She picked up her Mickey Gibson notebook and rifled through the pages. The truth was she could have looked for the treasure all on her own. But the reasons she had not, and why she had involved Gibson, were complicated, just like she had told Gibson they were.
She was the big girl on campus. She could have been anything. She didn’t turn pro in basketball. She didn’t even try her luck on Broadway. Then she became a cop. Okay, that was fine. But then she married that jerk and she let him ruin her life. How had the big girl on campus allowed that to happen? Now she’s driving a mommy van and sitting behind a computer screen pissing her life away. I brought her into this to kick her ass, sure. But I also brought her into this to wake the woman the hell up.
She had filled six entire notebooks devoted to the life of Mickey Gibson.
Clarisse let her fingers drift over the computer keys.
But still, how pathetic is that? What right do I have to judge her decisions? And she was kind to me, when she didn’t have to be. Of course I’ve changed my appearance so much that she didn’t recognize me. But I remembered what she did for me. And it just kills me to see how... ordinary her life has turned out to be.
Mickey Gibson had been the odd combination of stud athlete and Bohemian artist. She was whipping balls to teammates one night and singing her guts out the next, while dressed as a French revolutionary in a college production of Les Misérables. And everyone adored her.
Clarisse could have easily hated her for that, but found she couldn’t. The woman was nice to everyone, without a hint of an ego.
When I served her food in the cafeteria, or when I pulled wardrobe for her during the theater productions, she was unfailingly polite and always had a smile for me. Even though I was a poorly paid kitchen worker, an unpaid stagehand, whatever the university wanted me to be. Back then I just wanted a roof over my head and some food in my belly.
That was a simple life that part of her sometimes yearned for now. Her existence now was so complicated.
And Gibson had a loving family. Clarisse had none of that.
But she imagined that back at Temple she and Mickey Rogers had talked about roles they wanted to play. That Gibson had encouraged her, helped her with memorizing lines, given her the courage to audition.
Now that fantasy seemed laughable, and, even worse, pitiable.
You were such a loser you had to imagine you had friends.
But I could have been Mickey Gibson. I could have been the big girl on campus with adoring parents. And I wouldn’t have thrown it all away like she did. I never got that chance, though.
And there had been that encounter on the campus, late at night when the creep had assaulted her. It had been terrifying and... Gibson had been there. Clarisse should have been immensely grateful but she hadn’t been. It had made her mad, furious even, for reasons she couldn’t really explain.
But maybe I can now. I didn’t want to be saved by her, or anyone else. It just showed I had no control over any part of my life. Because, in the end, the only person who could save me was myself.
She had left the university the following day and started out on what had become her career: lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating, giving back to others what she had been force-fed most of her life. In her more rational moments, she knew none of it made sense. But for a long time now, it had become the only way she could make sense of the world. There were winners and losers. There were the strong and the weak. Those in control and those being controlled by others, and didn’t she know the hell that came with that last one?
So when Clarisse had walked into Stormfield that day to find Harry Langhorne dead, her thoughts had pivoted instantly to the nearby Gibson. In her mind, the plan came together perfectly. She would show Gibson that she was actually the stronger one — the winner. And if Gibson did manage to help her find the treasure, all the better. Clarisse would have still won.
And what else really matters?
But she asked if I wanted to stay at her house. Whether I was safe.
No one had ever asked her those things before. But it didn’t surprise her that Gibson had. She was a good person.
Unlike me.
Clarisse shook her head and wiped her eyes.
Get a grip, girl.
She refocused on a picture on her computer screen.
Wilson Sullivan. There was something about the man that was making her warning antennae scream.
While Gibson was looking for treasure, she decided to start looking at the Virginia police detective.
If that was all he really was.
Chapter 65
The next morning Clarisse watched from across the street as Sullivan left the police building in Virginia Beach and got into his state-issued sedan. It was drizzling and the skies were darkening, promising still more precipitation after the previous night’s steady rainfall.
She put her rental car in gear and moved into traffic two vehicles behind him.
They drove a familiar route, and ended up back at Stormfield. She had turned off before they arrived there because traffic had thinned and she didn’t want to be spotted. But she was certain that could be the only place out here that he would be going to.
She parked and approached the house on foot, drawing her hoodie closer around her as the air chilled and the rain picked up.
Clarisse moved past the mailbox and flitted through the trees until she reached the edge of the lawn opposite the front entrance. His sedan was parked there.
She ran across the grass and reached the east wing of the home, where she peered into one of the windows. It was dark inside, so she could really see nothing. The man must be using a flashlight. And then to confirm this theory she saw a stab of light cut through the interior. He was moving along the hall to the main staircase. And then he took it down.
Well, if he made it to the wine cellar he would find it bereft of messages. She licked her lips and remembered how the paper had tasted in her mouth.
“Hey, babycakes.”
Clarisse turned at the sound of the voice, right as a cloth covered her face.
Clarisse awoke slowly at first, and then in a panicked rush of cortisol plowing into her bloodstream, she sat up, or would have if she hadn’t been restrained.
She looked around at the decrepit room: paint peeling, floors wooden and filthy, one window, the single light bulb overhead feeble and pulsing. She was on a bed with her arms and legs tied to the bedposts. The smell here was not pleasant.
She could hear the rain tapping on the roof, in the distance a growl of thunder.
“Welcome back, babycakes. It was only a short ride down slumber lane for you. I know just how much to use. Helps me sleep at night.”
Clarisse looked directly in front of her to see the woman sitting there in a hardbacked chair, one leg draped over the other. She could see her far better in this light than in her own apartment, when the woman had previously gotten the drop on her. She was heavier in the face and butt and hips, Clarisse noted. The hair had changed color, going from soft brown to stark red. It was not a wig, she could tell. It was the work of a colorist. A good job, but the shade did not flatter her complexion.