by Mary Stone
“Could he have an accomplice?” Adam pushed to his feet and began to pace. “The son goes where lots of people see him and has someone do the job.”
Every head in the room swiveled in his direction, all with confused expressions across their features.
Carla shook her head and changed the subject, not giving Adam’s suggestion any weight. “Our boys in blue up in Portland are on top of it. Bryan was seen by at least forty people either in the dorms or at some party he attended. He got raging drunk and was still dog sick when they broke the news to him a couple hours ago. Started puking up his guts right away. Ended up in the ER for fluids. It’ll probably be tomorrow before he’s well enough to travel.”
Autumn was still staring at the boards and the sets of grisly pictures. The Websters and Langfords were killed in their bedrooms. Same type of rope, same type of knots.
“What else is similar between the two crime scenes?” she asked.
Carla studied the photos too. “We’ll know more when Eddie finishes the autopsies. He’ll compare blade size, hesitation wounds, etc. Plus, they’re just getting started on the crime scene itself. It’ll be awhile before we get additional clues to work from.”
“We don’t have awhile,” Autumn murmured and turned a concerned gaze toward Rich.
He’d gone deathly pale, and Autumn understood why. That was why you didn’t allow relatives to work on a case. That relative might be desperate to help, but little did they know they were selling their soul to the devil. The tradeoff wasn’t worth the sacrifice to their mental and physical health.
“I can arrange to get the son,” she offered.
Rich coughed to clear his throat before rearranging himself in his chair. He winced at the movement, and she remembered the spinal cord injury that had taken so long to heal. “That’s alright. I’ll get him.”
She could only imagine what the former and now re-deputized officer was thinking—that he couldn’t help his niece, but he could at least do something for someone. For a person who must be feeling desperate right then, he appeared to be very calm. But then Rich had many years of law enforcement experience under his belt. He most likely had a number of coping strategies in which to fall back on.
Autumn inhaled a long breath, thinking about Gina under her kidnapper’s “care,” and she could tell without even touching the uncle, that Rich was thinking about it too.
If it was true, and that kidnapper was her boyfriend, what was happening right then? Was she even alive, or maybe being held against her will and afraid? Or was she, as Adam believed, with Kyle Murphy willingly? Participating in making other parents pay?
Which was worse? Knowing your beloved niece had been taken and maybe even killed…or that she was involved in the murders of innocent people?
Autumn’s mind drifted to Winter and Justin, then moved on to her own sister, Sarah, before she snapped it back to the here and now.
Autumn’s primary job was to try to predict what the suspect would do next, and since Kyle Murphy was their primary suspect at that moment, it meant that she would focus on his past, his relationships, and his motivations.
But she found herself instead wondering how Gina was.
Even if she was Kyle’s accomplice initially—for example, even if it was something as simple as letting him into the house—Autumn was sure that she hadn’t intended for things to spiral so rapidly out of control.
The murders of her parents would have been one thing. Maybe, just maybe, over time, Kyle might talk her into accepting that he had meant well or had meant to help her. The way people’s minds tried to recover from traumatic situations wasn’t always pretty or predictable.
But Autumn had trouble believing that Gina could accept her boyfriend going on a killing spree. All the information in her files suggested Gina was a sunny-natured young woman with a heart of gold who only wanted the best for everyone.
Which was why he wouldn’t let her talk to Autumn on the phone? Or was it because she was dead?
She thought about what he’d said. “But neither one of us is really ready to face the outside world at the moment.”
Gina must not be cooperating, even if she had naively started out that way.
During the phone call, Kyle had been trying to rationalize to Autumn something that he himself wasn’t rational about. He thought he was defending kids from their abusive parents, but in fact, he had been flung into a foster home himself after his parents were killed.
Which also didn’t feel right.
Kyle’s parents hadn’t divorced. They had died through no fault of their own. His being put in foster care also wasn’t their fault. So, what were his motivations?
Closing her eyes, Autumn rewound their entire conversation in her head.
Kyle had said that he was trying to “care” for her.
Trying to work things out.
And, when they didn’t, he tried again. Tried harder?
But Kyle’s idea of when to stop trying involved using bindings and a knife?
And how much patience did the young man really have? How long before he realized that Gina Webster was more trouble than she was worth?
If he killed his girlfriend, what would that do to his mental state?
The hair lifted on her neck.
Things were only going to get worse. They had to find Kyle Murphy soon.
14
Gina’s tiny bedroom was pitch-dark and the steel door was strong. She had dented and scratched it with the aluminum cot frame but hadn’t been able to open it.
She’d been sure that she was going to lose her mind those first few days, especially when he kept her tied up most of the time. She’d known that she needed him to trust her, and she hadn’t been making it any easier for him to do so. She needed to stop behaving so badly and make him see that she would be good.
She’d changed her attitude slowly so he wouldn’t get suspicious. The last time he was here, she’d been calm and docile. He seemed impressed and pleased. When he left, he told her he would free her from the rope after making her promise she wouldn’t yell or try to escape.
She’d promised, all right. Hell, she would have promised him anything to just get that gag out of her mouth. But the moment he left, she made herself a liar, scurrying around the room, desperate to find any opportunity to get away.
It was hopeless.
There were slivers under her fingernails from clawing at the sheet of heavy plywood screwed down onto the window frame. The plywood completely covered the window, not letting in even a crack of light. At one point, she had pressed her face against the wall by the window, trying to see a glimpse of light or get a breath of air, her eyelashes brushing against the edge of the wood. But the screws bit down into the wood, crushing it into the frame. All she saw was darkness.
After crying until she was exhausted and shaky and nauseous, she finally forced herself to stop. It wasn’t making her feel any better.
In the darkness, all sense of time had disappeared. The only way to measure time was by how full the toilet bucket was and how much bottled water she had drunk and how many protein bars she had left. Every time she got shaky and unsteady on her feet, she tried to eat a little.
At least he had left her with supplies.
She had gone over the entire room in the dark and touched every surface until her fingertips were raw, searching for some clue to where she was or how to escape. Even after hours and hours of searching, she only knew two things: the cabin was old, and it was rotting.
One second, she was calm, and the next, she was standing on the cot and clawing at a moldy, stinking soft spots of the walls, screaming wordlessly and choking on the sawdust and whatever else came away. The room closed around her. The air in her throat whistled as she struggled to catch a breath. She couldn’t stop herself from clawing at the wood.
She had to stop. She had to stop.
Gina forced herself to crouch down on the floor, holding her hands against her chest to keep them from tearing her own hair out, gaspin
g for air and rocking back and forth on her haunches.
When she finally calmed down again, she realized she needed to clean up the mess she had made. She couldn’t let him know that she had been clawing at the walls, and the moment he turned the lights on, her attempts at escape would be obvious.
She searched the room again, more calmly this time, and found a rotten spot in the floor. It was too solid to break through, but she managed to poke a small hole to the underflooring below. She brushed up all the pieces she could find and pushed them down into the hole. If he said anything when he came back, she would tell him that she had been afraid of mice.
If he came back.
Gina was so scared, she would promise him anything, forgive him everything. She’d even forgive him for murdering her parents.
It was nuts, but it was true. She could feel her mind getting away from her, trying to change itself so that she couldn’t possibly do or say—or even think—anything that might piss him off.
There was even a diagnosis for the way she was thinking. Stockholm Syndrome, or something like that, where hostages developed some sort of psychological alliance with the person or people who took them.
She remembered watching a movie about that and thinking something like that couldn’t be true. Yet, here she was. Sure, she already knew her captor. She already liked him. But she didn’t want to rely on him. Need him. Hell, even long for his presence.
But she could already feel her subconscious trying to convince her conscious mind that she was willing to do anything in order to survive.
Like accept her parents’ death.
How did this happen? When she’d first met him, he was sweet and helpful. He had needed someone, and she’d needed someone too. She thought she could help him. Her father had seemed to approve of him. She had thought it would be all right.
And he had murdered her parents.
She couldn’t stay here. Not for another second.
She couldn’t let her mind play tricks on her, force her into thinking that her survival was the highest priority.
There are worse things than death.
She remembered someone saying that once, and she remembered thinking that such a thing wasn’t possible.
She was wrong.
This cabin. This fear. This guilt.
That was worse, and she needed to escape so she’d stop searching for ways to end her life.
After the first panic of being locked up in the dark had ended, Gina had started looking for ways to escape. Whoever had built the cabin had built a small wardrobe directly onto the walls in the corner of the room. The inside walls of the tiny closet were made of thin sheets of plywood that had been screwed in to cover the wall studs beneath them.
She hated the dark. Hated small spaces. But she took a deep breath and crawled inside anyway.
Maybe it was her imagination, or maybe she was hallucinating, but it seemed brighter in the small space.
“Where is the light coming from?” she murmured to her locket, only then realizing that her fingers had closed around it again.
Outside, the wind picked up, and she thought she heard her father whispering, “Look.”
Without much room to maneuver, she somehow curled into a ball in such a way that she managed to pull a small edge of plywood away from the floor. Studs were in the way…at first. After hours of using the very tips of her fingers to scratch away at the board, she was rewarded with her first real glimpse of light.
She immediately burst into tears.
Was it from the moon? A car? A lamp near a street? The sun?
It didn’t matter. The light gave her hope.
Determined to make the hole larger, she almost broke one of the legs off her cot but decided against it. Damage to the cot was the first thing he would see when he came back. She had to use something else.
The handle from the toilet bucket was still attached.
She worked it free and took it with her into the wardrobe and got to work.
The going was slow, and at some point, she must have drifted to sleep. The slam of a car door startled her awake.
It was him.
She squinted toward her work. Her eyes were dry with sawdust and gummy with sleep. They felt salty and dry from crying so much. Rubbing them hard only made them tear up, but when they cleared, she noticed small piles of sawdust on the floor and on her clothes.
Adrenaline surged through her system, and her heart galloped in her chest. She pushed on the place where she had been digging. It gave a little.
Should she try to escape?
Pushing on the wood one more time, she decided to save the attempt for later. She’d have to kick some of the boards out if she wanted a space big enough to crawl through. It would take at least a little time—and make a lot of noise.
The crunch of shoes on gravel made her hesitate. If she tried it now, he would hear her. He would catch her. Of that, she had little doubt.
He was whistling as he slowly climbed the rickety front cabin steps.
As quietly as she could, Gina slid the plywood panel back in place. Opening the door of the wardrobe, she crawled out.
For a second, she couldn’t stand up straight. Her legs were cramped from being in one position for so long. She stumbled, dizzy. But she didn’t dare show how disoriented she was.
Or did she?
Think. She needed to think.
Looking down at herself, she used her hands to brush off the dirty clothes and ran her fingers through her hair. She frowned at the bleeding fingertips, but she couldn’t do a thing about that.
“Gina.” He sang her name in a singsong voice. “I’m home!”
It made her think of the crazy man in The Shining, but no. His voice sounded…cheerful.
What had he been doing?
His footsteps moved closer and closer. “I got you some coffee.”
She closed the wardrobe door and backed away from it. Panic hit her like a fist as she realized she’d forgotten the little piles of sawdust on the floor. If he opened the wardrobe door, she would be in a huge amount of trouble.
The key turned in the door just as she dropped onto the cot. She tucked her trembling hands between her knees just as the room was filled with a blinding light.
“Oh,” she cried, raising her hands to shade her eyes.
His dark silhouette raised goose bumps on her skin. “Why is it so dark? What happened to the light?” Then he laughed. He actually laughed. “Shit. I didn’t leave you a light, did I? I’m sorry.”
A flashlight clicked on and swung toward her. The light stabbed at her eyes. She put up an arm to block the piercing glow.
“I’m fine.” Her voice came out in a crazed, hoarse croak.
The flashlight moved away from her face, searching around the room. It stopped on a part of the rotted wood she’d tried to dig at before. “What were you doing over there?”
For a moment, she didn’t think her panic-stricken brain would provide her with an excuse. “Mice!” She practically yelled the word before forcing her voice to calm down. “I need to get rid of the mice.” She pointed at the hole. “They were scratching, so I decided to scratch back.”
Concern flooded his features. “You’ve hurt your hands. Let me see.”
She tucked her hands under her legs. “It’s okay.” She needed a change of subject. “Where were you? I was scared.”
“I know.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave you a light. I was just out to get some supplies and make a few phone calls. It took longer than I thought it would.”
She swallowed, trying to keep her tone light. “Are you okay?”
“There wasn’t any trouble.” He sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Gina knew she had been acting like a complete lunatic. If this was his idea of feeling better, then she didn’t want to know what he would consider feeling worse.
Maybe it was going to be all right for now. Maybe she could go bac
k to working on the boards later, after he was asleep. “I’m sorry I made a mess. I freaked out.”
“It’s okay. As long as you’re okay now. I was so mad when I left that I just forgot.”
Her throat tightened. He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing when he left, but they no longer smelled fresh. They stank of sweat and something she couldn’t place.
“What have you really been doing?” The question was out of her mouth before her brain could stop it.
He moved a hand until it was resting on her knee. She wanted to swat it off or spit on it or something, but she didn’t move. She didn’t dare.
“I saved another soul.”
It wasn’t just the words he used, but the reverent way that he’d said them that had her hugging herself tight. There was no blinking back the tears this time. They came. As did the moan that could be contained no longer.
“Shh…” He put an arm around her, and she stiffened before she could stop herself. “Shh, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. It’s all okay.”
Maybe it was for him, but she would never let it be fine for her. He had killed again. She vividly remembered her mother tied to the bed, blood gushing from her throat, and her father lying on the floor in the hallway with his eyes staring at something he could no longer see.
Even worse, it wasn’t over. He was going to kill again.
And again. And again.
She had to get out of there. Before he could hurt her. Or worse, before she could convince herself that hurting other people was okay.
He let her go almost as quickly as he’d grabbed her. He was on his feet in an instant. It only took him three steps to get to the wardrobe. Oh god. The door had come slightly ajar.
He flung the door open. “What the hell?”
“The mice…”
Maybe he wouldn’t notice the sheet of plywood that was loose.
He did. Of course he did.
The plywood went flying across the room as he ripped it away. The handle from the toilet bucket joined it.
He turned on her. “What the actual shit were you doing?”
She was on her feet, inching toward the door. He hadn’t locked it when he came in. “T-trying to get some air. The window is nailed shut, and I was scared you wouldn’t come back, and I was going to ch-choke to death.”
