Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  Mary was still pissed off but calming down. At least that's what Sarah said, although it seemed to become a different story once Abby came back into the picture.

  It was like Mary was a penitent teenager angry at her mom for abandoning her. And Abby was unfortunately the mom in this situation.

  Abby forced herself to remember that Mary, like Abby herself, was in a life and death situation. One that had been thrust upon her as a punishment for liking nice things and bad boys. Probably in that order.

  Abby had grown up with the danger. It was natural to her, which was a sick thing, really. She was prepared, while Mary was sorely lacking.

  It was time to teach her more than hiding. "Mary, we need to talk."

  Mary scowled. "Right. And then we can braid each other's hair and bake cookies."

  Abby had only told her story to a witness once before and not in great detail. Not at first, anyway, but with even that little bit, Kayla swore it changed her enough to give a shit about more than surviving. Abby was tired of not making a difference and the only one who could change that was her.

  "It's a little rougher than that," Abby explained as she took the six-pack out of her bag and put it on the table between them.

  Mary stared at the beer and then put her gaze on Abby's. "Finally, you're actually going to be fun."

  Abby laughed.

  Abby had been about to go away to school for spring semester. Finally, she'd be escaping her father and his drinking. She'd still have the protection, and the worry of being hunted by one of the most active serial killers of her time, but hey, a girl couldn't have it all be perfect, right?

  Part of staying home had been about taking care of her father, and the other part had become pure fear. She'd promised herself she'd never live like he was forcing her to do, because worrying didn't make it happen or keep it from happening. Caution was important, yes, but she made sure nothing would ever stop her from living.

  Except that night had nearly destroyed her.

  She wasn't supposed to be home. That night, when she should've been hours away, sleeping in a strange room on borrowed sheets on a extra-long twin bed and feeling both alone and excited, she was instead dragging her bag inside the hallway of her house and calling out, "I'm home."

  When silence answered her, she continued, "I'm a day early, I know—sorry I forgot to call. But I hated the place. Didn't see any reason to torture myself any longer…"

  The last word caught in her throat. She'd been shuffling through the mail as she spoke and she'd glanced up at the figure in the hallway maybe fifteen feet from her.

  She smiled, expecting it to be Dad.

  It wasn't.

  But instead of screaming, she stared into the eyes of the Black Magic Killer, and then glanced at the gun he'd trained on her.

  She knew immediately who he was. He'd been sketched so many times by the FBI, and no matter what else changed—hair length, color, beard or mustache—there was no disguising his eyes. There were the dark, dead eyes of a predator, an unmoving shark's eyes. She wondered why he never wore contacts, but seeing him in person, she knew.

  His eyes had the ability to strike fear in any soul. He wanted that. Lived for it.

  He wanted people to know exactly who he was when he killed them. His eyes were as much his trademark as his methods of killing.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  He frowned and then…then he laughed. "Isn't she something? I expected you to be on your knees, crying, and of course there's time for that, later. But instead…well, aren't you something?” he repeated, then called over his shoulder, "Ryan, your daughter's home."

  "I'm not supposed to be."

  He stroked his goatee thoughtfully and the look that flashed across his face was equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing. "I know. This changes everything."

  Oh God. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, stood still and tall. She wouldn't give him anything more—he'd taken too much already. "The police are on their way."

  "Nope."

  "My marshal will be here to check on me and if I don't answer the door…"

  The BMK smiled. "Shut the fuck up. Sit down."

  She was going to defy him, but her father's voice drifted into the room. "Do what he says, Abigail. Exactly what he says."

  "Yes, Abigail," he echoed sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes. "Sit and shut it."

  He pointed to the closest chair, an extra formal dining room one directly to her left. She sat in it—it faced the window—and called, "Yes, Dad."

  "Your father's been telling me all about you for years," the BMK told her.

  "Same," Abby told him defiantly.

  He stroked his goatee again. "Be a good little chicken and sit tight. Your father just broke the rules. If you want him alive, you sit and stay."

  He walked out of the room and she wanted to bolt, out the door and toward anyone and anything who could help. But the BMK would kill her father immediately—it was an unspoken truth, and if there was any hope for them, Abby would have to pray that Hoss would stop by unexpectedly, the way he usually did.

  From the other room, she heard her father say, "We made a deal."

  And the BMK laughed a little—a chilling sound, like he was unused to making it. "Ryan, you fucked this whole thing up. We're doing things my way now."

  "Let her go."

  "She wasn't supposed to be here."

  "Exactly," Dad reasoned. "Let her go. She won't call anyone."

  "Of course she will—she's your kid. I told you that if you change anything, you change the whole game and I can't promise anything. You know that!" he roared. He was so damned angry. Serial killers were methodical, Dad said, in control so they could enjoy their kills.

  This man wasn’t in control or showing any signs of enjoyment.

  Dad called him here.

  She took a deep breath to try to stop herself from throwing up and gagged. When Mom was here, it was flowers and occasional cigar smoke and bourbon. Dad equaled bourbon and cigars and usually that meant a good mood. After Mom, the good moods vanished and the booze increased to slurring, nauseating levels.

  The house was dark and depressing, but how could she blame her father? She missed her mother with every ounce of her being as well.

  "That's why, Abs," Teige would later explain. "He's the parent. He's got to know she'd hate him for not being there to comfort you."

  "What about comforting you?"

  Teige had just snorted and gone back to his book.

  Teige. God.

  She attempted another breath and practically tasted the metallic tinge of blood that flooded her senses. It was quiet in the other room, but the smell was enough to tell her that her father's torture had begun.

  What had he agreed to?

  "Don't move, Abby. Please—just stay there and then it will be over, okay? I promise—you'll be safe." Her father sounded broken. Leaving wouldn't be signing her own death certificate, it was ensuring his death as well.

  Later, she'll think about the value of staying through it all, what it taught her and what it cost her. If she'd do it again if she had the same thing to do over, and she could never truly answer that. Because, in that moment, there was nothing else to do but stay and listen to her father being killed, slowly, tortured to death by the Black Magic Killer.

  Abby heard her Dad say, "When this is done, you'll be the greatest. And you'll leave my family alone. Start with a new person, or quit. That's up to you, but leave my family goddamned alone."

  She clutched the arms of the chair, hard enough that she'd later find nail marks dug deeply into the fine mahogany. The only thing keeping her in the chair was a promise, to her father, to a killer.

  Shakily, she stood, only to hear heavy footsteps coming her way. She sat back down and stared into his demonic-edged eyes.

  "Going somewhere, Abigail?"

  "I thought I was going to be sick."

  He smiled grimly and backed away. It was only then s
he saw the knife he held at his side, bloodstained.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood. And then she did vomit, and she continued to gag, long after her stomach was emptied. Because the stench of blood grew stronger and her father's moans, audible.

  And then came the screams. But it wasn't until the BMK dragged her by her hair into the kitchen that she truly lost it.

  Her father, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Terrified. In pain. And his legs…

  "No," she whispered before she passed out. But the BMK kept waking her, throwing ice cold water on her, trying to get her to watch.

  It had been unsatisfying for the killer—even through terrified eyes, Abby could see the BMK's frustration. It was palpable. Growing.

  There would be no promises kept tonight…except Abby's to her mom.

  Never give up.

  But the Black Magic Killer had. Before that, he'd always insisted that everything and everyone remain on the board and in play.

  But her father had stopped playing. It hadn't let the BMK have his victory—it was a hollow, unsatisfying one instead.

  "I thought I'd finally found someone worthy, a real nemesis," the BMK said. "Instead, you're nothing. You failed me. You ruined everything."

  Abby always wondered if, by doing that, her father had saved her. That the BMK was wounded mentally, and because of that, Abby was able to escape.

  She also wondered if the BMK stopped killing after that because he was, in some way, probably broken too. She used to wonder if she'd find him someday, a feeble old man in his eighties, waiting out death brokenly.

  Because of that, she always let herself believe that her father had won against the BMK, and on his own terms.

  Abby wasn't even supposed to be home that night. Had Dad purposely enticed the BMK into his home?

  He'd known Hoss would be coming by later, so Abby never would've seen the horror of his body, the product of the secret, sacred covenant between profiler and killer: Here I am, letting you do exactly what you've always said you wanted to do with me…and then we're both done.

  Was there a silent acquiescence? Was he going after Abby for show, a way to prove to the world he'd tried…or had he been unable to keep his promise because his killer instincts could never ever be counted on to make those kinds of promises?

  "You'll get what's coming to you, Abigail, just like your father did."

  "You promised him," she managed.

  "I told you—your father just broke the rules!" he roared. "I can't let you get away with that. I can't."

  She believed he meant it, as though killing was an OCD-like compulsion he had zero control over. His rules were serious business and breaking them sent him into a tailspin of killing rage.

  There was no reasoning with this man. There was only fighting.

  There was only the will to live…and she hoped that would be enough.

  An hour later, Mary was stone-cold sober despite the beer. Wide-eyed and sweating at first, she'd been in disbelief. Accused Abby of trying to scare her.

  The thing was, there was no denying the scars. The ones on her calves, ankles and feet were the most effective, ghosts of fingernails that dug into her skin and refused to let go. Needing to drag her into hell with him.

  She refused to go.

  The serial killer her father hunted for most of his career was killing him, slowly and painfully, as she listened helplessly, just a room away. She forced herself to hear every scream, because he couldn't muffle them anymore. He was out of his mind with pain. The air was thick with the scent of fear that permeated her nostrils so much so that she'd smell it for weeks. Whether it had been his or hers hadn't mattered.

  Suddenly, she realized she could move. Whatever tranquilizer the Black Magic Killer had given her to paralyze her was wearing off and she kicked her legs, looking for any kind of leverage. A few seconds later, smoke billowed.

  She'd find out later that she'd started the fire accidentally in her frenzy to escape. It was the killer's signature, but she'd ignited it too early for his tastes.

  When it flared, she dragged herself across the floor, her limbs heavy as lead. Her eyes were swollen and the drugs stopped her from coughing, depressed her breathing so the smoke and carbon dioxide settled into her lungs far too easily.

  She was almost out the back door when her father's screams stopped. That gave her enough pause for hands to reach out of the murk and scrabble for her ankles. His nails scraped her skin and then dug in hard for leverage. He'd fractured her ankles—or she did during the struggle.

  The bones healed, but the scars—those and others she showed to Mary, one by one—would always be there. Reminders.

  "I could let it defeat me. It probably should've. I could've sat in a room like a good little girl and healed and retreated from the world of bad people." She paused. "But there is no escape, no retreat from evil. They're everywhere, and the most we can do is hope not to become like them."

  Mary took a long swallow of her beer then set it down and tapped her foot nervously. "Not what I expected, Abby."

  "Not as fun as telling me that I have no clue what you're going through—how much you're suffering?" Abby didn't bother mentioning last year's serial killer incident or the current situation. That would simply be overkill. How much bad luck could one person have?

  But you're still alive so obviously your luck isn't shit after all.

  Mary sighed. "I didn't sign up for any of this. I agreed to testify in order to save my own ass. I didn't care about right or wrong."

  "I know."

  "So what now? After I testify, they send me away again, somewhere into the Midwest. Totally alone. I've got no skills. No one to help me."

  No one who loves me. That dangled unsaid. The most dangerous part of the equation. The desperation of most witnesses often attracted new unsavory types, not unlike those who got the witnesses in trouble in the first place. If the witnesses couldn't break their pattern, they might as well have stayed in their original position.

  It was like saving a drowning man only to have him throw himself into the fire for warmth.

  "I can help, Mary. I can tell you that only you can decide if you're a victim or a survivor. You're young. Smart. Strong. You can get out of this. But you need to change."

  "People don't change. They can't. At heart, they are who they are," Mary intoned.

  Abby crossed her arms. "Who are you, Mary? I don't think you even know that. I don't think I've met the real you. Not yet. But I'd like to."

  Mary stared at her, so still. Pale. Quiet. "I need to be alone."

  Abby let her be. A risky move, to be sure. Mary was on edge. She could run, kill herself…or prove what she was made of.

  "Who am I to tell someone what they should do with their life?" she muttered as she walked to her car.

  "Second-guessing yourself?" Vance asked, because of course he was still tailing her.

  "My brother made you."

  "Of course he did. He's good."

  She glared at him. "How am I supposed to explain it?"

  "How did you?"

  "I told him I wasn't at liberty to discuss it."

  "Nice," he said approvingly.

  "What the hell, Vance? It’s like you’re testing me. Am I in training for the CIA without my knowledge?"

  "Do you want to be?" he asked. "Because you don't seem happy at your current place of employment."

  She couldn't argue so she didn't even try. She was fighting with her brother, with herself…and it all welled up too deeply inside her. "I've got to go."

  "Abby, please." Vance put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from leaving. But she'd be damned if she cried in front of him. He'd seen enough of her vulnerabilities to last a lifetime.

  "Stop. Let's not pretend this is about anything more than finding Ethan's killer, okay? I'm willing to do that—I want to do that. And you need to keep me in your line of sight in case he shows up. But this heart-to-heart shit? I've had enough for a
lifetime." She paused. "You should go."

  "I can't, Angel."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "I'm not playing the semantics game with you, Angel."

  "Stop calling me that."

  "Stop second-guessing yourself and I'll think about it."

  She whirled to face him. "You second-guessed me. Enough to kidnap me."

  "Lower your voice," he warned.

  "And you didn't believe I didn't help Ethan."

  "I had to be sure," he said tightly. "I'm sure now. I know you understand that."

  She did, but she'd never admit it. Not now. "You never sent me the intel you promised."

  "Really?" He frowned. "I'll rectify that immediately."

  "I'll bet you will."

  "How about we discuss it over dinner?"

  "How about you send it and I have dinner by myself, the way I prefer it," she snapped back before getting into her truck and driving off. When she checked the rearview mirror, he was still standing there, watching her.

  She hated that she felt relief.

  Chapter Twelve

  If Teige was going to blow off his vacation, Abby would take it for him. Of course, there was the small matter of her having just been on "vacation," but since she didn't equate torture with relaxation, she decided that a night off at the beach was just what the doctor ordered.

  She couldn't see Knox arguing about that, considering there wasn't much else she could do with her damned ribs but rest.

  The hotel she stayed at was only an hour away along the coast, but far enough to feel like she'd left everything else behind. The hotel was right on the water. At this time of year, early April, it was still very quiet, but it was perfect for her purposes. The room opened onto the beach and Abby sat on the terrace and let the smell of the ocean comfort her. Wrapped in the robe from the hotel and nothing else, she ate room service and drank bottled beer and listed her career options for kicks.

  They ranged from mercenary to photography assistant (for Kayla, of course). The choices in between were just as ridiculous, and she put the pen down and stared out at the ocean instead.

  Her visit with Mary only solidified her growing need to find another place of employment. She could only get away with telling her personal story so many times before it blew back on her.