by Lisa Jackson
“But now you do, as the new advocate of Donovan Caldwell. That surprises me. Even you have to admit he’s off. A loner. The guy has issues. Serious issues.”
“You’re describing a good percentage of the American population, Bridges,” she pointed out, “not a serial killer.” That warm connection she’d felt with him swiftly faded. “You know, people can be odd or ‘off,’ as you put it. They can even hate their siblings or other family members. That doesn’t make them killers.”
“Donovan Caldwell had assaulted a woman before.”
“A woman who dropped the charges. A domestic abuse case that was never proven, never went to court.” Her back was up now. “I don’t condone any kind of conduct where one party hits another, man or woman, but in this country, it’s still ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ At least it’s supposed to be.”
“Right. Okay. Got it.” His hands lifted in a gesture of surrender, and he quickly changed his tack. “You’re a psychologist.”
“Right.”
“That’s what this support group is about. The one you were at tonight.”
“It’s part of my work, yes. But it’s a nonprofit group, and I volunteer my time. Members come and spend time together, hang out, talk.” She was still a little agitated but tried to let her anger go. He now knew where she stood. “I organized the group, and I facilitate the meetings. All participants are twinless twins, people who have lost a twin sibling.”
“Like you.” Something skittered through his eyes, an emotion that she couldn’t name. The expression unsettled her, but it vanished a moment later.
“Yeah, like me.” She rarely discussed Arianna’s death with anyone outside the group. Even though she’d known Jase for much of her life, she wasn’t comfortable talking about the loss that still haunted her.
He began to say something else, but at that moment the waitress returned, placed their drinks on the table, and asked if they’d like to look at a menu. “The manager’s extending happy hour, and we’ve got incredible shrimp poppers and sliders that are to die for! No kidding!” She held up both hands in a motion of trust-me-I-know-of-what-I-speak. When they declined, she shrugged with body language meant to convey “your loss” before she was off again, making her way to a booth where two women were trying to get her attention.
“We were talking about your sister,” he said, getting right back to the subject.
Pinching the stem of her wineglass, she wondered why she’d ever agreed to this meeting. What good could come of it?
Chloe found a piece of glass. Small and jagged, it was probably part of the light fixture that had shattered in the struggle when Zoe had escaped. Unnoticed by the brute, the bit of glass had skittered to a dark corner and wedged into a crack in the wall where water seeped through, the very spot where he’d left the bucket that he expected her to use to pee. She had used the plastic pail, of course, because her bladder could only hold so much, but it was gross. Messy. Smelly. And so wrong. She had to escape. Had to.
The entire situation was dire, but she’d bolstered herself, silently prayed that Zoe had gotten away and found civilization, that she’d alerted the police who, any second now, would burst through the door upstairs and find the trapdoor. She waited, hoping to hear the wail of a siren, the whir of helicopter blades, the rumble of an engine. And then the awesome sound of a locked door being forced open, wood splintering and boots pounding overhead.
Instead she heard nothing but her own breathing, the drip from a leak somewhere and the god-awful ticking of the clock, counting off the remaining seconds of her life. She shuddered knowing it all might end here in this dank underground cell. Unless somehow, she found a way to make this little shard a weapon. Zoe had already sliced the prick’s throat. Somehow he’d survived, so obviously she hadn’t cut the jugular or carotid or whatever it was that needed to be severed. An artery would be best. The femoral would do.
Only a week ago Chloe had watched a YouTube video about a guy who was killed when his femoral artery was sliced by a beaver that he was filming. The beaver had been lumbering down the roadside; the photographer had seen it, gotten out of his car, and started videoing the beast, never expecting it to attack. But it had. The beaver had gotten spooked or irritated or scared or whatever and had lunged at the photographer with long teeth that were meant to chew through wood. Those teeth had ripped skin, muscle, and the artery in the guy’s thigh and he’d bled out. His footage was found by a friend and posted on the Internet with an “RIP Brian” footnoted at the end.
Chloe had been sickened, grossed out by the footage, but the information stuck with her, and now it might come in handy. Well, maybe. Actually severing the femoral artery was a long shot. The guy’s thighs were thick pillars of muscle. How deep would she have to plunge the glass? Even then, would she hit the right spot?
Maybe she would be better going after his throat again, or aiming for his eyes to blind and disable him.
If she had the guts to do it.
You have to do it. You can’t wimp out.
Zoe wouldn’t think twice. She’d cut off his balls or blind him. Whatever it took to free herself, to free you, too. So do it, Chloe. You can! If you don’t, he’ll kill you. That’s a fact. He just hasn’t yet because he hasn’t hunted Zoe down. But he will.
Of course she held out the hope that her twin had gotten away, that even now, Zoe was safe and directing the police to the cabin. But Chloe couldn’t count on it. No, she had to fight this monster if he ever came back.
Another fear wiggled snakelike through her brain. What if the freak never returned? What if he just left her here to die, to waste away in this dark, dank prison? What if he got killed and never gave up the location? And maybe Zoe wouldn’t recall where this crappy cabin was . . . oh, sweet Jesus. Her insides curdled at the thought.
Don’t go there!
But the dingy, moist walls seemed to shrink in on her and she knew that she’d go mad if she had to stay here much longer.
Find a way to escape. You’re a smart girl. Plan what you’re going to do and then execute. Literally.
Swallowing back her fear, she clutched the ragged fragment from the broken light and prayed she’d have the strength to take the bastard on, to actually kill the freak and find a way out.
Tears welled in her eyes.
Fear twisted her guts.
She wanted to fall back into her own weakness, into her position of being the shy and emotionally frail sister that she’d been for twenty-one years. It was a comfortable role. This new position of taking care of herself to the point of murder just wasn’t who she was.
Shut up! Don’t be your own worst enemy. You have to take him on, Chloe. Your life depends on it!
She was shaking, trembling at the thought.
Grow some damned balls!
Oh, geez, she nearly peed herself she was so scared.
You cannot rely on anyone but yourself!
“God help me.” Closing her eyes, she dug deep. Her inner voice nagging. She had to do whatever it would take to save herself. And she would, damn it, even if it killed her.
CHAPTER 14
“Did you know Arianna?” Brianna asked as a roar went up from the bar, indicating that one of the baseball teams shown on the screens had scored.
“Not really. More like knew of her,” he said with a shrug.
Now he seemed uncomfortable.
She let the subject of Arianna drop.
For now.
Brianna picked up her glass. “You know, you’re about the last person I ever expected to go into law enforcement.”
When he seemed about to argue, she waved a hand. “I know, the information officer is probably just the mouthpiece for the department, but still . . .” She studied him more intently. “I always figured you’d end up, I don’t know, a cowboy, rodeo rider, maybe an Air Force pilot or something. Navy Seal? But, you know, something a little more dangerous, I guess, and physical. Certainly not a desk job.”
He tapped the tip
of his bottle against her glass, then took a long pull. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Just an observation.” She took a sip of wine, felt it slide easily down her throat, leaving a hint of cherries. Yeah, this was a good idea. Maybe. She held the stem in her fingers, watched the wine’s “legs” appear on the bowl of her glass. “I guess I just never thought of you as the buttoned-down type.”
“Buttoned down?”
“In high school, you were a little . . .”
“Edgy?” He took another swig of beer and she watched his Adam’s apple move just above his open collar. “One of those dark, sexy rebel types?”
“Oh, right.” Good God, was he flirting? Teasing? “Well, okay maybe.” Then she grinned and took another swallow. “Or maybe not.”
“Mrs. Gillespie would probably die if she heard that Jase Bridges was a reporter,” he said. “Or, God forbid, hoping to join the police department.”
“Too late. I think she’s already dead,” she said, remembering the woman she’d considered ancient at the time, though Edna Gillespie had probably only been in her early sixties when Brianna had attended high school. Not exactly ready for the grave, but back then, anyone over thirty had seemed really old. Mrs. Gillespie had been sharp and demanding, a no-nonsense teacher. Brianna had dreaded her class.
His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “She always told me that if I didn’t, oh, wait, what was it?” He paused, the beer halfway to his mouth, his brows arched for a second, then he snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I got it. If I didn’t ‘mind my p’s and q’s’, whatever the hell they are, I’d end up in prison or worse. Yeah, that was it. The dire warning.”
“Guess she was wrong.”
“Shhh.” He leaned closer. “Don’t let her hear you.”
She felt her heart warm to him and blamed it on the wine that was going down much too easily, her glass nearly empty. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to let her thoughts be muddled by the semidark ambiance of the bar, or a glass of wine, or the fact that she’d always found this man intriguing.
“She didn’t much like me.”
“Always nice when a teacher is so supportive.”
“Well, I did give her hell,” he admitted, not appearing the least bit sorry. “It really pissed her off that I could cut class all week and still manage to pass her tests in Senior English.” Another swallow. “Come to think of it, I was a shit.”
“We all were, but,” she admitted, the wine making her bold, “my mother did warn us, me and my sister, about you Bridges boys. She claimed you were trouble.”
“She was right. Probably best to avoid.” There was something heavy in his words and he looked away.
“You knew Arianna, right? She said she’d hung out with you a couple of times.”
A slight hesitation. “I’d met her. In a group. With my brother.”
“Mom would have grounded her for life if she’d found out.”
“We were that bad?”
“All boys were bad. You two?” She held up a hand and tilted it up and down. Maybe yes, maybe no. “Probably the worst of the lot.”
He laughed a bit, but it sounded hollow and the humor didn’t find his eyes.
“And it obviously didn’t work if Arianna met you way back when and I’m here now.” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. What was she, a teen on a first date? Here she was, letting the worries and stress of the last couple of days melt away because an old high-school crush had invited her for a drink, probably to get information from her for a story he smelled. All this while Selma’s daughters were missing, their fate unknown, perhaps even now in the clutches of a deranged killer. Or worse, already dead.
The warm ambiance drained away.
“Again, don’t tell them about me,” he advised.
“No worries. Mom and Dad are gone,” she said. “She got cancer and he . . . even though he wasn’t all that old, just kind of wasted away and had a stroke.” She frowned at her glass. “I can’t help thinking the stress, you know, of losing a child, cost them years.”
He looked away for a moment, as if considering something, then said, “You know, since we’re talking about high school and all, I remember you.”
That surprised her. “I look a lot like Arianna. I mean, I looked like her back then.”
He shook his head. “Not identical.”
“No, but close.”
“I could tell the difference.”
“Could you?”
“Mmm.” Nodding, he added, “I always figured you’d marry a rich man and sip mint juleps on the back porch of a huge mansion that overlooked a pool or a lake or whatever.” Another swig. “Something like that.”
“But you didn’t even know me.”
“Everyone knew you, Brianna. You had a rep before you stepped across the threshold of Monroe High.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were stating a truism anyone would understand. “You were a rich kid. All the privileges. Your dad was a professor at Tulane, right?” He popped a peanut into his mouth.
She nodded, though his account was a slight misconception. The meager wealth in their family had come from her mother’s inheritance.
“So, I figured you’d go to college, find Mr. Right at a sorority dance or something. He’d end up being a lawyer or a doctor or maybe even a politician, and you’d settle down and have a passel of kids.”
“As I said, you didn’t know me.”
“I paid attention.”
“To a freshman girl?”
Again, the crooked smile.
Again, the stupid racing of her heart. Oh, God, she hoped to high heaven she wasn’t blushing.
“I paid attention to all freshman girls.” He hesitated, thought a second. “Really, come to think of it, to all girls. It’s a guy thing. Isn’t that what women say?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted, and even chuckled a little. She was surprised that he’d noticed her; hadn’t dared believed he’d even registered that she’d walked the same overly polished halls of the same school he barely attended.
“You ever marry?”
The question surprised her, but it probably shouldn’t have. Shaking her head, she studied the dark depths of her wineglass. “I got close once,” she said. “I was engaged.” Briefly. Like for ten seconds!
“What happened?”
“Didn’t work out. I got cold feet.”
More like ice-cold frigid-as-hell feet.
“Runaway bride?”
“More like never-made-it-near-the-altar bride,” she said. Then, refusing to think about that time in her life, she threw it back at him. “You?”
“No, never even got close.” He scratched the back of his neck. “There were a couple of girls, well, women who might’ve worked out, but I don’t know . . .” He paused, leaning against the back of the booth, and she guessed that he did know but was equivocating to avoid discussing a subject that bothered him. “I guess I didn’t have much of a role model for a relationship. My old man raised me. Never knew my mother, and my grandparents . . .” He shrugged. “They were just old, you know? Then again”—he reached for his bottle—“maybe I just never found the right woman.”
“Oh, I smell a cop-out,” she said, hiding the fact that her pulse leaped whenever their eyes met. She buried her nose in her glass.
“Probably.” He cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re single?”
Very. “Yeah. Sorry, no rich husband is at home in some grand antebellum home with a pitcher of martinis. No, wait, you said mint juleps, right? Well, he’s not there with those either. And by the way, that grand Southern mansion? It’s a little two-bedroom cottage.” She set her glass on the table. “Guess you were wrong about me.”
“Then that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” he said with an ever-widening grin that told her he’d been lying to her about his supposed fantasy of her life. He hadn’t really cared about her life, but wanted her to realize her preconceived notions of him were as false as his might be. The fact that he wasn’t al
l that interested stung more than it should have, but the truth was he just hadn’t liked her calling him out on his high-school bad rep crap. Fair enough.
“Okay, I get it. Sorry. You’re a reporter. On the straight and narrow. My bad.”
He laughed a little, a deep chuckle she remembered from her youth. “Just not too straight,” he said with a wink that caused her silly heart to leap. “So, are you gonna let me help you with the missing Denning girls?”
“So that you can whitewash Bentz and keep track of me? Isn’t that what this is all about? Damage control. So you can look good for the cops and land that job with the department.”
He let out a sigh. “What do you think?”
She met his gaze and was reminded again of the boy he’d once been, a teenager who had never let anyone control him. “I don’t know.”
“I told you, I want to work with you.”
“For an exclusive?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “That wouldn’t hurt,” he admitted. “Sure. But I do really want to find out what happened to your friend’s daughters. And didn’t Selma Denning say something about you reaching out, getting the word out?”
“She did.” She nodded. “But there’s a difference between information and exploitation.”
“A fine line, but I’m willing to walk it to help those girls,” he said as if he meant it. “So, to answer your question, it’s not just about me reporting the story.”
“Good.” She hoped he wasn’t lying, but couldn’t quite believe him. Besides, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a good thing. His story, through the print newspaper and online services of the Observer, would notify the public. It would help spread the word, hopefully catch the eye of someone who’d seen Zoe or Chloe Denning. The more she thought about it, the more collaboration with Jase Bridges seemed a good thing.
