by Karen Rose
Sydney snarled. “I said move.” Renewing her grip on Zandra’s arm, she half dragged, half carried her until they’d cleared the top of the stairs and crossed a small, neat living room. Sydney was breathing hard as she pushed Zandra out the front door.
Zandra crumpled to a heap on the front porch, hitting her head on the concrete. A few seconds later the door opened again and the dog was thrust onto the porch with her.
“Take that sorry excuse for an animal with you.”
The door slammed hard.
Zandra lay there, panting.
Get away. Get away.
And then she felt something rough on her cheek. Rough and wet. Heard a whimper. Felt a nudge against her shoulder. Mindlessly she pushed to her knees. The dog leapt off the front porch and spun three times before giving a short bark.
She pushed to her feet and new tears fell. It hurt. Her feet. Her head. All over.
The dog barked once again and walked a few feet, turning to her expectantly.
Move, Zandra. Just a few steps. She forced her feet to move and she shuffled across the porch, holding on to the post for balance.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.
The dog ran ahead another ten feet, then looked back. Zandra forced her feet to shuffle forward. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota.
She made it to the street and looked both ways. Houses. Lots of houses.
A car stopped in a driveway a few houses up. Go. Get help. She lurched forward and tripped on the blanket again.
A woman was getting groceries from her car. She looked at Zandra with disgust and fear. Hurriedly, she took the bags and ran up her sidewalk. “Go away,” she called over her shoulder. “Or I’ll call the police. Go sober up.”
“Please,” Zandra cried. Or tried to. The woman slammed her front door.
Zandra pushed back to her knees. And came face to face with the dog. He licked her nose, yipped, then ran ten feet before turning to look at her.
Gritting her teeth, she used a lamppost to pull herself to her feet. She forced herself to move, shuffling down the street, looking for someone who’d help her. Anyone. All she needed was a phone. She could call 911. Get help.
Go to the next door. Beg if you have to. She turned into the next yard with a light on in the front window. She took a step. Borge, Delfina. California. Another step. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Another step, ignoring the burning of her feet on the cold concrete. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
She got to the door and knocked. And waited. She could hear people inside, but no one came to the door. “Help,” she whispered. “Please.”
But no one answered and she turned from the door, ready to give up, but felt a brush against her hand. The dog had come back.
Too tired to think anymore, she mindlessly followed him, one foot in front of the other. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 10:35 P.M.
His good mood evaporated when he pulled into his driveway. He’d been making plans for Zandra all the way from Granite Bay to the grocery store lot where he dropped off the van. He’d walked to his Jeep, parked in front of a coffee shop, whistling. He’d even left a tip in the jar on the counter when he’d gotten himself a caramel macchiato to go.
But now . . . Dread mixed with fury as he drove past the all-too-familiar Mercedes parked in his driveway. He opened his garage door and rolled in, trying to come up with a way to explain why he’d been out when he’d claimed to be sick and feverish.
And, more importantly, a way to get rid of Sydney.
He sat for a moment, reviewing what he’d already told her so he wouldn’t tell a lie that made things worse. After a minute, he nodded, his story fixed in his mind.
Putting down the garage door, he went into the house and stopped short. A soup tureen sat on his dining room table. It was Sydney’s china pattern.
She’d brought him the fucking soup after all.
He drew a breath, tamping down the rage that threatened to boil over. She was trying to be nice. He wanted no part of her “nice.” He wanted no part of her.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to call her name in a hoarse, coughing voice. “Sydney? Are you here?”
Of course she was here. Her car was outside.
He began searching for her. The kitchen? No. Bathroom? Empty. He braced himself as he opened the bedroom door. Please don’t let her be in my bed. Please.
But the bedroom was empty as well. The bed was not as he’d left it—neatly made—but was, instead, turned back with rose petals strewn across the pillows. The sight had bile clawing up his throat.
He wanted to vomit.
But he swallowed it back. Like he always did. Like he had since he was twelve years old. Since the first time she’d visited his room in the night.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe, dammit. Because he’d gone light-headed. Dizzy. He grabbed on to the door frame with his good hand, hanging on like it was a life preserver. Breathing in and out. Trying not to let the panic take over.
Stand up straight. Be a man, for fuck’s sake. Find her. Get rid of her.
Then show Zandra what a real man does to selfish whores.
He walked back through the house, calling Sydney’s name. Sounding compliant, just the way she liked it. But she didn’t answer. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Something was different. Wrong.
Where was Mutt? “Mutt?” he called. “Here, boy!”
And then he noticed the door to the basement.
It was open.
He never left it open. He was meticulous about that door, always locking it and the one at the bottom of the basement stairs. The one to his . . .
He gasped. Oh God. Oh no. Not the guest room. It wasn’t possible.
He stumbled down the stairs, his heart pounding so hard it was all he could hear.
The door to the guest room was open.
Open. Open. Open. The word echoed in his mind to the beat of his frantic pulse.
He stepped inside and saw her. Sydney. Lying on the guest bed on her side, propped on her elbow, her nightgown all arranged, a pout on her face.
And Zandra . . . was gone.
“Where is she?” he blurted out, shouting the words.
Sydney’s pout became an angry glare. “Sonny,” she warned.
He took a halting step forward. Then another, both of his hands clenching into fists. The pain in his injured hand just made him madder. “I said, where is she?”
Sydney sneered. “Your whore? I tossed her ass out.”
He started to pant, panic consuming his rage. “Out? Out where?”
Sydney fluttered her hand dismissively. “Outside. Wherever whores go.”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. He dragged air into his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. “When?” he whispered.
She sat up and folded her arms across her breasts. Her expression became haughty and disapproving. “I don’t like your tone, Sonny.”
He didn’t care. “Why would you do this?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Because you’re mine,” she said as if that made all the sense in the world. And in Sydney’s world, it probably did.
He felt like he would faint. “How did you get in here?”
She scoffed. “I made copies of your house keys years ago. Right after you moved out.”
Because he’d wanted to get away from her. Far away. But she hadn’t let him go.
“How?” he managed.
She lifted one shoulder. “I drugged you and took them. I told you that you couldn’t leave me, Sonny. I’ve known about your little room for years. I just never discovered a woman in here before. I found your toy collection. And your little blue pills.” She smirked. “I wonder why you need those things. Having
trouble getting it up for your whores?”
He was hyperventilating and she was laughing at him. “Shut up,” he cried. “Just shut up.”
“Watch your mouth,” she snapped, then, visibly calming herself, came to her feet, all elegance and grace. And rotted, fetid filth. “I told you that there would be no one else but me. I warned you, Sonny. Now, I believe you owe me an apology. Say you’re sorry, Sonny.”
Say you’re sorry. His pulse was thundering in his ears. Zandra had never said the words. Now she was gone.
Gone.
To the police.
Oh my God. They’ll come for me. He looked at the elegant woman who watched him with clear disdain and growing impatience. Her face grew hard and he wanted to throw up.
“Say you’re sorry, Sonny,” she demanded coldly. “Right now.”
Say you’re sorry. Sorry? She should be sorry, not me. She’s ruined everything. She always ruins everything. I’m going to get caught. I’m going to lose everything.
His anger began to grow, overshadowing the fear, the panic. “You say it,” he snarled.
Her face blanched and she took a step back. “Sonny,” she snapped. “Watch your tone with me.” She softened her voice, but he could hear the fear in it. “Just apologize and it’ll all be fine.”
“No.” He shook his head, advancing on her, step by step, watching comprehension fill her eyes. Watching her shrink back as his good hand shot out to shove her backward. She stumbled, falling onto the bed when the backs of her knees hit the frame.
And then he was on her, holding her down with his left elbow and one knee, pounding into her face with his right fist. She screamed, long and loud, and he slapped her.
She fell back, her mouth open in shock. “Sonny,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
What I should have done sixteen years ago, he thought, but he said nothing because he was gritting his teeth, his hand tight around her throat. Watching her eyes grow wide, then bulge. Watching her mouth fall open as she tried to suck in air.
Watching her die. Finally.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 10:50 P.M.
What if she leaves? What if she’s gone when I get there? Gideon bit back what would have been a snarl for Agent Hunter to drive faster. The man was already speeding and the last thing they needed was to have a traffic accident.
Agent Hunter had been pretty cooperative, all things considered. He’d balked a little at having Frederick carrying a weapon in the front seat with him, despite the fact that he still had a valid California concealed carry permit—until Frederick had put him on the phone with one of his friends in the Baltimore field office. Special Agent Joseph Carter had personally vouched for Frederick’s character and marksmanship. After Carter had bitched about being woken up at one fifteen in the morning.
All that had taken precious time they could have been using to drive to Rafe’s house, where Mercy—hopefully—still waited, but Frederick had made his presence a requirement for Daisy’s. And I need her here with me.
Gideon’s initial response had been no way in hell was she coming with him, but he was grateful she hadn’t listened to him. She sat quietly in the seat beside him now, holding his hand.
No one had said much as they’d sped down the interstate, and now that they were turning onto Rafe’s street, all Gideon could think was that Mercy had come.
She’s here. She came. She really came.
Hunter slowed as they approached Rafe’s old Victorian and Gideon frowned. A blue sedan was parked on the curb, but the driver’s-side door was open. Hunter pulled the SUV into Rafe’s driveway and Gideon was out before the vehicle had fully stopped.
Mercy was here. She was still here. She was . . . kneeling on the ground near the curb in front of the blue sedan. A dog sat next to her on the sidewalk.
SUV doors opened behind him, Frederick barking at Daisy to be careful.
“Oh my God,” Daisy whispered from behind him. “Is that . . . ? Yeah, it is. That’s George, the dog from Saturday. His dog, Gideon.”
Both Gideon and Frederick grabbed her arms, keeping her from walking to the dog. The dog showed no fear, leaping up to run to Daisy, tail wagging.
Mercy’s head whipped around. She was on the phone, giving someone the address. Her eyes met Gideon’s and it was like looking in a mirror.
Like looking back thirteen years when he’d found her in foster care. She hadn’t changed that much. Her face was fuller, her hair longer. But it was her. Here. For me.
“I called 911,” she said, forgoing any greeting in true Mercy fashion.
Releasing Daisy’s arm, Gideon moved to Mercy’s side, where a woman lay on the ground, curled into the fetal position. “Who is she?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know. I was sitting here, waiting for you, when she kind of staggered down the sidewalk. I thought she was drunk or homeless or both. The dog kept running a few feet ahead, then running back to her, all the way down the block. And then the dog just sat in front of your house. She caught up, and when he didn’t go any farther, neither did she. I think she was trying to ask me for help. She’s alive, but not making sense.”
Gideon knelt beside the woman, whose face was bruised and battered, her lip split. She was somewhere in her twenties with dirty blond hair. She was shaking uncontrollably and muttering under her breath.
“She’s not wearing any shoes, Gideon,” Mercy murmured.
Mercy was right. The woman’s feet were cut and bleeding. It wasn’t cold enough to freeze her extremities, but it wasn’t warm enough to be barefoot.
Hunter appeared with a blanket and covered the woman carefully. “Why does she have the suspect’s dog?” he asked.
“Damn good question,” Gideon said. He sensed Daisy behind him and looked over his shoulder. Frederick stood behind her, shielding her as his gaze constantly searched for danger. “Are you sure that’s the same dog from the adoption clinic, Daisy?”
She stood next to Gideon, her leg pressed against his uninjured shoulder. “Well, pretty sure. He seems to remember me.”
Mercy looked up at Daisy. “You’re the one who called me.”
Daisy nodded once. “Yes.” Then she smiled at Mercy. “And you came.”
Mercy nodded and dropped her eyes back to the muttering woman. “I can’t figure out what she’s saying. It sounds like names and places, but it doesn’t make sense.”
Gideon dipped his head, angling his ear closer, trying to listen.
“DeVeen, Rosamond,” the woman muttered. “Minnesota.”
Gideon sucked in a breath, instantly recognizing the name. “Oh my God,” he murmured.
Daisy dropped to her knees. “What?”
“Listen to what she’s saying,” he said, his heart beating harder. “Names, Daisy.”
“Borge, Delfina. California,” the woman continued. “Oliver, Makayla. New York.”
Daisy’s gaze jerked to meet his. “Makayla Oliver was one of the women with letters carved into her body. She lived in Niagara Falls.”
Gideon nodded grimly. “Delfina Borge owned the beige sedan. Her body was never found.”
They bent low to hear more just as the woman muttered, “Danton, Eileen. Oregon. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.”
“Oh.” Daisy’s hand was over her mouth. “Trish. And Eileen. Gideon, I’m sorry.”
He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He’d known chances were that Eileen was dead, but . . . he’d still hoped.
Daisy frowned. “Wait. Kaley Martell. That’s the prostitute who went missing Thursday night. Rafe’s case, remember? I read the report Nina Barnes did on her after I talked to her Friday.”
“The one with the sick little girl,” Gideon whispered. “Holy hell.”
“Gideon?” Mercy asked hesitantly. “What about Eileen?
What’s going on here?”
Gideon turned to find his sister’s eyes wary. “There’s so much to explain here, Mercy, but . . . I’m pretty sure that she’s dead.”
“Shh.” Agent Hunter had his cell phone next to the woman’s face. “Hold this. She’s talking again.”
Daisy did as he asked while Hunter rose, on full alert. Frederick, to his credit, didn’t need to be brought up to speed. “The names are his victims?” he asked softly.
Gideon nodded, standing when he heard sirens. He held his hand out to Mercy, who stared at it as if it would bite her. Finally, she took his hand and let him help her to her feet. He led her to the sidewalk, so that Daisy could record the woman’s utterances without their interference.
“I have a lot to tell you,” he said quietly. “But . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m so damn glad you came.”
She dropped her gaze to her feet. “I should have come a long time ago.”
“No should’ve’s, okay?” He touched her cheek briefly. “Will you stay for a little while? I need to try to talk to this woman.”
She nodded, glancing up for only a second before studying her shoes again. “Yes.”
He squeezed her hand awkwardly. “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave, okay?”
“I won’t.” One side of her mouth lifted. “I promise.”
“Okay.” He returned to where Daisy was handing the phone back to Agent Hunter.
“She was just saying the same few names again,” Daisy explained. “I recognized some of them. Gideon, where did she come from?”
“That’s my question.” He bent closer. “Ma’am, what is your name?”
She blinked at him, her eyes empty. “Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.”
Daisy gently touched the woman’s shoulder through the blanket. “Hey,” she said softly, her husky voice like a caress. “You’re safe now. We won’t hurt you. These men are with the FBI. We’ll keep you safe, and an ambulance is coming. Will you tell us your name?”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears and she shuddered out a sob. “Zandra. Zandra Jones.”
The ambulance was pulling up to the curb. Daisy stroked the curve of the woman’s ear—one of the few places she didn’t have bruises. “Zandra, I’m Daisy. Can you tell us where you came from?”
