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Megan Keene and Toni Burnett both disappeared when Len had been in Los Angeles, working on the superhero script that had bedeviled him for months.
That should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
Because I had no proof he truly was in LA both of those times. We traveled for work so much—both together and separately—that I never stopped to wonder if Len’s stated destination was where he had actually gone. According to the calendar, those two LA trips were weekenders. Fly out Friday, come back Monday. And even though I was certain Len had called me from the airport each time before taking off and after landing, it dawned on me that he also could have made those calls from a rental car heading to and from Vermont.
On the day Megan Keene disappeared, Len had stayed at the Chateau Marmont. At least, that’s what the calendar app claimed. But when I called the hotel and asked if Leonard Bradley had checked in that weekend, I was told no.
“A reservation was made,” the desk clerk informed me. “But he nevershowed. Because he didn’t cancel, we had to charge his credit card. I’m assuming that’s what this is about.”
I hung up and called the hotel he’d allegedly stayed at the weekend Toni Burnett had vanished. The answer was the same. Reservation made, room never canceled, Len never arrived, weekend charged to the credit card.
That’s when I knew.
Len—myLen—had done something horrible to those girls. And the locks of hair and the licenses in his tackle box were mementos. Sick souvenirs kept so he could remember his kills.
In the span of minutes, I experienced every terrible emotion you can think of. Fear and sadness and shock and confusion and despair, all colliding in a single, devastating moment.
I cried. Hot tears that, because I was trembling so hard, shook from my cheeks like raindrops off a windblown tree.
I moaned, shoving my fist into my mouth to keep it from being heard by Len upstairs.
The anger, hurt, and betrayal were so overwhelming I honestly thought they would kill me. Not a horrible prospect, all things considered. It certainly would have put me out of my misery, not to mention saved me from facing the dilemma about what to do next. Going to the police was a given. I had to turn Len in. But when? And how?
I decided to tell Len that I couldn’t find his lighter and that I needed to run to the store to buy more matches. Then I’d drive straight to the nearest police department and tell them everything.
I told myself it was possible. I was an actress, after all. For a few minutes, I could fake not being sick and terrified and veering between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill Len. I shoved the licenses and locks of hair in my pocket and headed upstairs, prepared to lie to Len and run to the police.
He was still in the kitchen, looking as nerdy-sexy as always in his sillyKiss the Cookapron. He had poured two glasses of wine and arranged the cheese on a platter. It was the very picture of domestic contentedness.
Except for the knife in his hand.
Len was using it innocently enough, slicing a salami to join the platter of cheese. But the way he gripped it, with a smile on his face and his hand so tight his knuckles had turned pale, made my own hands shake. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d killed those three girls with that same knife, using that same tight grip, sporting that same contented grin.
“That took forever,” Len said, oblivious to the fact that everything had changed since we last saw each other. That my entire existence had just turned to ash like I was a character in one of those fucking superhero movies he was supposed to be working on while he was really here, ending the lives of three people.
He continued to slice, the blade thwacking against the cutting board. As I listened to it, all those horrible emotions I’d been feeling went away.
Except for one.
Fury.
It vibrated through me, like I was a water glass struck with a hammer. I felt just as brittle. Just as ready to shatter. And as it coursed through me, I started to come up with reasons why Ishouldn’tgo to the police. At least, not alone.
The first thing I thought about was my career. God help me, it was. A fact that I still hate myself for. But I knew instantly that this was going to end it. No one would hire me after this. I’d become a pariah. One of those people involved in something so shameful it taints their reputation forever. As soon as word got out that Len was a murderer, people would judge me—and very few would give me the benefit of the doubt. I was certain most people would question how I failed to notice there was a serial killer right under my nose, living in my apartment, sleeping in my bed.
I knew because I was asking those very same things. How did I not suspect anything? How did I miss the signs?How did I not know?
Even worse would be the people who assumed Ididknow about it. There’d be plenty of speculation, wondering if I was a killer myself. Or at least an accomplice.
No, the only way I could do this and keep my reputation and careerintact was if Len went with me. If he confessed—to me, then to the police—then maybe I’d emerge from the situation unscathed. An innocent victim.
“Sorry,” I said, shocked I was able to speak at all. “Marnie texted me about something.”
Len stopped slicing, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “Texted? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“I ended up calling her. You know how much she likes to chat.”