“Jesus, Jake, she’s fine. But… Look, she doesn’t want to visit this weekend.”
Jake curled a fist around a stuffed unicorn that was nearby. “What do you mean, she doesn’t want to? You can’t keep her from me, Amelia. It’s my weekend.”
“I mean exactly what I said; she doesn’t want to. It’s not my doing. When I mentioned it to her, she said she didn’t want to stay with you this weekend. And I’m not going to make her do something she doesn’t want to do. I won’t be a monster.”
“She’s my daughter. It’s my weekend.”
Amelia sighed loudly into the phone. “First off, she’s my daughter, too. Secondly, you have no legal visitation rights. I let you see her every other weekend. But it’s Danielle’s choice. That was always the deal. I don’t see the point of forcing her to go if she doesn’t want to.”
“Because she’s my fucking daughter!” Jake shouted, coming to his feet in fury.
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to listen to you yell at me, Jake. It’s Danielle’s choice and she made it very clear she’s not interested. I’ll ask her again next weekend. Deal with it.”
Amelia hung up before Jake could respond. He howled, tossed his phone across the room, and kicked the small desk set next to the bed. Every item on top of it jumped and one of the legs cracked. It did nothing to satisfy his rage, but Jake forced himself back onto the bed, clenching fists and hissing between his teeth.
Amelia hadn’t been Jake’s first wife. That honor had gone to Beverly—Peter’s mother—but she’d passed away over two decades ago. In another lifetime. He’d certainly been a different man then. It had taken a lot to move on from her, to begin a new life with Amelia. Start fresh. But he’d done it. And it had been nice. For a while.
Amelia had left him shortly before Jake retired from his position at the police department. She’d taken their only child together, Danielle, with her as she bolted from the area. They were only an hour and a half away, but the courts had given Amelia full custody and denied his request for formal visitation. It had only taken one failed psychiatric evaluation to lose his daughter. But it had been temporary—his mental state at the time. After that final case, how could he not have been rattled? It’d have been crazy not to have reacted.
Peter burst into the room, breathing hard, weapon drawn. “What’s going on? Are you all right? I heard—”
Jake waved him into silence. “Nothing. It was nothing. Personal call got a bit rowdy is all.”
“Amelia?”
“Who else?”
“I guess she told you that Dani doesn’t want to come this weekend, huh?”
Jake stood abruptly again, but didn’t lash out at any of the victim’s furniture. “You knew?”
Peter holstered his pistol and held up his hands. “Yeah, Dani told me. Relax, it’s not what you think.”
“What is it that I think, huh? That my son has more contact with my daughter than I do?”
Peter shook his head. “No, the reason she doesn’t want to come. Guess there’s this popular girl in her class and Dani was invited to a sleepover this weekend. You know she struggles making new friends, so she doesn’t want to miss it. She’s afraid they’ll pick on her if she balks.”
Jake had to turn away and focus on something less…punchable. He loved Peter, of course he did, and he wasn’t even upset that Peter routinely talked with his half-sister who was more than twenty years his junior. Jake just couldn’t stomach the fact that he wasn’t afforded the same closeness with his daughter. Amelia rarely let Dani speak on the phone with Jake, and he’d never been one for all that social media nonsense.
“She doesn’t want you to take it personally,” Peter said. “And I don’t think she’s told her mom the reason yet. She’s worried about that, too.”
Jake wiped at his face and turned to look at Peter. Jake saw so much of Beverly in Peter’s features. “It’s fine. Sorry for the commotion.”
“I tell Dani all the time that she should be talking to you more and not me. Think she’s just, I don’t know, scared.”
“Her mother’s doing, no doubt. It is what it is for right now, I suppose.” Even Jake didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Everything Amelia had become and everything she had done infuriated him to no end. And no words would change that.
Jake cleared his throat. “So, what’s the parents’ story? Think they had it in them?”
Peter shrugged. “I’d only just started in on them when I heard you shouting. But there doesn’t seem to be any physical evidence to suggest they had anything to do with it. Neither of them even has any blood on them. Going to process them for evidence, collect their clothes, and officially interview them down at the station. Want to sit in on it?”
Jake shook his head. “No point. They didn’t do it. I’ll poke around here a bit more until Miguel finishes up. We can catch up later tonight.”
“All right. Your turn to buy dinner, by the way.”
Jake nodded, but didn’t look up at Peter. His gaze was fixed on the glittered name at the top of the wall opposite the bed. Daphne. It was a pretty name, but it gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t explain. “Do we know how old she was?”
“Huh?”
Jake stood and pointed at the name. “Daphne. How old was she?”
Peter pulled his notepad out. “Uh, just turned twelve a few weeks ago. And yeah, her name is, er, was Daphne. Daphne Miller.”
“And the killing occurred last night…” Jake said. “April fifteenth, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yeah. You all right, Dad? Did you know her or something?”
Jake jumped, but quickly masked the reaction by scratching at his beard. “No, no, just her name jogged an old memory. Doesn’t matter. Right, so dinner. You like Indian?”
Peter stared at Jake for a long pause before answering. “Sure. I’ll eat just about anything as long as you’re the one paying.”
Jake offered a halfhearted smile, but his mind had latched on to a sinister thought, and once that happened, it was nearly impossible to let go.
“All right, well, I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for the help. I have a feeling this one is going to be a real doozy,” Peter said as he left the room. “And the press hasn’t even caught wind of it yet. That’s when the real show starts.”
Jake waited until he could no longer hear Peter’s footsteps before picking up his phone and dialing the number labeled SCPC. Before the automated voice got a single word out, Jake punched in the number 13. He paced, waiting for his call to be answered.
Jake had almost hung up when the call connected and a familiar voice answered, “Seaside City Psychiatric Center, how may I direct your call?”
“Jaina, it’s me.”
“Oh, Jake, I—”
“Listen, I want to swing by tonight. I know it’s short notice, but it’s really…”
“Jake—”
“…important that I see her. Check in. You know. Just—”
“Jake!” Jaina shouted.
Her tone stopped Jake cold.
“Jake, I… I’ve been trying to reach you all day, but I haven’t been able to get away.” She was whispering now. “It’s just that, ah, fuck me up and down. Jake… She’s gone.”
Jake teetered and caught himself on the bedpost. “What?”
“No one has any idea how or even exactly when, but sometime in the last forty-eight hours… She just…” Jaina took a deep breath. “Aza’s gone, Jake.”
Jake dropped onto the bed and slid off it to sit on the floor. Not being able to fall any further, Jake dropped his hands into his lap.
Reporters had called the case The House of Sand Killings. It had been Jake’s last. The one that had cost him his marriage, his sanity, his daughter. The killer in the case had viciously tortured and killed multiple people before finally setting both himself and his wife on fire, handcuffed to a sleazy motel room bed. Their only child, an eight-year-old daughter—Aza—had witnessed the entire thing, and lived through god
-knows-what else before that.
Before the killings, Jake had interviewed the husband in regards to a case of arson at the family’s home. Both his wife and daughter had been inside at the time. Arson, attempted murder. Jake knew he was guilty, but the evidence was tenuous, and he was never formally charged. A few days later and a little girl received a front-row seat to a view into Hell.
“Jake?” the phone squawked from Jake’s lap.
He lifted the phone to his ear. “Meet me at the diner in an hour. Bring everything you have.”
“Uh, I don’t know if I can get away until—”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” Jake said, leaving no room for rebuttal.
Hanging up, Jake clambered to his feet and tried to steady his nerves. It’d been four years since that case, but Jake’s mind had never drifted far from it. Aza had spent nearly the whole of that four years in a secure psychiatric facility after jamming a letter opener into her therapist’s neck. Murder was never to be taken lightly, but after a deluge of child pornography was found on the therapist’s work and home computers, Jake never lost a wink of sleep as a result of the man’s demise. But Aza… She had been just a kid. Like his own daughter. They were nearly the same age. And so Jake had kept tabs on Aza while at SCPC. He told himself it was because he saw Dani in her, but, truly, he didn’t know why he couldn’t get Aza out of his head.
As put together as he’d ever be, Jake went downstairs. Miguel called to him as Jake stepped in view of the living room. “Hey, got something here you might want to see.”
Jake didn’t even slow down as he headed for the front door. “Send me a copy of your report. I have to run.”
Jake was outside, shutting the door before Miguel could answer. It didn’t matter what evidence or theory Miguel had come up with.
Jake knew who killed Daphne Miller.
Chapter Two
Friday 7:37 a.m.
From the house across the street, Aza watched as DS Anderson left in a hurry, climbing into his sedan and speeding off with a squeal of rubber.
Aza laughed quietly to herself and shut the curtains. “Guess he figured it out already,” Aza said to the corpse splayed out on the carpet behind her. Aza stared at the dead man for a tick and nodded. “You’re right, of course. That detective is a clever son of a gun. But that’s one of the reasons we like him. He’s so much fun.”
The corpse hadn’t said anything. The dead didn’t speak, of course, but Aza liked to imagine they did. And speaking to them seemed more reasonable than talking to herself. Not that it stopped her from doing that, too. After all, who was there to mind?
Aza walked to the kitchen, careful to avoid her own bloody footprints. She wasn’t in the mood to shower again. Her skin still pulsed with pain at the scrubbing it had taken to wash away Daphne’s blood. It had taken most of the previous night and been messier than anticipated. She’d hardly gotten any sleep. Not because of what she’d done—that calmed her—but because she wanted to be awake and watching when DS Anderson showed up. But now that show was over and she needed to refuel.
“Jackpot!” Aza shouted, finding her favorite cereal in the first cupboard she opened.
The food in the loony bin was often past date, more cardboard and paste than actual food. It’d been so long since she’d had any flavor in her life. Aza fetched half a gallon of milk from the fridge and carried both treasures back into the living room. There, she flipped on the television and gorged on the finery of name-brand breakfast cereal and non-spoiled milk.
After a bit of flipping around, she caught a news program. She watched it for a while, hoping to see a segment on the gory scene across the street, but nothing came. Having watched the house the entire morning, Aza knew that no reporters had caught wind of the crime, but she still watched for it. Not that it mattered.
“Oh, piss off,” Aza said to the corpse that sat in front of the couch, already smelling like…well, death. Aza could have reached her legs out and used it for a stool. “I didn’t do it to become famous, you old quack.” And it was the truth. Aza had killed for a myriad of reasons, none of which included notoriety. She didn’t care if the public knew what she’d done. Only that DS Anderson did. That was the game she’d been waiting for what felt like forever to play.
When the box of cereal and carton of milk were finished, Aza tossed them aside and trotted upstairs. In the master bedroom, she found a soft robe—far too large for her petite frame, but comfortable—and lounged on the queen-size bed. Leaning over the edge, she snagged her backpack and fished out a large folder of photos and documents she’d taken with her from her prison. A going-away present of sorts. She spread the photos and papers around her and sat back, seeing all.
Everything before Aza pointed back to a singular man. DS Jacob Henrick Anderson. What a stupid middle name, Aza thought. Phone records, bills, employment history, and addresses. Copies of his marriage certificates and internal memos from a local law office regarding his divorce and custody hearings. Aza even had a copy of a letter detailing the good detective’s failed psychiatric assessment. She had a copy of the visitor log at SCPC. He’d used an alias—Howard Sanders. Every Saturday evening for four years he’d come to see her. Not directly, of course, but Aza knew he was there. She could sense him the moment he’d step foot into the hospital. She could smell his cologne in the hallways after he’d gone. She would hunt him now. Not in the way he would expect and not for the reasons either. Both were her own and ran deeper than any mortal grudge.
Aza picked up DS Anderson’s psychiatric evaluation and read it for the hundredth time. Delusional. Paranoid. Prone to hallucinations of both auditory and visual origination. Not fit for active police duties. Etc. Etc.
“You took one look at me and went bat-crap crazy, didn’t you?” Aza asked, tossing the paper back with the others.
It had taken a long time to gather the information before her and an even steeper price, but it didn’t bear thinking about. She’d done what needed to be done to get what she wanted. It was as simple as that. And, really, it gave her joy to watch adults do her bidding with the coyest gesture and hint of something more. Aza had learned not to harbor any regret, but she often wondered if of all her dark deeds, killing Dr. Green had come too soon. She hadn’t quite known the power she possessed at that point, but surely, he would have been a hopelessly willing accomplice. Oh well, she thought. No use crying over spilled blood. Or something like that.
Aza picked up a small photo of a smiling girl. In another world, they might have been sisters, twins even, for Aza thought they looked much alike. It wouldn’t be how she looked now—the picture Aza held was at least four years old. Aza sighed and kissed the picture. A silly impulse, but it felt right. Then she put everything back into the folder, stashed it in her backpack, and curled up beneath the heavy comforter. It didn’t take long for Aza to fall into the endless embrace of sleep. She’d had a busy night, after all.
Chapter Three
Friday 9:27 a.m.
Jake was fit to explode when Jaina Winters finally entered the diner and slid into the booth opposite him.
“—the fuck took you so long?” Jake hissed. He’d had entirely too long to stew, waiting for her to show.
“I told you; I can’t just leave whenever I want. It wouldn’t go unnoticed. Jesus, Jake, you look one step away from an aneurysm. Even for you, that’s saying something.”
The waitress, a portly woman, gray and stooped, ambled up to the table. She refilled Jake’s coffee mug for the fourth time and nodded at Jaina. “What can I get you, dear?”
Jaina leaned back and grabbed at the rust-colored braid that ran over her shoulder. She always fussed with her hair when she was nervous. Which, to her credit, wasn’t often. If the stakes weren’t so high, Jake might have felt bad.
“Oh, uh, I’ll just have a coffee. Decaf,” Jaina said.
As soon as the waitress left, Jake leaned onto the table, putting himself a few inches closer to Jaina. “We have to find her.”
Jaina frowned. “Look, I get that you’re obsessed with Aza, but this isn’t some national security event. The world isn’t ending. You’d be surprised how often patients escape.”
She didn’t know what Jake knew, but her statement gave Jake pause. He sat back and massaged his temples. He could feel his blood pumping harder and faster than was healthy. His rational brain agreed with Jaina. Aza was a traumatized twelve-year-old girl, not the head of a terrorist organization.
“Yesterday was her birthday,” Jake said, fighting to stop from screaming. Fighting to calm his nerves. He had no idea what he was capable of in such a state.
Jaina nodded. “It’s partly how we noticed she’d vanished. Some of the staff wanted to bring her a cupcake even though she was in solitary, as usual. But she was gone.”
“Who had the watch? Gerry Switzer?”
The waitress returned with Jaina’s coffee and Jaina stared absently out the window until they were alone again. Turning back, she said, “Who else? He’s the only one who’d volunteer. You know what they say about Aza. What she can do to a person.”
“Bullshit,” Jake said.
Jaina cupped her hands around her coffee and shook her head. She looked around, though there were no other patrons in the diner. It was why Jake often chose it. “She can make you feel things,” Jaina whispered. “Get too close and she’ll drive you mad. Or worse. Shit, the last guy, before Gerry, drove his car into a ravine after just one week of watching her room.”
Jake pounded the table hard enough that some of Jaina’s coffee spilled onto her hands. She jerked back and hissed. Jake cursed and offered her his napkin. “Sorry. But, Jesus, she’s just a kid. She’s messed up, sure, but wouldn’t you be?”
Jaina accepted the napkin and wiped off her hands. “Is that the only reason you’re all spun up about her escaping? You just care about her? I’m not buying it. We’ve been at this game far too long. You won’t admit it, but you’ve known all along how dangerous she is. Maybe even more than I do.”
Dear Tragedy: A Dark Supernatural Thriller (House of Sand Book 2) Page 2
