Page 62 of Crawl
There’s an old birth certificate.Cassius Winstone.The mother and father are listed in the middle, but the birthdate seems off. I do some quick math in my head, and if I’m right, Cash should be sixty years old right now. But he can’t be more than forty, if he’s eventhatold.
An idea pops into my mind: maybe he doesn’t remember his birthday because he can’t tell me the truth without revealing himself as an imposter.
This is my proof. Cash isn’t Cassius Winstone.
But I don’t feel relieved anymore.
I pace back and forth in that closet. What am I supposed to do? I know he isn’t the real Cassius Winstone. What if I’m okay with that? What if I’m relieved? What if I don’t care if he’s somehow linked to these deaths across the country, because at least he’s not my best friend’s abuser?
I stumble, tripping over the lip of a maroon rug tucked underneath the shoe bench and the safe, falling on my hands and knees.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I push myself up, admiring the brightness of the rug, and that stops me. It’snew,and it covers almost the entire closet. Like it’s been added recently. Like it’s hiding something.
With some grunting, I move the shoe bench and the safe, then lift the rug.
There, on the ground, is a cutout in the wood with a single metal handle, almost exactly like the one from the news report. It’s a small door, just big enough for someone like Cash to fit inside.
It’s a closed door. Cash told menotto open any closed doors.
But this isn’t a door to a room. It’s a crawl space. Like the news mentioned.
Many houses have them. It’s a coincidence.
But my heart thuds in my chest. I hold my breath, my body buzzing with energy as I pull the metal handle, opening the door. It’s dark and empty; there’s nothing there. The stench of sour alcohol and rotting bouquets surrounds me. It’s stale, but not alarm-worthy yet. I exhale slowly, but I freeze in place. I need to know for sure.
I turn on the flashlight on my phone, then aim it at one side of the crawl space. My stepdad’s body shines in the light, his face painted white like a plastic doll. I check the other side: an older man with gray hair and shriveling skin is frozen in place. The white paint peels in places, exposing his yellow, purple, and black skin. The real Mr. Winstone.
The stench of the bodies grows around me. I breathe through my mouth, trying to think straight, but I can’t. I close the small door.
Who is Cash? Is that even his real name?
And why did he kill Mr. Winstone?
Sweat drips down my body as I move the rug back into place, then put the shoe bench and the safe back to make it seem like I didn’t disturb anything. Because this isn’t real. If I hadn’t gone snooping, then Cash would be the practically harmless Substitute Mr. Winstone.
But I can’t let it go. I have to get out of here.
At the front door to the estate, I weigh my options. Going through with this—confronting Cash—may not actually get me anywhere. If he’s been playing me for this long, then he’s always known that I’ll eventually find out. Maybe hewantsme to know everything.
I follow my instincts. In my car, I rip through the streets, barely avoiding collisions. It’s like my body is racing with my mind, and I have to get home. Have to do something. Have to make sure I’m safe. I race into my rental house, then lean against the wall, completely out of breath.
The closet door catches my eye. There’s a hatch in the ground. One that hadn’t been there before.
My temples throb, but I force myself to look. I open the closet door, then gaze down at the hatch. I remember the times Cash silently got into my house. What if he was already in the house, hiding in my crawl space?
It’s insane, but I can’t let it go. I stand up. All I want is the truth. Trying to manipulate a serial killer into telling the truth is stupid.He has endless opportunities to kill me. And he can kill me right now if he wants.
Except he hasn’t. The choke chain. The noose in the parking lot. Taking my eyes and ears. With the knife that killed my stepdad. There are so many times he could have killed me, but I’m still here. And I have this instinct that hewantsme to know the truth. Like he left this puzzle for me.
I open the hatch. Pine trees and faint chemicals waft from the crawl space. As if he’s been here recently.
Who the hell is Cash?
CHAPTER 15
Cash
When I bound down the stairs, ready to start the day, I find a cake on the counter with candles poking out of the top. Remedy stands in the kitchen, a black dress clinging to her frame, her lips painted red like the frosting on the cake. Her thick thighs press together and I imagine my face crushed in between them. Anything I want to get done seems pointless. I want to have her first.
