I Told You This Would Happen Read online

  “We got nine inches of snow that night,” Todd argues, now glaring at Nikk. “Any ‘signs of a struggle’ would have been buried. Tracker dogs couldn’t even find the trail.”

  A fortuitous turn of events, since that trail would have led straight to me.

  “And X marks the spot,” Ravjinder says. “So—”

  “She hid something,” Emmett interjects hastily, realizing he’s lost control of the group and his audience. “And we have to find it. That’s the mission of the Brampton Kill Seekers.”

  “Except you don’t know she was killed,” Nikk adds. A muscle twitches in his neck, like he’s trying not to laugh.

  “We know Footloose murdered thirteen people and hid their bodies in Kilduff Park,” Emmett returns coolly, not knowing that’s technically incorrect. Footloose hid twelve bodies in the park. Becca and I added the thirteenth. Which is how Footloose found out about us. “And all of them were considered ‘missing’ by a police department that had neither the enthusiasm nor the resources to properly investigate. Just because we didn’t know they were killed doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

  Todd nods his reluctant agreement.

  Nikk’s nostrils flare as he drags in a breath. Technically his wife is also just “missing.” Same as my sister. I feel Todd watching me so I blink rapidly, like I’m trying to stave off tears, not that I’m panicked because I came here hoping to put one mystery to bed and instead discovered another far worse scenario that puts my whole future in jeopardy.

  “It’s okay,” Ravjinder whispers, leaning over to pat my knee. “It will all be okay. We can do this.”

  “We’ll get answers,” Emmett says, walking back to the front of the room. “We’ll get closure. We’ll get them. Us. The Brampton Kill Seekers.”

  More heads bob.

  “But first,” he continues, tapping the tablet for emphasis but only succeeding in enlarging the image so we can see just the A, scowling as he hunts around for the x, eventually making it front and center. “First, we find X.”

  Chapter 2

  So my first meeting of the Brampton Kill Seekers was not successful. Not only did I get exactly zero insight into where my serial killer sister may be buried, but now there’s a group of amateur sleuths trying to solve a puzzle I didn’t even know existed and almost certainly implicates me in the one murder I have committed.

  JUST IN CASEX, Fiona wrote.

  What did Fiona know? Emmett had harped on the question for the rest of the meeting, writing the words on the board with a nubbin of chalk that screeched painfully with every down stroke. What did Fiona know?

  She knew too much. But I didn’t tell them how Footloose had recorded an audio file where Becca and I discussed her many murders or that Fiona had found the flash drive and taken it with her when we fled the cabin. I also couldn’t tell them how she’d blackmailed me for cash in exchange for the flash drive, and in turn, I’d taken the flash drive, pushed her off a mountain in a panic, and destroyed the evidence. But apparently, she’d made a backup and hidden it. Just in case.

  “Hey.” Nikk startles me as I hunt for my car keys in the parking lot, desperate to go home and be alone with my careening thoughts.

  I whirl around, pointing a key at him defensively, and he holds up his hands.

  “Whoa,” he says, laughing. “Sorry, I thought you heard me coming. Intense meeting, huh?”

  “That’s a word for it.”

  The spring night feels too cold suddenly, the descent of the sun having taken all traces of warmth and life with it. It’s just us and the library, half a dozen empty cars, and a single streetlight casting ominous shadows on Nikk’s face. Emmett would be jealous.

  “They’re, like, obsessed with this Fiona thing,” Nikk adds, “and hardly even talked about our stuff.”

  Finally, I remember my purported reason for being in attendance. “Right,” I say. “Yeah. I noticed that, too. I guess because they have that ‘clue,’ they think that’s the thing to focus on.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Obviously, I disagree,” I lie. “I think the search for Becca and Lilly should take precedence.”

  The truth is, I want nothing to do with Nikk or the Kill Seekers. I’d come here with the far-flung hope that they might be able to help me locate Becca’s body so I could put her to rest forever—literally and figuratively—and now I have to deal with a much more pressing issue: Fiona’s note. And I really don’t need an audience while I figure out how I’m going to do that.

  “Of course.” Nikk combs his fingers through his perfectly tousled hair. Growing up, Becca was always the pretty one. She was the one who knew how to deal with men like Nikk, who looked like Nikk. She felt like their equal and enjoyed the game. I didn’t. I always knew that if they were talking to me, it was because they wanted to know about my sister. Which is just one of the many reasons I sigh inwardly when he asks, “What are you up to now?”

  “Now now?” I clarify, as though it’s the middle of the night and not 8:30 p.m. on a Wednesday.

  He smiles. “Yeah. Now now.”

  “I was just, um…” I can’t tell him I was going to go home and brainstorm until I deduced what the hell “just in case” meant so I could find the evidence of my crimes and destroy it, too.

  “Why don’t we grab a drink? A coffee,” he amends quickly, when my expression makes it clear that us visiting a bar together is not an option. “We can talk more. I feel like those guys don’t get me. Don’t get us. They haven’t been through what we’ve been through.”

  “Maybe Ravjinder,” I say, thinking of her missing sister. Most of the times, when we buried a body, it was wrapped in Becca’s murder carpet and dumped unceremoniously into a shallow grave. I did my utmost not to look at the faces and, for the most part, have no idea who she killed, but something about Ravjinder felt vaguely familiar.

  “I guess we could ask her to come, too.”

  My mind is racing, torn between wanting to investigate this new information about the existence of Fiona’s clue and my obligation to continue to play the grieving sister for anyone watching. I’d rather not keep up the charade any longer than necessary, and Ravjinder is just one more witness. Plus, I might have helped bury her sister, which makes things awkward.

  “Let’s make it only the two of us this time,” I say.

  Nikk’s smile widens. “Great. You know the diner at the corner of Hastings and Pine? With the neon-pink sign?”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I spend the five-minute trip to the diner debating whether or not I should try to lose Nikk in traffic, but he sits on my tail the whole way, so I stay the course. All too soon we’re seated in a booth next to the window, the pink vinyl seats creaking every time we move.

  “So,” he says, when we each have a mug of steaming, too-strong coffee in front of us, “what did you think?”

  I sip my drink. “That was your first meeting, right?”

  “Yeah. I’d spoken with Emmett before—he invited me as soon as I made the posts about Lilly—but that was the first time we met in person.”

  “They really care,” I say, because it’s true. “That’s rare these days.”

  Nikk studies his left hand, his wedding band glinting in the overhead light. “What are you going to do now?”

  Across the aisle, a table of middle-aged women ogles us, not bothering to be subtle about their ruminations on how movie-star handsome Nikk and average, curly-haired Carrie came to be here together. What they don’t know, will never know, is that this is not a date, nor is it two grieving people finding comfort in each other. I’ve learned the hard way, repeatedly, that Becca’s friends are not my friends. They’re her minions. And I can’t imagine what Nikk thinks he’s doing “befriending” me after her death, but there’s no real-world scenario in which “grieving” is on the list.

  “I mean, I guess I’ll have to keep searching on my own,” I say. I’d come up with the story on the drive over. When you’ve buried a dozen people, you lear
n to come up with cover stories on the fly. “If the police aren’t looking and the Kill Seekers”—it’s hard to say the name with a straight face—“are investigating something completely unrelated, then I guess it’s up to me.”

  Nikk shakes his head, a strand of hair flopping onto his forehead. “You’re remarkable,” he says, confirming that we’re both lying, though perhaps only one of us knows it. “Becca always said you were the best sister in the world.”

  “Well, I’m her only sister.”

  “Modest too. She told me that as well. That you never knew how great you were.”

  I need to interrupt before he can spew more propaganda because I knew my sister, and she definitely never told him any of those things. “You said you came to the meeting because you wanted to talk to me?”

  He falters, like he’d forgotten that line. “Oh. I, um, I guess I mostly just wanted to know how you…do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Cope. Wake up each day and just move on.”

  Despite my resistance, the therapist I’d been cajoled into visiting after my escape from Footloose really did provide a lot of good insight and advice, though I’ve mostly been using it to make sure I play my part right, not because it’s helping me deal with my pain. Becca’s death was jarring, and her absence left a gaping hole in my life, but it’s the hole that’s left behind after a festering abscess is removed: a reminder of the infection, but a relief, too.

  “Every day gets a little easier,” I say, staring in what I hope is a pensive way at my coffee. “At least, that’s the idea. That’s what I tell myself.”

  “It’s hard.” Nikk picks at a hangnail, possibly the only piece of him that isn’t perfect. “I mean, when I first heard about Becca’s death…She was my friend. I don’t know if you know that. I knew her from the jewelry store, and then we became friends.”

  Misery loves company.

  “I miss her,” he continues. “She was smart and funny and beautiful. I really liked her.”

  There’s a pause, and I realize he’s waiting for me to fill it.

  “Me too,” I say, because I have to. “I loved her, of course. She was my sister. And life will never be the same.”

  “But you’re moving on.”

  “It’s a work in progress.”

  “She used to say—”

  “Your wife’s been missing for three weeks?” I interrupt. I have no idea if Nikk really just wants someone to grieve with, but Becca had a predictable pattern: She’d approach you with a problem or a sob story, make you sympathize with her, and then, when your guard was down, she’d pounce. A lifetime of honing my instincts tells me Nikk wants more than company, though what, I can’t guess.

  “Yeah,” he says, sniffling.

  “You’ve told the police?”

  “Of course. They have no leads.” He laughs roughly and twists his hands together. “Sounds familiar, right? Do you know Brampton has the highest missing persons rate in the country?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s like, if someone goes missing in this town, that’s it—they’re gone. End of story.”

  I know that all too well.

  “Speaking of endings,” I reply, “I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day. The lighting in that room—”

  “I wasn’t the only one with a headache, right?” Nikk rubs his temples and winces. “Oh man. The salt light? What on earth? I was trying to be respectful, but…”

  In spite of myself, I laugh. The light was ridiculous.

  “So what do you think you’ll do first?” Nikk asks.

  “What?”

  “Searching for Becca. What’s your next move?”

  “I’ve been searching all along,” I say, which isn’t entirely true. I did search, at the start, but then Footloose gave me a picture of her dead body and I found her jacket in his cellar with Fiona. “I put up posters. I’ve checked everywhere. I don’t know what’s next. I just know I’ll never give up.”

  Like a true minion, Nikk beams at me for spouting the party line.

  “What about you?” I ask. “How will you look for Lilly?”

  His smile falters, and again he scrutinizes his wedding ring, twisting it on his finger. The thick band has at least a dozen diamonds that catch the light and wink at me, like we’re all in on the same joke.

  “I was kind of hoping to follow your lead,” he admits. “Like, maybe we could work together?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Nikk flinches like he’s never been turned down before, which is probably true. “Why not?”

  “Because my sister is missing and so is Fiona McBride and now your wife. You being seen with someone with connections to several missing women isn’t going to help your case. Or mine.”

  “What case?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  He looks crestfallen. “Oh.”

  “Anyway”—I push away my coffee cup and reach for my bag—“I need to get going. It’s been a crazy day.”

  Nikk touches my hand to stop me from opening my purse. “I’ll get this. I appreciate your time, Carrie. You’ve been through a lot, and you didn’t have to talk to me at all.” He blinks, his eyes shiny. “So, thanks. Becca was right about you.”

  That’s a terrible thing to hear, since Becca thought no more of me than she thought of any of the other people occupying the world she believed was rightfully hers. I was her lackey, her fall guy, her favorite punching bag. And for twenty-eight years, she was right. But she’s dead and none of that’s true anymore, and it will never be true again.

  I stand up. “Goodbye, Nikk. And good luck.”

  Chapter 3

  I think I’m dying,” I whisper Saturday afternoon. “Or do I just wish I were dead?”

  “Shh.” My boyfriend, Graham, makes a point of peering around the mostly empty theater as though I might prevent someone else from being bored to death by the film.

  “I’m going to get more popcorn.” I stand and grab my half-full bag. “Want anything?”

  Graham shakes his head, gaze never leaving the screen. With a small smile, I slip down the aisle and out into the quiet concession area. I take my time looking at movie posters, arcade games, and even just the street outside, in no rush to get back to my seat. I’m studying the assortment of snacks in the vending machine when I feel someone at my back.

  “Sorry,” I say, stepping aside. “I was just looking. You can go.”

  “That’s fine,” a familiar voice replies. “I was just looking, too.”

  I turn slowly to see Detective Marlon Greaves, a full bag of popcorn in his hand. He’s tall and broad with dark skin and tired eyes, the kind of man who attracts attention and whose calm, reserved demeanor instills confidence in the people he’s helping. Except me. To me, he’s the detective who tried and failed to find a serial killer and tried and failed to find Becca after she disappeared. That’s his forte. Trying and failing.

  And following me around town. We have an unspoken understanding that he doesn’t believe my version of events of the showdown with Footloose last fall and that I’d swear on my sister’s empty grave that they’re true. I see him at the grocery store, parked outside my work, sometimes walking his dog on my block. And now here.

  “Are you seeing the same movie?” I ask.

  “If you’re referring to the one that’s so boring I needed a second bag of popcorn, then yes.”

  “Popcorn was Becca’s favorite food.”

  Greaves wipes butter off his hand. “How are you coping?”

  “Not knowing what really happened to her is difficult”—this is a lie, of course—“but it gets easier each day. You?”

  He considers that for a moment. “Still searching.”

  “Hey,” Graham says, materializing at my side, “you’re missing the movie.”

  I keep my eye on Greaves. “Detective Greaves agrees the movie is boring.”

  I don’t know if Graham’s stricken expression is due to his movie choice bei
ng given a thumbs-down or if it’s just his reaction to seeing me speaking with Greaves, though he knows I bump into the detective all the time. He thinks it’s bad for my recovery to continue seeing a man so closely tied to my trauma, but the only threat Greaves truly poses is to my freedom. I don’t know what he thinks I know, but whatever he suspects has been enough to convince him to keep following me around. Now, with the discovery of Fiona’s cryptic clue, his presence is more alarming than annoying. Does he know what Fiona left behind, just in case? Is he close?

  I don’t let the thoughts show on my face.

  Graham’s cheeks are pink. “It got good reviews.”

  “Well,” I say, “if you can’t trust the critics, who can you trust?”

  “No one,” Greaves says promptly.

  “We’ll let you get back to the movie, Detective. Enjoy the show.”

  His smile, like mine, doesn’t reach his eyes. “Always.”

  He strides away, and Graham notices my half-full popcorn bag. “You didn’t get a refill?”

  “I got distracted. Can we go? I really don’t need to know how that movie ends.”

  “I think it’s a safe bet that everybody dies and the moral of the story is that life has no meaning.”

  “You’re right. I looked it up online.”

  He peers over his shoulder. “It’s weird that he’s here.”

  “He’s everywhere.” I toss my bag in the trash as we head for the door.

  “It just seems like he should have more to do.”

  “Maybe it’s good that he doesn’t. It means Brampton’s a safe place to live.”

  “Is it, though?”

  We step out into the sunshine. “What do you mean? Apart from Footloose, our local serial killer, of course.”

  “Brampton has one of the highest missing persons rates in the country,” Graham points out, nodding at a newspaper abandoned on top of a garbage can outside the theater. The gruesome statistics have been making headlines for weeks. “We have one of the highest murder rates, too.”