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My goddamn puzzle-solving brain stops short like a dog seeing a squirrel. “Trige”? What word starts with…

No, those aren’t the starting letters. The unseen force is writing backward, from end to start. An A appears, and then a P, and I realize that what I thought was a G is a C.

PATRICE

THIRTY-TWO

Now I truly am stopped cold, staring as everything in me screams that this can’t be what I’m seeing. That E must be a K. Patrick. It cannot be—

“Patrice,” Shania whispers, and there’s an odd note in her voice.

“Isn’t that…?” Cirillo turns to me. “Isn’t that the name of the girl who supposedly murdered your friend?”

Does he actually expect me to answer? I’m bound and fucking gagged.

“It is,” Shania whispers. “Patrice Jones. Nicola had Patrice committed to a mental hospital for a murder Nicola committed.”

I writhe and try to speak, but only muffled grunts come out.

“Is Patrice… dead?” Cirillo asks.

“Two years ago,” Shania says, her tone oddly empty. “She died in that hospital.”

I go still. I hadn’t been able to find that online.

How hard did I look?

Not hard enough. When the answer hadn’t come up immediately, I told myself there was nothing new in the case and moved on, presuming Patrice was still alive and in custody.

So what am I saying?

That Patrice is here?

That her ghost is here?

That’s not possible. How the hell would Cirillo have conjured Patrice?

Does it matter?

“Patrice Jones?” Cirillo says slowly. “Am I speaking to Patrice Jones?”

The footsteps start again, as slow and deliberate as before.

Like upstairs, during the séance, when footsteps had circled me. Like the ones in the attic, circling above my head. I’d heard others in the sitting room, but they’d been normal steps. This is a taunt, a tiger circling prey.

As I hear those steps, any pity or grief inside me crystallizes, and I glare in that direction.

Cut this shit out, Patrice.

If you have something to say to me, say it.

God, I’m as bad as Cirillo, aren’t I? Worse even. Instead of shaking my finger at a misbehaving spirit, I’m challenging one that seems to have…

My gaze goes to Brodie, and I swallow.

Patrice did that. Not Anton. Not Roddy.

Patrice killed Heather, and she killed Brodie, and maybe I should be backing away in terror, but all I can feel is fury.