Two missing.
Presley didn’t find any photos.
<Odd.>
The younger generation didn’t keep paper photos; they carried them around on their phones. But anyone over the age of thirty usually had stacks of them. During her stay, Presley had clandestinely snooped through every cabinet, drawer, shelf, and closet in the house. No photos tucked away. No photo boxes, no photo albums, no rubber-banded stacks or envelopes full of negatives.
<Come to think of it, there aren’t any pictures on the walls, either.>
Married couples usually had a wedding pic hanging somewhere. Even dating couples had pics. Presley had a framed one of her and Jason in fatigues hanging next to her bed at home, and several more of him alone taped to bookcases and dressers and the fridge.
<Fabler has none. I have no idea what his wife, Lori, looks like.>
Nothing of further interest in the drawers, so Presley moved on to the first closet.
Male clothing, some on hangers, some on shelves. Shirts and slacks and shorts and jeans and shoes and coats, a two piece suit that looked like it came off the rack at Sears. She wasted a few minutes, going through various pockets and coming up empty, and then noticed the brown spots on the floor.
<Three large, brown stains.
<Two from shoes.
<One looked more like a dried puddle.>
Presley knelt down, reached for it, and stopped herself.
<Blood. These are blood stains.>
She remembered reading up on Fabler’s trial, conviction, and release before taking this job. The police had found a bloody pair of running shoes, and a blood-soaked hammer, in Fabler’s house. The conviction had been overturned when evidence revealed Grim had planted the shoes and hammer and switched the DNA reports.
<But why hasn’t Fabler cleaned up the blood?
<Some sick reminder?
<To relive that night?>
Not wanting to be in there any longer, she closed the knobless door and tried the second closet. Twice as big, also full of clothing. Women’s clothing. Presley pawed through the dresses, jeans, sweaters, blouses. Lori had good taste. Lots of designer stuff. Suits, power outfits, some serious heels. On the upper shelves, shoe boxes. She took a stack down, found they contained…
<Shoes.>
Presley sighed, took a deep breath. The closet didn’t smell like dust or mothballs or disuse.
Oddly, it smelled a lot like Fabler.
“Looking for something?”
She yelped, dropping to a squat as she turned around, freeing the .45 DoubleTap from her ankle holster and pointing it at—
<Fabler.
<How did he sneak up on me without the floor squeaking?>
He didn’t appear angry. Fabler wore his standard Fabler expression; like he was watching a very boring documentary shortly after getting electroconvulsive therapy.
“You scared the crap out of me.” She holstered the gun. “Sorry to be snooping. I ripped my khakis, wanted to see if there were a spare pair someplace.”
“So you’re stealing my wife’s clothes?”
“I was going to ask you. You know women and clothing—we’re always trading and borrowing stuff.”
Presley hoped that would fly. Shooting Fabler would cause a whole mess of problems, including losing the job and not getting paid.
<A joke. But not really.>
Fabler stared.
Presley stared back.
Then he nodded. “Okay.”
“Seriously?”
“Borrow whatever you’d like.”
<I didn’t expect that response.> “Anything?”
“Anything, except…” Fabler reached for something on the top shelf. A large, white, box. “This.”
“So anything but that weird, secret box.”
“It’s not a secret.”
“What is it?”
“Lori’s wedding gown.”
Presley wondered if there could be more wedding items in there. Like pictures. She decided to press her luck.
“Can I see it?”
“You want to see Lori’s wedding dress?”
“Girls always want to see wedding dresses. You never heard of Premier Bride magazine? Each issue is hundreds of pages long, all wedding dresses.”
Fabler appeared skeptical. Then he nodded.
Presley stood up, walking past Fabler and taking the box to the bed. She opened it, careful not to tear the cardboard, and pulled the gown out by the shoulders.
<Wow. Gorgeous.>
Strapless, low cut, patternless white satin, ruffles below the knees. Presley eyed the label.
<Versace. Whoa.>
“Did her parents buy this?”
“I did. Her parents died before we married.”
“You picked it out?”
“She saw it in one of those bridal magazines. Laughed about how expensive it was. I had some money, from contract work after the Army.”
“Did you have a big wedding?”
“Did it at the courthouse. Just us. And her brother.”
“What did you wear?”
Fabler reached over and pulled a garment bag hidden behind his cheap Sears suit. “She picked it out.”
Presley unzipped the side of the bag and looked at the label on the tuxedo.
<Armani.
<Versace and Armani, for a courthouse wedding with no guests.
<That’s either the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of…
<Or the most romantic.>
“What did Lori do for a living?”
“She’s a real estate agent.”
“She obviously made good money. This must have cost a fortune.”
“She does okay.”
“The tux is nice. But this gown is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
Presley hugged the dress to her body, modeling it for Fabler.
His eyes bugged out, and his mouth twitched.
<Seeing any sort of expression on Fabler is surprising, but I can’t tell if that’s pain or joy.
<Maybe he’s nauseous.
<Maybe he’s aroused.>
Presley immediately put the dress back into the box.
“When were you guys married?” She purposely avoided looking at him as she fussed with smoothing out wrinkles in the gown.
“Eight years ago.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Her brother was my best friend.”
“I didn’t know you had any friends.”
When he didn’t answer, Presley glanced at him. Fabler resumed his everyday deadpan expression.
“Army buddy. I ran into him today. In town.”
<My turn to keep my face blank.> “So… your brother-in-law? The one who blames you for Lori’s death?”
Fabler nodded, his eyes not focused on anything.
“How’d that go?”
“He’s… not doing well.”
“I don’t mean to pry.” <Yeah I do.> “But didn’t he get fired from his police officer job for framing you?”
“He went down a path he shouldn’t have gone down. But Grim’s a good guy. You like him.”
Presley wasn’t sure she’d heard that right.
<You like him?
<Does Fabler know?>
“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you.”
“You’d like him.”
<I must be hearing things.> “Aren’t you mad at him?”
Fabler turned away. “His sister is missing. I’m the obvious suspect. I was him, I would have done the same thing.”
<Change the subject. Ask about the pregnancy tests.>
“Why didn’t you and Lori have children?”
Fabler’s eyes widened, and Presley wondered if she’d been too blunt.
“We tried to. We wanted kids. There were… complications.”
<Cryptic. Keep pushing.>
“Some medical issue?”
“Lori… had some problems getting pregnant.”
<He used past tense.> “Had?”
“Has. She has some genetic thing.”
<Maybe it has something to do with the condoms in your drawer.
<But don’t mention that. Keep things conversational.>
“What was Lori like?”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of person was she?”
Fabler considered it. “She once saw a homeless man at an intersection, holding a cardboard sign, begging for food. Guy told her he’d been unemployed for a year, he lived on the street, all he owned was the clothes on his back. Lori took him to a restaurant, bought him a meal. Then she took him to the barber and got him a shave and haircut. Then she took him to a department store and bought him clothes and toiletries. Then she set him up in a motel and got him a job with the crew that cleaned her office. Far as I know, he still has that job.” Fabler’s eyes glazed over. “That’s who Lori is. That’s why I love her. Because every day I’m with her, she shows me how good the world can be.”
<That’s as good an opening as any.>
“Fabler… what do you think happened to Lori?”
Fabler didn’t answer.
“I mean, if she left you, her brother would have heard from her. Right?”
He stayed silent.
“If she’s not dead, Fabler, where is she?”
“How open is your mind, Presley?”
“What do you mean?”
He stared at the wedding gown box. “I mean a lot of people are closed. There are certain things they believe. And certain things they can never believe. Do you believe in God?”
<What’s he really asking here? What’s his angle?>
She chose to tell him the truth. “No.”
“Is there anything that could make you change your mind?”
“Sure. If I had proof.”
“But what if there is no proof? Billions of people believe in some sort of god, without any evidence. All they have is faith.”
“I need more than faith.”
“In the army… did you ever kill anyone?”
<There’s an abrupt about-face. It’s also something a dumbass civilian would ask. Not a vet. Never a vet.>
“What the hell, Fabler? Really?”
“I know it’s a shitty question. But I need the answer.”
<Jesus. Fine.> “No, I never killed anyone.”
“Were you ever in a firefight?”
“Yes.”
“If you had to, could you do it? Kill another human being?”
<Tell him what he obviously wants to hear.> “Yes.”
“Do you think it would change you?”
“I don’t know.”
Fabler returned his stare to her. “When I was a teenager, I thought I knew what sex would be like. I saw pornos and magazines. I jerked off. I thought I was ready for it. Then I actually had sex, and it was completely different than I thought.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Same thing with killing. All through BCT, the Army trained me to kill. I thought I knew what it would be like. That I’d be ready for it. Then… I actually did it. And it wasn’t what I expected. It… changed me.”
“What are you saying, Fabler?”
He leaned over her, getting in Presley’s personal space. “I’m saying that we all think we know things. We have faith. But sometimes, when we finally get the proof, it changes us in ways we can’t even imagine.”
His expression, growing menacing, had an unnerving effect. Presley considered the gun in her ankle holster. A round from a .45 packed a serious punch, and at this distance, aiming at center mass, she couldn’t miss. But the DoubleTap only held two bullets, and Presley didn’t know if that would be enough to stop Fabler if he tried something.
<And he’s ready to pounce.>
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What happened to Lori?”
“What if I told you that God came, and he took her?”
Presley chose her words very, very carefully. “Is that what happened?”
“You said you don’t believe in God.”
“Where are you going with this, Fabler?” <Is he admitting he killed her?> “Is Lori… in heaven?”
“Some people believe without proof. You need proof, Presley.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me telling you what happened won’t be enough.” His voice became low. “I’d need to show you.”
Presley got ready to crouch and grab the gun. The fear would make her fire fast, but she decided her best chance of survival was keeping calm and aiming for the head.
“Are you going to show me now, Fabler?”
“You look scared.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“You’re thinking about drawing your gun again.”
“You’re correct.”
“Go ahead.” Fabler raised his hands. “I won’t move.”
Presley took the opportunity. She quickly squatted down and drew the weapon, drawing a bead on Fabler’s face.
“Are you still afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you have a gun on me?”
“Yes.”
“Presley, what if I told you that you truly have no idea what fear is?”
She tried to keep the weapon steady as the panic gripped her. “Trust me, Fabler. I understand fear.”
He grinned, making him even scarier. “I thought I understood sex. And killing. Until I experienced them. Trust me, Presley. You don’t know fear at all.”
<I may have to shoot him.
<Maybe I should shoot him.>
But she wasn’t a killer. And she didn’t want to learn what killing felt like by gunning down a man in cold blood, with his hands over his head.
“You’re not ready yet. You need more training.”
Presley kept the gun on him, unsure of what just happened.
“If you’re not going to shoot me, I’m making some food. Borrow whatever clothing you need.”
Presley didn’t shoot him.
Fabler left.
After her shaking stopped, Presley looked above the dresser mirror, directly into the camera, wondering what the hell had taken place.
<And if Grim is watching.>
GRIM ○ 2:11pm
Grim frowned as he watched the drama playing out in Fabler’s bedroom.
<If I had any reservations about Fabler having any sanity left, those reservations are gone.
<Fabler shouldn’t have gone to jail. He should have gone to a mental institution. The guy is batshit crazy.>
Grim stared at his phone, with Presley looking into the camera, seemingly staring back at him.
<She’s scared.
<Not because of a cough syrup/mouthwash hangover.
<Well, yes, partly because of that.
<But mostly I’m sick because of what I’ve done to her.>
Grim wondered, yet again, what the hell the end game was.
<I’ve thrown away my job, my life, and my future, for what? Fabler will never be punished. And he’ll never reveal what happened to Lori. And now I’ve put someone else in very real danger.
<Someone I like.
<Installing the cameras was one thing. But now my obsession with truth and justice is affecting an innocent third party.
<I’m paying Presley to live with a psychopath.
<And, actually, I can’t even pay her. I’m broke.
Grim could guess that Presley wouldn’t take the news well.
<So what do I do? Call the whole thing off?
<That’s probably best.
<But even if I fired Presley—and I’d sure miss seeing her everyday—how am I supposed to give up my fixation with Fabler?
<I could leave Wichita. Move as far away from him as possible. Out of sight, out of mind.
<But then Fabler gets away with it. And I’ll never find out what happened to my sister.
<Plus, I’m sure that more women will die.
<This whole thing is going to continue. I’m sure of it.
<What’s the a
nswer here?>
“I could kill him.”
Since the Osmonds were still in the bathtub, Grim had begun talking to the fish tank box.
<Could I kill him?>
Unlike Presley, Grim had killed, in the line of duty. But combat differed from cold-blooded murder.
<When the moment came to pull the trigger, I wouldn’t be able to do it.
<I couldn’t kill anyone like that.
<Not even Fabler.
<Especially Fabler.
<We were close as brothers once…
<So what’s the alternative?>
“I could kidnap him, stuff him in a box, mail him to China, then take all of his money so he could never come back.”
<That’s a ridiculous thought.
<Except for the money part.
<Fabler is rich. That allows him to devote all of his time to acting out his crazy fantasies.
<But what if the man was broke?>
Grim could picture Fabler as homeless, a neck beard hanging to his chest, pushing a rusty shopping cart full of bottles and cans through some poverty row alley.
<That idea has some appeal.
<And I could put his money to good use.>
“Okay, say I want to rob him. How could I do that? If I can’t force him to tell me what he did to my sister, how do I force him to give up his bank password and ATM pin?”
<It’s not like I can seduce the guy.
<But… Presley can.>
“Bad idea.”
<Why? She kisses men for money.>
“I did see her kiss Fabler to get her job back.”
<Maybe she can somehow trick him out of a few hundred thousand dollars.
<Can’t hurt to ask, right? My head and stomach hurt so bad right now, I’d cut my own hand off for a drink.>
Grim began to dial Presley’s number, and stopped before completing the area code.
<She warned me to never call. I have to respect that.
<But she didn’t say I couldn’t text.>
Grim composed a message in his head.
A message about robbing Fabler.
Robbing him and taking him someplace far away.
It will save Presley’s life. And likely save other redheads.
<Okay. Tell her.
<She’s smart. She can help with the plan.
<Even though this needs to be over.
<Even though Presley needs to get out of there.
<Even though I have to get on with my life.
<Text her and make it happen.>