Chapter 8: The Visit Tyler Didn't Know About
It took until midnight to piece it together.
Paulson found it in Tyler's own phone, in a thread Tyler had forgotten about, from a weekend in February when Tyler had come home briefly and then driven back to school a day early because of a study session.
He had texted Marcus from the road.
*Heading back early.
House is empty if you want to grab the notes I left on the counter.*
Tyler stared at the message for a long time.
"I forgot," he said.
"I completely forgot I sent that."
"Did he come?"
"I don't know.
I assumed he didn't.
He never mentioned it."
Reyes was already on her phone.
Two minutes later she had pulled a traffic camera record from the street two blocks over.
A car matching the description of the vehicle registered to Daniel Reeves had been in the neighborhood that Saturday for forty-seven minutes.
Forty-seven minutes alone in my house.
Long enough to find the note in my bedside drawer.
Long enough to photograph documents.
Long enough to learn the layout of every room so that when he finally walked through the front door with Tyler beside him, he could look at me first and confirm I was exactly who he expected.
Tyler pushed back from the table and walked to the window.
He stood there with his back to the room.
"He used me," he said.
Not a question.
"Yes," I said.
"He spent eight months making me trust him so he could get into this house."
"That's what Reyes said the pattern looks like."
"And I just—" He stopped.
His shoulders were shaking.
"I just let him in.
I walked him through the front door and I was proud.
I was so proud to bring him home."
I got up and went to him.
I put my hand on his back and he turned around and he was crying, really crying, the way he hadn't since he was small, and I held on and didn't say anything because there was nothing to say that would help yet.
Reyes and Paulson gave us the room.
After a while Tyler pulled back and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"Is he going to go to prison?" he said.
"Reyes said the Portland case alone is serious.
With this added, and the other cases — yes.
I think so."
"Good." He said it quietly, without drama.
Just the word.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, the way he used to when he was young and something had frightened him and he needed to confirm I was still there.
"How did you know?" he said.
"The second you saw him.
How did you know?"
"I didn't know," I said.
"I just knew something was wrong.
And I had learned a long time ago not to talk myself out of that feeling."
He nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry I said what did you do," he said.
"When you locked the door.
I'm sorry I said it like that."
"You were scared.
You were protecting someone you loved."
"I was wrong."
"You were nineteen and in love and someone very skilled had spent eight months making sure you would be wrong in exactly that moment." I looked at him.
"That is not the same thing as being foolish."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I keep thinking about Claire," he said.
"The sister.
He described her so specifically.
Her laugh.
The way she ate cereal standing up.
I felt like I knew her."
"I know."
"She doesn't exist."
"No."
He looked back at the window.
Outside the street was dark and ordinary, the neighbors' lights off, everything exactly as it had been that morning before any of this happened.
"I'm going to need a while," he said.
May you like
"I know that too," I said.
"I'll be here."
