by Leslie Wolfe
The Girl from Silent Lake
A totally gripping and heart-pounding crime thriller
Leslie Wolfe
Books by Leslie Wolfe
Detective kay sharp series
1. The Girl From Silent Lake
2. Beneath Blackwater River
Tess winnett series
Dawn Girl
The Watson Girl
Glimpse of Death
Taker of Lives
Not Really Dead
Girl With A Rose
Mile High Death
Baxter & holt series
Las Vegas Girl
Casino Girl
Las Vegas Crime
Standalone titles
Stories Untold
Love, Lies and Murder
Alex hoffmann series
Executive
Devil’s Move
The Backup Asset
The Ghost Pattern
Operation Sunset
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Beneath Blackwater River
Hear more about the Detective Kay Sharp series
Books by Leslie Wolfe
A Letter from Leslie
Acknowledgments
A special thank you to my New York City legal eagle and friend, Mark Freyberg, who expertly guided me through the intricacies of the judicial system.
One
Silence
She watched him through a blur of tears, her heart thumping against her ribcage, plastic ties cutting into her flesh as she struggled to free herself. The man’s back was turned to her while he arranged some objects on a tray, the soft metallic clinking a surreal omen that froze her blood and threw her thoughts into a whirlwind of sheer mindless terror.
She threw her daughter a quick glance, forcing herself to put hope and courage in her tear-filled eyes. Her eight-year-old daughter Hazel was bound on a chair only a few feet from hers. She whimpered, her little chest heaving with every shattered breath. When they locked eyes, Hazel’s sobs became louder, muffled by the scarf he’d tied over her mouth, yet still loud enough to get the man’s attention.
“Enough with it already,” he ordered in a low voice. He turned and took a few determined steps toward Hazel, then stopped, his menacing eyes inches away from her little girl’s.
Alison froze.
The man grabbed a strand of Hazel’s long hair and played with it, coiling it around his fingers, then leaned closer and inhaled its scent. The girl’s terrified gaze seemed to be amusing to him. He let go of her hair and wiped a tear off the child’s cheek with his thumb, then licked the salty liquid with a satisfied groan.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, “your mommy loves you so much, doesn’t she?”
Hazel fell quiet, as if too scared to make another sound, but her tears flowed freely down her cheeks, soaking the fabric of the scarf. There was something eerie in the man’s voice, in the way he’d whispered those words, a sense of foreboding that sent uncontrollable chills down Alison’s spine.
“Please,” Alison said, “she’s just a little girl.”
A lopsided smile tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth. “She is, isn’t she?” Then he added, sounding almost bitter. “They always are.”
Then he turned his back to them, and the clinking of objects being placed on a tray resumed against the cold silence.
He wasn’t the woods-dwelling, rags-wearing monster one would imagine capable of kidnapping a mother and her daughter and holding them hostage in a remote cabin. He was clean-shaven and smelled of expensive aftershave, well-dressed with new, expensive clothes, and the cabin where he’d taken them was clean and large. If there was something off about it, that had to be the complete absence of personal objects, although the cabin had clearly been lived in for a while.
He seemed comfortable and habitual about his activities, as if he’d done it many times before. No hesitation in his movement and no fear in his dark eyes when he looked at her, when he seemed to be studying her like he would a piece of furniture or art he’d want to acquire.
From the man’s broad shoulders and raven-black hair, Alison’s gaze moved on to the spotless white walls and tiled floor. In the far corner of the room, next to the door, the cement grout was stained, something reddish-brown discoloring the light gray, porous material. She couldn’t take her eyes off that spot, where intersecting grout lines shared a stain that had to have been larger, like a pool of liquid advancing through the seams between the granite tiles and stopping at the wall.
He must’ve cleaned the tiles, but the liquid had permanently discolored the cement, in testimony of what had happened on that floor.
Blood.
Alison felt a new wave of panic taking over her brain. She willed herself into controlling it, into retaining some shred of command over her racing thoughts. She breathed slowly, holding the air inside her lungs for a few seconds before exhaling it.
The memory of her mother invaded her mind, the smell of cinnamon and the soft tones of her voice telling her, “Why go all the way to the Pacific Coast for a vacation? All by yourself, with a little girl, that isn’t safe, sweetie. Not these days. Not anymore. Why don’t you and I take Hazel to Savannah instead?”
The sound of her mother’s voice resounding in her memory made her eyes burn with fresh tears. Had she known what was going to happen? Maybe she’d seen one of her uncanny warning signs, a bloody moon or a stained sunset, signs Alison had always waved off indifferently, attributing them to her mother’s Cajun roots, nothing more than baseless superstition.
Oh, Mom, she thought, do you see a sign of us coming back home?
She inhaled forcefully once more, steeling her will. She tugged against her restraints, wincing from the pain where the zip ties had cut her skin around her wrists. She sat on a wooden chair, her hands bound behind the straight, narrow back of it. Her ankles had been secured against the square, thick legs of the chair, and no matter how much she forced herself to bend her ankles and snap the ties, all she did was cut even deeper into her flesh.
When he turned and approached her, she whimpered and shook her head, despite her decision to maintain her calm for as long as possible, for her daughter’s sake. Panic roare
d through her body with every step the man took toward her, her eyes riveted on the silver tray he carried, then on the four-legged stool he pushed between her chair and Hazel’s, setting the tray atop it.
She looked straight at him, trying to read the expression in his dark pupils, the meaning behind his cold smile. As she started to understand, uncontrollable sobs shattered her breath, while the terror flooding her body turned absolute, merciless.
He was never going to let them go. Death was written in his eyes, a silent sentence he was about to execute, welcoming it with a blood-lusting smile and the casual demeanor of a man engulfed in a pleasurable Sunday afternoon activity.
My poor baby, she thought, this can’t be happening. I can’t let it happen.
She frantically fought to free herself. She threw herself to the floor, hoping the chair might break under her weight.
She fell hard, the fall knocking the air out of her lungs for a moment. He pulled her back up with ease, grabbing her with unforgiving fingers that crushed her flesh.
“No, no,” she pleaded, choking on her own tears. “Please, let us go. W—we won’t say a word, I swear.”
He didn’t reply; his only reaction to her words was the widening of his smile. Alison fell silent.
Grabbing a bone-colored comb from the tray, he combed her hair, taking his time, until it crackled. Her mind raced, trying to anticipate what would come next, grateful he was focused on her and not Hazel.
If he’d only let her go, she thought, clinging to the surreal hope like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
He parted her hair in the middle, from the front all the way to the back, and separated her long strands into two equal sections. Every time his fingers touched her hair or brushed against her skin she shivered, her teeth clacking, her entire being revolting, not knowing when the blow would come, and how. She only knew it would. Soon.
He started braiding her hair, slowly, patiently, seemingly savoring the activity, quietly humming a lullaby. Watching him move, seeing him transposed by the experience, feeling his fingers against her scalp was a living nightmare, one she’d stopped hoping she’d ever wake up from.
“Why?” she whispered, slightly turning her head to face him.
He tugged at her hair to keep her head in place. “Sit still. We’re almost done.”
When he finished the braid, he secured it with an unusual, handcrafted hair tie made from what seemed to be leather and adorned with tiny feathers. Then he moved over to her left side and started braiding again, humming the same familiar tune.
For a while, she didn’t recognize the tune, only that she knew it. But then her frantic mind started imposing lyrics over his hums. Following her gut, she swallowed her tears and started singing softly.
“If that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a dia—”
She froze, seeing his reaction to her singing. Instead of softening him up, like she’d hoped, his features had turned to stone, rigid muscles knotting under his skin, his stare intense, burning, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists.
“Sing,” he ordered, but only a whimper left her lips. “Sing, damn you,” he shouted, grabbing her half-finished braid and forcing Alison to turn and face him.
Hazel screamed; a short, muffled scream quickly drowned in tearful sobs.
Alison’s voice trembled as she sang out of tune, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“If that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass,” she managed, then sniffled and whimpered, “Please, I’m begging you.”
“Sing,” he shouted.
She quivered, the lyrics she knew so well suddenly gone from her memory.
“Sing,” he repeated, his voice uncompromising. He was almost done braiding her hair; then what would he do?
Please, God, don’t let him touch my baby, she prayed silently. Then, her voice more a whimper than a song, she sang through the rhyme. “And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a—”
She stopped when he wrapped the hair tie around the end of her braid. She was shaking badly and felt cold, frozen, despite the late-afternoon sunshine coming through the window. In the deathly silence, she heard the birds sing outside the window, oblivious to the nightmare contained between the walls of the isolated cabin.
He looked at Hazel for a long, loaded moment, then reached out and touched the little girl’s hair. He seemed to be thinking what to do next.
Alison held her breath, her thoughts frantic. No, no…
As if hearing her plea, he walked over to Alison and stopped right in front of her. He studied her face for a long moment without saying or doing anything else.
She swallowed, her throat constricted with unspeakable fear, and forced herself to sing some more. “And if that horse and cart fall down, You’ll still be the sweetest little baby—”
Without warning, he ripped open her blouse. She gasped, trying to pull herself away from him by pushing with her feet against the floor, but he held her in place, his hand searing against her bare skin.
“Please, not in front of my daughter,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want.”
If only Hazel didn’t have to witness what was going to happen. If only she didn’t have to see her like that.
His laugh reverberated against the empty walls. He leaned closer to her face, so close she felt his heated breath on her face. “I know you’ll do anything I want,” he replied, still laughing. “Are you ready?”
The blue jays that had been filling the valley with their chirping fell silent all at once when her scream ripped through the clear mountain air.
Two
Home
The last hour of the drive home was just as enchanting as Kay remembered, the perfectly straight concrete strip of the interstate running through the flat and deserted dust bowl gradually replaced by meandering curves sloping gently, cutting through the thick woods of the national forest. Then, as the elevation increased, foliage faded, favoring evergreens, while the slopes were more abrupt and the curves tighter, unforgiving. The October leaves were turning, a display well worth the drive into the mountains north of San Francisco, even if for no other reason than to take in the colors of the beautiful California fall.
She cut the flow of conditioned air coming from the Ford’s vents and opened a window instead, letting the wind play with her wavy blonde hair and bringing the almost-forgotten scent of fallen leaves, of morning dew on green blades of grass, of waterfalls and pine needles and the promise of snow.
She was going home.
Not a trip she wanted to make, not ever again.
She sighed, and, without realizing, touched the side of the cardboard box she’d placed on the passenger seat with long, thin, frozen fingers that would’ve made any concert pianist proud. The white box bore the insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and contained her personal belongings. A few hours earlier, she’d cleared her desk and gathered everything that had made one of the desks on the fifth floor of the San Francisco regional office her own. A coffee mug with a cartoonish figure of a sniffing dog, a gift from a colleague of hers. A couple of books, one on investigative psychology and the other on profiling violent crimes, both riddled with red and yellow Post-it notes inserted between their pages. A photo of herself, fishing on the Pacific Coast, off the rocky shore at Sea Cliff. A desk nameplate in brushed gold on solid walnut, her name in block letters preceded by her title, SPECIAL AGENT KAY SHARP. Just the sound of those words in her mind used to make her straighten her broad shoulders and put a spring in her step, adding about an inch to her height and making her delicate chin thrust forward with confidence.
All that was now in the past, and she was going home.
She remembered how painful it had been to collect all those items and pack them in the box borrowed from evidence storage, to step out the door knowing she wouldn’t be back there come Monday. She’d held her head up while saying her goodbyes, fighting back the sting of tears as she looke
d at the bullpen one last time and then rushed to the elevator, shook one more hand while going down five floors, before walking out of the building. Pulling out of the parking lot in her white Ford Explorer, she’d given the high-rise building one last look, as always noticing how the perfectly blue sky reflected in the mirrored windows. Then she turned left, heading north.
Heading home.
Just because Jacob couldn’t control his damn temper.
Her shy, little brother Jacob had grown into a rather bulky man, his arms and back ripped with muscles he’d built working construction during summertime, whenever he could find work. Jacob had always struggled; he didn’t relate well to others, and apparently had anger management issues too. Those were new; she’d always known him to be gentle, withdrawn, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
When he’d called her a few days before, his voice was fraught with shame and regret.
“I’m going to jail, sis,” he’d said, jumping straight into the core of the issue, like he always did. “I—I don’t know how it happened. He provoked me, threw a bottle at my head, and I only hit him once. But I decked him.” He paused, cleared his voice, then said, speaking almost in a whisper, “I never expected the judge to give me time to serve, that’s why I didn’t tell you about it.”
