoner. I’ll have to ask more about her life in here later. My setup is sparse, but maybe her accommodations are different. “What do you know about the men who broke in? Do you ever see them here?”

“It’s hard to say.” Her voice is closer, like she’s settled into her spot just behind me. “They were wearing black clothing and masks, and everything happened so fast. But the one who grabbed me had red hair.”

“Let me guess—big guy, but a little smaller than the ogre in the hallway. Like if a Viking and a troll had a baby?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him at the time, but there’s a guy who comes through here that fits that description.”

“Fucking Dolph.” The bastard has been connected to this from the beginning. “Fuck, how do you keep track of the days? I’m already lost.”

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