The Blonde

5:17 p.m.

Fernwood Court, Gurnee, Illinois

Theresa’s sister was surprised to see Jack. She thought Theresa would be coming back, not him. “It’s not your weekend,” she stammered. Looked like she knew, too.

“Call her and check,” Jack suggested.

He was tired from the ride. No easy trick, getting back to Illinois. Airport screeners would have had an unpleasant surprise waiting for them when they checked the Adidas bag. Not that his discovery had been any less shocking. Thankfully, he’d been in a fast-food restroom when he looked. He was able to more or less stifle the scream.

So a plane was out.

A car rental, too—not with his wallet gone, including driver’s license and credit cards.

So it was either a bus or a train. Train was faster. A little over a day. Jack called his editor at the paper, convinced him to wire the money for the ticket to Philadelphia. He’d explain later, he said but he had a hell of a story.

Not for the paper. He wouldn’t dare put this in the paper.

But he was going to put it on paper. And in a safety-deposit box, duplicated ten times over, with copies to be sent to various daily newspapers, both here and in the U.K., in the event of his death. Along with physical evidence, of course: vials of blood from the head.

Jack didn’t know if he’d ever see Michael Kowalski again. But he wanted to be prepared if he did.

Somehow, he thought Kowalski would appreciate that.

From upstairs, Jack heard the stamping of feet, then saw his girl come bounding down the stairs. “Daddy!”

She gave the best hugs: full-on anaconda squeezes that threatened to burst his heart. There was nothing else like them in the world.

“I missed you.”

He wished he could hug her forever. Have her with him forever.

And wouldn’t that solve everything.

Of course, that wasn’t possible. So after kissing her head and putting her back down for her nap, and telling Theresa’s sister that, yes, he was fine, and, no, he had no idea when Theresa was due home, but he could take it from here, thank you very much (thinking, you know exactly where your sister is—Donovan Piatt’s an old family friend, after all), Jack took the Adidas bag—and a plastic bag of stuff he’d picked up at a Home Depot—down into the basement to work on the head. Filled as many vials as he could stand. Tried not to look at the face.

When he was finished, he took the bag into the backyard and dug a shallow hole. Nudged the bag with his foot and started covering it with the loose, pungent soil.

Jack thought about the locket he was going to buy for Callie. A heart made sense. Something with a hollow glass insert.

Something he was going to have to make her promise to wear forever, no matter what.

Just like the vial he had strapped around his neck.

Who knows.

It might even bring them closer together.