The earpiece meant I could pick up any sound from inside that room, but all I heard was the TV. Aldrich was settled in, maybe even asleep. If I could be sure he was sleeping, I could go back upstairs and help Jack search.
I moved as close to the door as I dared, then strained to listen when the TV chatter paused. But even with the earpiece, I heard only silence. That meant he was probably awake--his breathing too shallow for me to catch.
I could make out the TV screen now. There seemed to be a pinkish blob on it. I pulled out my binoculars. It took some adjusting, trying to magnify something less than ten feet away, but after a moment, the nickel-size blob came into view. It looked like . . .
It couldn't be. I started to retreat. Then I stopped. I took a deep breath . . . and crept right to the opening, so close that I could see that blob and the tiny spots spattered over the beige carpet.
I pulled out my gun, put my gloved fingertips against the door, and pushed, braced for a cry of alarm. None came. I reached into my rucksack and took out a small mirror. Fingers trembling, I held it to the gap, adjusted the angle, and then . . .
Drew Aldrich sat in a worn recliner opposite the door. He was looking straight at me, eyes open. But he didn't see me. He didn't see anything. He slumped to one side, slack-jawed and empty-eyed, his arm hanging down, blood on the carpet, brains spattered on the TV screen.
He's dead.
Drew Aldrich is dead.
That's all I thought as I pushed open the door. There wasn't any spark of disappointment, of rage, of anger that I hadn't pulled the trigger myself. As I stared into Drew Aldrich's dead eyes, my knees wobbled and I wanted to drop to them and weep. Cry with relief.
It wasn't until now that I realized how badly I'd wanted this. How badly I needed it. And I didn't give a damn if that made me a terrible person. I'd wanted this since I was thirteen years old, and now I had it, and it didn't matter who had pulled the trigger.
Drew Aldrich was dead.
"Nadia?"
I wheeled to see Jack. He winced as he realized he'd startled me again and then came forward, gun lowered, gaze on me.
"I-- I didn't--" I began.
"I know."
"He was already--"
"I know."
"I don't care," I whispered. "I'm just glad-- I'm so glad--"
"I know."
He put his arms around me, and I fell into them.
CHAPTER 11
It looked as if Aldrich had shot himself in the left temple with his service revolver. The gun lay on the floor beneath his dangling left hand. In front of him, on the ottoman, was a website printout. I could read the headline even upside down.
"Local Teen Murdered, Local Man in Custody."
Below was Amy's school photo. Beside it was a picture of Drew Aldrich.
I remembered the first time I'd seen this article, digging it up because I had to know, had to see it. I remembered thinking how much Amy would have hated that photo, with her hair pulled back in little-girl barrettes, her Peter Pan collar buttoned tight, no trace of makeup. Amy's annual "good girl" picture, a performance piece to please her mother, because she knew how much it meant to have a nice photo to send around at Christmas.
I remember, too, seeing the picture of Aldrich and wanting to take that article down to the paper, find the reporter, shove it in his face and say "How dare you?" How dare you put his picture beside hers. How dare you make his picture as big as hers. This was about her, about Amy, her life and her murder. Drew Aldrich shouldn't rate more than a footnote, just enough to say "Drew Aldrich has been arrested for the crime."
I reached down to touch the paper, then stopped myself. Even if I was wearing gloves, there was faint blood spray on its edge, and I couldn't risk smearing that. I settled for crouching to get a better look at the page. It was hard to see, with only the glow of the TV for illumination. When I bent, though, I noticed a marker that had rolled partly under the page. And there was something written across the article.
I'm sorry.
This was Aldrich's suicide note. He'd printed it out, scrawled his guilt and his remorse across it, and shot himself. I looked at that, and I looked at Aldrich, and then I turned to Jack.
"It's staged," I said. "He was murdered by the guy who came to visit."