No. No, no, no.
“You’re wrong,” Jerry said, sounding much calmer than he felt. “You’re totally wrong.”
“I’m so sorry, pal.”
It hit him then. All the air went out of the room, and Jerry crumpled to his knees.
chapter 47
THE SMELL OF disinfectant, the hushed tones, the mint-green wall paint. Hospitals never changed.
Morris was saying something comforting, but Jerry wasn’t listening. He was staring at Sheila, reminded of a year ago when it had been him in the hospital with bandages around his throat. But he knew Sheila had it much worse.
In a shaking, raging voice, Morris had explained to him earlier that morning that Sheila’s body had been carved up pretty bad. Thankfully none of the wounds had been life-threatening, as most were superficial, other than the one on her thigh which had already been wrapped tight at the warehouse. She would heal. A top plastic surgeon had already been consulted, and while the surgeon was confident he could minimize the scar on her forehead, it would always be visible.
On Sheila’s stomach, Abby had carved the word WHORE. Christ Almighty. The surgeon was certain this one could be eliminated entirely, and thank God for that.
Jerry took one last glance at Sheila as if to reassure himself she’d be okay. He shook Morris’s hand, allowed himself to be embraced by the big man, and left the room.
A moment later he was on a different floor of the hospital, back in the same chair he’d been sitting in for the past few hours until Morris had come up to check on him.
Around him, the machines beeped steadily. Annie was covered with the hospital’s sheets, her face pale but peaceful, the only movement coming from her chest as the machines helped her breathe. There were bruises on her forehead and multiple cuts and scrapes on her cheeks, neck, and arms. The abdominal wound had been operated on, but she had lost the largest amount of blood a person could lose and still be hanging on. She was stable for the time being, but the doctors who’d worked on her couldn’t guarantee she’d make it through the night.
He stared at her, touching her hand, caressing her face. His beautiful, brilliant, vibrant wife. It was his fault.
This was all his fault.
Jerry buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.
chapter 48
VAN MORRISON’S “INTO the Mystic” was playing on Danny’s iPod, and the song was fitting. It was a warm day, and the windows were down, rustling both Danny’s hair and Abby’s.
“I might never forgive you,” Abby said beside her, her voice low and husky and intimate. Her shoulder, bandaged tightly, was in a sling. “I can’t believe you actually shot me, you bitch.”
A small smile crossed Danny’s lips, but she kept driving, her attention focused on the road, which seemed to stretch on forever in front of them. “You didn’t give me a choice. You’ll be fine. Chill.”
“The hell I will.” She felt Abby’s eyes burn into the side of her face. “Once my shoulder heals, I’m going back for her. And then I might just put a knife in your throat for not letting me finish it, you stupid cunt.”
Danny placed a hand on Abby’s thigh and rubbed it lightly. Immediately, Abby relaxed. She always did when Danny touched her. “You know killing Sheila was never the goal,” Danny said again. “The only goal was getting you out. And now you’re out. Be happy, baby. It’s a new day. Everything worked out perfectly.”
“It’s not over.”
Danny looked at Abby, looked at her beautiful face, all fine bones and fair skin and Elizabeth Taylor eyes, and said, “It is over. It has to be.”
“They’re looking for you, too, don’t forget.”
“So what? I didn’t kill anybody.”
“No, but you helped me. You recruited Jeremiah, you got him to do your dirty work, and then you made sure he was attacked in prison . . . you might as well have killed them all yourself.”
Danny’s jaw tightened. “But I didn’t kill them myself. And anyway, I did all of that for you. As a means to an end. I had a plan, I accomplished everything I set out to do to get you out of prison, and now it’s over. We’re moving on.” She looked back at the road. “I know you think you have a choice in this, but you don’t. Let’s be crystal clear about that. We’re never going back. And if you do go back, you go without me, and we’re done.”
Abby was silent. Danny knew she wasn’t accustomed to having people talk to her this way, but she’d damn well better get used to it.
A moment later, Abby said, “Why did you save her?”
Danny knew she was referring to Sheila Tao. There could be several answers to this, and Danny mulled them all over as she drove. Perhaps she’d saved Dr. Tao because she’d had the woman as a teacher, and Danny had learned a lot from her. Perhaps she’d done it to prove to herself she wasn’t a psychopath. Or perhaps she’d done it to make up for what Abby had done to Jerry’s wife, Marianne, who’d been an unfortunate casualty in Abby’s war.
A pang shot through Danny. Poor Jerry. Wherever he was, he was hurting. And that hadn’t been part of the plan. Jerry had always been good to her. She forced the thought out of her head.
Ultimately, the real answer was simple. Ridiculously so.
Danny had saved Sheila Tao to let Abby know who was in control here. Who had always been in control here. There could only be one alpha female in this relationship, and Danny had never been the submissive type.
“I saved her because I wanted to,” Danny finally said. “And because I could. Now do you have the passports? We’re almost there.”
They were approaching the U.S.–Mexico border, having driven all night. Danny pulled into the far left lane, where her old friend Pedro was working. It had all been arranged.
Abby pulled out their passports, which Danny had bought for the low, low price of five grand apiece.
“By the way.” Abby sounded cross as she handed the passports, which were Canadian, not American, to Danny. “Clarissa Butterfield? What the hell kind of name is that? I sound like a fucking bimbo. I totally hate you. I hate you so much.” But she was smiling.
Danny chuckled. Her passport said Sarah Butterfield. They were going to pass themselves off as sisters. They were going to settle somewhere along the Pacific, and maybe run a restaurant or a small resort or something. Or maybe they’d keep driving, all the way down to South America. It really didn’t matter. They’d figure it all out when they got there. Hopefully the Spanish lessons would pay off.
As they pulled into the queue for the border crossing, Danny kept one hand on the steering wheel and leaned over for a kiss. Abby’s lips met hers hungrily, her sweet tongue flicking hers, sending a white-hot tingle through Danny’s body.
Almost a year of planning to get to this point. Everything she had done, from the internship with Jerry, to volunteering at the prison, to creating the FreeAbbyMaddox.com site to attract just the right obsessed freak to help her, which turned out to be Jeremiah Blake . . . it had all come to fruition.
They were home free.
“También te amo, mi amor,” Danny said, when they broke apart. “Todo lo que hice, lo hice por tí.”
I love you, too, my darling. Everything I did, I did for you.
Author’s Note
The prisons in this book are fictional, but if it wasn’t for a visit to the Washington Corrections Center for Women in Gig Harbor, Washington, I would have had to invent many of the descriptive details. Thanks so much to Superintendent Jane Parnell and Sergeant Bassetti for the interview and the tour. As an author, I took artistic liberties with what happens inside prison to make it work for my story, but readers should know that the WCCW is an impressive facility with a dedicated, hardworking staff.
I’m also grateful to S.P., an inmate currently serving out a life sentence at Folsom State Prison in California, for generously sharing so many details of his day-to-day life with me.
JENNIFER HILLIER made her fiction debut with Creep. She is a member of the International Thriller Writers, the In
ternational Association of Crime Writers, and the Mystery Writers of America. Born and raised in Canada, she spent four years in the Pacific Northwest, and now resides once again in the Toronto area. Visit her online at www.jenniferhillier.org, follow her on Twitter @JenniferHillier, and read her blog, The Serial Killer Files, at www.jenniferhillier.ca.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Hillier
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition August 2012
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Designed by Jill Putorti
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hillier, Jennifer.
Freak / by Jennifer Hillier.—1st Gallery Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to Creep.
1. Women college teachers—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.I446F74 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012007089
ISBN 978-1-4516-6454-6
ISBN 978-1-4516-6456-0 (ebook)
Freak Page 29
