"Holly?" He stepped inside, immediately noticing that the house smelled different than it had when they were living together. He supposed that was normal, since his cologne, hair products and clothes were no longer part of the equation--since he was no longer part of the equation. But it didn't smell of perfume, like Susan's place, or feel-good food and crayons, like Madison's. Or even like the dogs. This scent was more...musty.
Once he flipped on a light, Caleb could see why. Piles of everything from clothes to magazines to books to papers covered all horizontal surfaces--even most of the floor--along with a thick layer of dust. The clutter seemed to be growing from the walls like some kind of space-eating plant, until only a narrow pathway remained, leading from room to room.
With Susan's murder, he could certainly understand why Holly wouldn't be worried about cleaning. But what he saw wasn't the result of days or weeks of neglect. It would take months, maybe even years, to collect so much junk. Holly must not have thrown anything away since he'd left her.
"Jeez, Holly," he muttered. She'd always been a pack-rat. They'd had a million arguments over cleaning out the garage and the closets. But now that she was living alone, without anyone to check her tendency to hang on to absolutely everything, she seemed to be taking it to new extremes.
He pulled a newspaper from the bottom of a stack of papers and grimaced at the date. It was thirteen months old.
Setting her purse on top of a box of envelopes and copy paper on the dining room table, he turned to go, counting himself lucky that he'd managed to miss her. But it seemed odd that she wouldn't be home when she'd told Gibbons she would be. There was something strange about the house in general. The mess, the shut-up feeling...What was going on with her?
Grudgingly, he turned back. He should at least let her know he'd returned her purse. He'd placed it in a prominent spot, but there was still a good chance she'd never see it in the mess.
"Hello?" He rapped on the walls as he made his way up the stairs and down the hall toward the master suite.
Again, no answer.
The bedroom door stood ajar. "Holly?" He turned on the light, just in case she'd managed to sleep through the dogs barking, the bell-ringing and calling.
The bed was empty. Clothes were piled everywhere, and boxes of God-only-knew-what were stacked on the dresser, the nightstand, the cedar chest and the floor, making her room as difficult to navigate as the rest of the house. Next to a heap of what looked like clean laundry, he even found toys--a giant box of dolls and jump ropes and roller skates.
What was Holly doing with children's toys? And why was there so much paper, wadded into tight balls, strewn across the floor?
Curious, he picked one up and smoothed it out. Holly had written "Madison" over and over in red ink, scribbled it out until the paper tore, and started again. He ironed out another one to find more of the same. And another. And another. He was just wondering what the hell this was all about when Susan's dogs caught his eye. Growling playfully, they were fighting over some kind of leopard-print fabric.
Caleb's blood suddenly ran cold. That fabric looked like...
Bending closer, he took the article away, and saw that it was exactly what he'd feared--a halter top. Exactly like the one Susan had been wearing the night she disappeared. Exactly like the one Holly had said she'd never seen before.
Caleb's phone broke the silence. It was Detective Gibbons. "I don't know what's going on here," he said, "but I just dragged Margie White out of bed for nothing. She claims she never called Holly and doesn't know anything about a note from anyone named Tye."
CALEB'S HEART jackhammered against his chest as he dashed out of Holly's bedroom and pounded down the stairs. He took the halter top with him, but didn't bother locking the front door. Slamming it behind him, he jumped into his Mustang, popped the transmission into reverse and squealed out of the driveway.
He was at least thirty minutes away from Madison's, and Gibbons was even farther. Gibbons had just contacted the station. A car was on its way. But fear that they were already too late made it difficult for Caleb to breathe.
Holly says this woman won't talk to me tonight unless you're there....
She'd purposely drawn him away.
It's Madison, isn't it? You've fallen in love with her....
Madison...Madison...Madison, written all over those sheets in red ink...
Holly was crazy, obsessed.
He rounded the corner, then looked both ways before running a stoplight. "I'm coming, Maddy. I'm coming," he muttered, but he couldn't avoid the images dancing in his mind--images of finding Madison like Susan had looked.
Holly had seen pictures of the crime scene. She'd poured over every bit of evidence, right along with him. She could definitely have copied the Sandpoint Strangler, but now that he saw her as capable of doing what she'd done to Susan, bits and pieces of memories assaulted him one after the other, making him sick. He had a terrible feeling that Holly had been lying and manipulating him and everyone else for a long, long time, using the fact that she was a woman to evoke sympathy instead of suspicion.
He was driving a blue Ford truck with a white camper shell....
Holly had said that the first day they'd met. Now Caleb wondered if she'd been lying from the start. All the papers had mentioned the Ford. Cunning as she was, she could even have tracked down Purcell in order to come up with the partial plate number. She'd been the main reason the investigation had focused on Purcell.
I'm afraid our killer is close, Gibbons had said. Close to the investigation. Close to us.
Holly was close, all right. She'd stuck to Caleb like glue since he'd first knocked on her door about Anna Tyler's murder. Anna, the ninth victim, had been living next door to her. Talk about opportunity.
I think I was wrong about you. I don't think you're going to find this killer. He's much too smart....
Such calm, cool confidence wasn't the result of one freak, accidental murder. Caleb thought of all the pretending Holly had done, all the setting up. A person didn't turn into a cold-blooded killer overnight. She never would've been able to pull it off if she'd felt even a morsel of regret. She'd fed him misinformation, manipulated his emotions, used him to stay one step ahead of the investigation the whole time. And he'd looked everywhere but right in front of him.
"God!" he said, and smacked the steering wheel.
Only she'd finally slipped up. If she hadn't kept that halter top...
Did you see anything like this in her apartment, Holly? No, I've never seen a halter top like that before in my life. I'd definitely remember it....
Grabbing his cell phone, he tried Madison's house again. "Pick up," he pleaded. "Pick up."