Page 77 of Someone Knows

My phone, which is still in my hand, vibrates, and it scares the shit out of me. But it’s only a text coming in from my boss, my department head at the university. I need the distraction, so I swipe over and read.

Maryellen:Hi, Elizabeth. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this. But I emailed you a few days ago and haven’t heard back. I just wanted to find out if you have an idea when you’ll be returning so I can work on getting coverage extended. No rush. Take as long as you need. If you could please just shoot me an email and copy HR whenever you have an opportunity, I’d appreciate it. I hope you’re doing well.

Ugh. It isn’t like me to shirk my responsibilities. I’ve been so wrapped up in the mess down here that I haven’t checked my work email since before I left New York. I texted Maryellen and told her my mother died and I needed to take some time off, and that I’d check in when I knew more. But I never did.

I immediately swipe over to my work email, to do as Maryellen asked. There are a dozen new messages. I scan them, freezing when I get to the last one.

Hannah Greer.

And there’s an attachment.

CHAPTER

38

Istare at the email for a long time—long enough that the screen goes dark and I have to swipe and let it recognize my face again to reread the message. It’s dated almost a week ago—the day before my mother’s death. And it’s just been sitting here, waiting for me this whole time. My boss’s request forgotten, I jab at the attachment, opening it as the car’s air-conditioning hums away.

I take a deep breath when it flickers open, wishing I had a whiskey or two to fortify myself. I could run into the house, pour something, but my heart pounds, the anticipation too strong, and I can’t do anything but sit right here in the driver’s seat.

It’s another chapter. Of course it is. I knew it would be. I imagine Noah in his house, sitting on his bed wearing his glasses, smirking as he hits send from a fake email address. I exhale and start to read.

Chapter 6—Hannah’s Novel

Jocelyn didn’t hesitate this time as she drove up to the parking lot, parked the car, strolled into the motel office. She paid with cash and gave her fake name, then went to the room to wait. Mr. Sawyer wouldn’tarrive for some time. That was how they stayed safe, how no one found out what they were doing. And she didn’t want to give him any reason to put a stop to it. She lived for these nights with him, the one person who noticed her, who took time to help her.

As she waited, she wandered the room, opening shelves and drawers. Sometimes she found surprises—things people had left, the people who stayed here on the nights they didn’t have the room. Once, she’d found a pack of gum, though she wasn’t about to chew some stranger’s gum. This time, she found a Bible. A nice one. Freshly placed there. The spine hadn’t even been cracked yet. Jocelyn ran her fingers over the cloth exterior, but didn’t dare open it. She’d gone to church, knew the scripture, and didn’t feel the need to read more about God or Jesus, especially not on the nights she was at the motel.

From behind her, the door creaked. Jocelyn whipped around and hurried over. Probably it was Mr. Sawyer, and he needed to be let in. Usually, she left the door unlocked, but maybe she forgot to this time. Maybe—

She swung the door open, but no one stood there. She stuck her head out, looked left and right, but there was only humid air and a cracked parking lot. Not even another car besides the guy’s who worked the front desk.Odd.She could’ve sworn someone had opened the door, or at least rustled it.

She blew out a breath, shut the door so she wouldn’t be seen, and went back inside to wait. Finally, twenty minutes later, the man she’d been waiting for burst through the door.

“Running late,” Mr. Sawyer muttered, though notably, there was no apology. “On your knees.” He pointed to the spot where he always had her kneel, and she rushed to obey. “Don’t have much time tonight. Have to get home to . . .” The rest of his words were a mumble she couldn’t quite make out, but she knew better than to speak when she had not been asked adirect question.

Jocelyn knelt there for some time before he came over, running his fingers over the back of her neck, twisting them through her hair. The rest of the evening went as it always did—he gave her commands, and she obeyed. They undressed. They had sex with her up on all fours, facing the wall and not him. But today it was faster than usual. Mr. Sawyer was brusque, ordering her around.

“Hurry up,” he said when they finished. “Get dressed.”

Jocelyn tried to, but one of her stockings snagged, making it impossible to pull up. She reached to fix it, but before she could, he was right there. Shoving her.

“I saidhurry up.”

But Mr. Sawyer’s tone only made Jocelyn more nervous. One second she was standing on one foot, fixing her clothes, and the next she was on the ground, blinking.

“Shit,” he said.

“What happened?” She reached for her head. The spot where her hair met her forehead ached and felt hot and wet and—

“You hit your head. Why are you so clumsy? Here, let me look.” Mr. Sawyer crouched down, frowning in the dim motel light as he examined her.

Jocelyn was confused. She didn’t remember hitting her head, didn’t remember what happened. Not exactly anyway. But when she looked up and around, she knew she’d hit the corner of the nightstand. She’d fallen, and on the way down, bashed her head on it. When she pulled her fingers away, they were covered in blood.

“You need stitches.”

Jocelyn’s mouth gaped open. That was a problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t afford a visit to the doctor, much less stitches. Neither could her mother. And besides, if she went, they’d ask what happened. She couldn’ttellthem. Yet she also couldn’t imagine lying to a doctor.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Sawyer said. “There’s a clinic in the next town over. No one will recognize you.” It was as if he could hear her concerns.

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