Page 147 of Long Way Down

It was from Pongo: a photo of the same pamphlet she now held.

A second text followed:called and said I wanted to join. He’s gonna grab coffee with me 2ight. Meeting’s not til 2morrow.

Where?she texted back.

He sent back the address of the same Starbucks where she’d first met Lana’s study group.

Time?

7

She debated a moment, then sent backokand turned to her partner.

Deming was holding the pulled-out nightstand drawer while Contreras, now wearing gloves, rifled through it. “Have we found his car keys, yet? They weren’t with his things at the hospital.”

“No, but look at this place.” Deming cast a hopeless glance around the room. “It could take days.”

“Yeah, but the car was out,” Melissa reasoned, joining them. “The keys won’t be buried under two feet of old mail.”

“If they’re here at all,” Contreras agreed, straightening. He had what looked like a melted Jolly Rancher stuck to one gloved fingertip and he grimaced. “But I’m thinking, given the timeline, Doug wasn’t the one driving. He loaned the car to whoever dumped the body.”

She nodded, and held up the flyer. “How do you feel about a little eavesdropping?”

~*~

They spent a little more time poking through Doug’s things, but finally left it up to Deming and his crew, and headed up and out of the townhouse. Outside, a fine mist had begun to fall, instantly chilling as it touched her face.

Melissa scraped her hair back into a low bun and tugged up her hood with a shiver. “God, I feel like I need a decontamination shower after being in there.”

“Yeah,” Contreras agreed, hitting the door locks on the fob. “I raised two boys, and I’ve seen a lot, but that was…icky.”

She snorted.

When they were both inside the car, doors securely shut, he turned to her a moment, before he started the engine. “Something’s bothering me, though.”

“Was it the dirty underwear on the arm of the couch? Or whatever melted on the computer keyboard?”

He frowned. “I dunno. It’s just…there’s this weird inconsistency about it all. That place was a wreck. Forget doing laundry: he can’t even throw away a Snickers wrapper. That was unhinged levels of slob. Everything about that basement told me the person who lives in it doesn’t care about a damn thing. Whoever lives in there is just existing: no goals, no dreams. Just…Maria and I used to have to get onto our boys about cleaning their rooms, sure, and they could make a helluva mess in the bathroom…but they were working toward things. They had soccer trophies on their bookshelves, and photos on the wall. Doug’s in art school, right? Shouldn’t his place have some evidence of that? I dunno: art supplies. Paint and brushes and stuff. Some of his own work on the walls – or any work? Prints from artists he admires?”

“Did you see what he drew on the wall over by the TV? That was some pretty creative and twisted shit.”

“It was definitely the only proactive sign that he’s done anything.”

“That and attacking me,” she said, tone going flat, insides cooling.

“I know.” He lifted a hand she thought was meant to be placating and then cranked the engine. Checked over his shoulder and pulled out into traffic. “But it got me thinking about what the sister said: about someone pushing him into this. Because everything we saw in there – aside from the drawings on the wall – points to someone too lazy to even brush his teeth, let alone concoct an elaborate serial rape scheme. Some of the pizza sitting on the counter had shit growing on it – but our guy didn’t leave a single hair or trace of DNA at either of our scenes.”

“You saw him at the hospital,” she argued. “If he hadn’t had a bum leg and cuffs locking him to the bed, he would have tried to put his thumbs through my eyes.”

It was painfully easy to imagine: the way a pasty college student with a permanent slouch could suddenly jackknife upright, overwhelmingly stronger than her. A hand at her throat, and he could drag her to the floor; throw a leg over her, pin her down, reach for her face.I should have taken your eye.

I’ll kill your whole family.

God likes me better than you.

“He’s definitely not stable,” Contreras agreed.

She reached up to push her hood back, and saw that her hand trembled, faintly. The windshield wipers gave a slow, back-and-forth sweep, scudding over a section of glass not yet wet enough.

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