The Drowned Woman: An absolutely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 2)

by CJ Lyons

  Your devoted fan.

  Ten

  Leah felt Risa’s eyes on her, watching her reactions as she finished reading the chilling letter. Finally, she turned away from the computer. Unsettled, she left Risa and went to the kitchen to reheat her now-cold mug of tea. As the microwave hummed, she took a few deeps breaths to settle herself. Her stomach churned, her shoulders tightened as if guarding against an attack. More insidious than fear. Dread.

  If one letter could do that to her…

  And Risa had been living with this guy in her head for a year, she’d said.

  The microwave dinged, making Leah jump. She retrieved her tea and returned to the chair beside Risa. “You’re sure this isn’t some joke or a scam?” Wouldn’t it be nice if it were that simple. “I mean, you’re a celebrity, easy to target.”

  “You read it. Did it feel like a joke to you?”

  “No,” Leah admitted. “No. But I’m not sure that he’s actually a killer. This devoted fan—”

  “More like obsessed,” Risa scoffed.

  “Risa. You need to take this to the police. We need to make certain you’re safe. Sometimes stalkers start online but move to real life.”

  Risa looked away, past Leah to the door. “I know,” she said in a strangled whisper. “But every time I talk to the police, they act like I’m crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy.” Anger stirred in Leah. How could the police be so dismissive? Risa was smart, an investigative reporter used to dangerous situations. Not exactly someone who would imagine a threat. If they wouldn’t listen to her, maybe they’d listen to Leah.

  “Besides, this guy is untraceable,” Risa continued. “I know because I hired the best cybersecurity specialist I could find to try to track him down.” Risa took another sip of her tea. From the way she gripped the mug with both hands, Leah got the feeling that she did it not because she was thirsty but rather because she needed something to hold on to. She paused, her gaze meeting Leah’s. “Your husband.”

  A shiver crawled over Leah. It was a small city; of course she’d be running into people who knew Ian. “That’s why you’re telling me. You didn’t just read about Ian’s murder, you knew him. Ian wasn’t able to track him down?”

  “No. He said this guy totally erased his tracks. But when I read about Ian’s murder—”

  “You thought—” Leah shook her head vigorously. The real facts behind who killed Ian hadn’t been released to the public, so there was no way Risa could have known that the cases weren’t connected. “No. Believe me. Ian was not killed by your stalker.”

  Risa leaned back, obviously relieved. “I was afraid to go back to the police after that,” she said, her voice choked, her fear palpable. “Because if he tracked Ian here, if that was why—” She closed her eyes for a long moment, gathering her strength. “I haven’t left the apartment since I heard about Ian. Was afraid who he might target next.”

  Leah was aghast. For a woman as strong as Risa to be made to feel so powerless, in fear for her life… No one should have that kind of control over a person. “We’re going to the police. I’ll talk to Luka myself, make him take you seriously.”

  “Ian said he’d prepare a report I could take to the police, said it might help.”

  It sounded like Ian.

  “And he installed special software to document any new messages because the first ones were set to auto-erase as soon as they were read.”

  “Messages? Plural? There’s more?” Leah leaned forward, toward the computer between them, but then pulled back.

  “Dozens over the past year,” Risa answered. “This guy, whoever he is, he sends me obituaries—he calls them gifts—that are people with the same name or birthday or who died exactly like people in the obituaries or feature stories that I’ve worked on. People all over the country.” She hesitated. “I think he killed them. For me. To get me to notice him or something, I’m not sure.”

  “They were all murdered?”

  “No. That’s just it. They all appear to be natural or accidental. When I call to talk to the local police or coroners, I pretty much get laughed off the phone.”

  The stories Risa had worked on over the years were of course easy to find, but… “How could he know whose obituaries you’ve worked on? You said that was mainly fact-checking.”

  “Exactly. There’s no byline or credit, my name isn’t on any of those. At first, Ian thought the stalker might be accessing my files via malware on my computer. But he couldn’t find any. I switched to a new computer, but still they kept coming. So then Ian thought maybe he’s someone with the hacking skills to access editorial proofs or emails—but my work is for several news outlets and he had their IT departments check. Nothing.”

  “Is there anyone who links them all?” Leah asked, intrigued despite simultaneously wanting to believe that this was all a hoax. “Besides you, I mean.”

  Risa paused. “I’m on a few online professional forums—the people who do what I do, it’s a pretty small group, so we help each other when we can. There’s also my agent. Dom got me the fact-checking gigs. He’s part of a larger agency in New York, so it’s possible someone who works there could access our correspondence.”

  “Maybe Jack mentioned something in social media?” From the letter, it sounded as if Jack was as unguarded in his social media postings as he was in person. As an introvert who shunned revealing anything of her private life, Leah found extroverts like Jack more than a bit overwhelming.

  “No. Jack has no clue about the specifics of my work. He respects that I can’t really share details for ethical reasons.”

  Something in Risa’s tone caught Leah’s attention. “You haven’t told him, have you? About the emails or your devoted fan.”

  Risa sighed. “It’s pretty clear the stalker doesn’t like Jack. I was worried if I told him and Jack tried to do anything—”

  “You’d be putting a target on his back.”

  “Exactly. Besides, you’ve seen how Jack is. My knight in shining armor. He’d never stop trying to protect me—even if it meant me giving up my work, this place.”

  “He loves you.”

  “I know.” The words emerged with a smile of contentment.

  “If your stalker is serious or there’s a risk of him escalating… I know it’s not fair, it’s not right, but the safest thing might be for you to leave, go off grid, someplace he can’t track you. If he can’t engage you, he’ll get tired, move on.” Because if Ian couldn’t find the stalker, what were the odds that the police with their limited time and resources could? It was a harsh reality, but the unfortunate truth. And the psychology behind stalkers was similar to that of domestic partner abusers—an obsession that would never be broken as long as the object of that obsession, their victim, was accessible.

  “I know.” This time Risa bit the words out. “I’ve read the books, done the research. Hell, I once wrote a feature on victims who end up murdered by their stalkers. These women did nothing but walk down the wrong street at the wrong time, smile or say hello to the wrong man. They didn’t deserve to have their lives stolen from them.” Her voice rose, echoing through the cavernous room. Risa clamped her lips shut, turning her glare onto the rain battering the windows.

  “You don’t deserve it either,” Leah told her. “No one does. That doesn’t change—”

  “I have resources those women didn’t have. I can investigate—”

  “Right. And what have you found? Is this guy really a killer like he says?”

  “I’m not sure.” Risa shifted in her chair, wincing with pain as she rearranged the pillows supporting her. “Years ago, I wrote a piece for Rolling Stone. My first major feature story. A tribute to forgotten musical artists who seemed destined for greatness until their lives were cut short by freak accidents. One of them, Jimmy Santiago, was killed after his car got stuck on train tracks outside of Corinth, South Carolina.”

  “Never heard of him. He was a musician?”

  “Blues guitarist. Only
twenty-four, but brilliant—some said he was Robert Johnson reborn via another deal with the devil.”

  Leah remembered the legend, that the famous musician had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his remarkable talent.

  Risa continued, her grip on her mug tightening. “Jimmy died at 12:07 on the night of April 21st, 1967. That first email came on April Fool’s Day, last year. Another reason why I thought it was a bad joke. But then the next message came just after midnight on April 21st. It was a text with a video of a train hitting a man in a car. A man named James Santiago. His car stalled at the same railroad crossing where Jimmy was killed all those years ago.”

  “Was there a message with the video?”

  “It said: The beginning of a beautiful friendship. It disappeared as soon as I watched it.”

  “And was it real?”

  “Corinth doesn’t have its own paper, but the next day the Greenville news mentioned it. A tragic accident. The reporter didn’t even realize that it had happened before, almost exactly the same way, on the same day, over fifty years ago.” She blew her breath out. “I couldn’t prove anything, but I did call the Oconee County Sheriff’s department. They said the guy was drunk—three times over the legal limit—it was clearly an accident.”

  “It could have been.” Leah had to admit, Risa’s story was compelling, but it could also just be that: a story. After all, Risa was a storyteller. Maybe that explained her inability to make the police take her case seriously—a desperate desire to solve it herself, return to the job she loved and lost. “Couldn’t someone have had an online search running? Looking for strange accidents or criteria that tied to you and your work? Then when he found something you would see as proof, he used it to reel you in.”

  “That’s what Ian thought. At first. But where did the video come from in the first place? Ian couldn’t find it anywhere online after the message vanished.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t even this specific accident?” Leah suggested. “Easy to fake, especially with footage shot at night.”

  Risa shrugged. “Since then he hasn’t sent anything like that video again. Only emails, teasing hints. Nothing that could be used as evidence against him. It’s as if he wants me to devote myself to unearthing his crimes, wants me to admire his work. But I haven’t come up with anything solid.”

  “And it all started when you moved here?”

  “Yes. I moved to Cambria City several months after I got sick, before the first email. There’s nothing I can prove, but ever since I got here, I’ve felt as if I’m being watched.”

  “So it’s not only your illness keeping you housebound?” Leah couldn’t help but wonder if some of Risa’s symptoms were psychosomatic—a way to deny her fear of going out in public where her stalker might see her. Then she had another thought. “Do you think Trudy’s death might have something to do with your stalker?”

  Risa pulled away, as far as the chair would allow her, but gave a guilty nod. “Maybe.” She shuddered. “I just don’t know. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is all in my head, these feelings. Hell, maybe I was all wrong about everything. I had myself convinced I was on the trail of a serial killer no one else knew about. The story of a lifetime. But I should have never forgotten the first rule of journalism.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Trust no one, assume nothing.”

  “It’s also the first rule of emergency medicine. Because everyone—”

  “Lies,” Risa finished for her. “Exactly.”

  The gaunt, anxious woman before Leah was nothing like how she’d imagined Risa Saliba would be after reading her articles or seeing her on TV. As if her confidence and vibrant energy had been whittled away, leaving an empty husk. A rush of sympathy engulfed Leah—she’d felt the same after Ian was killed. She still felt like that most days. As if she’d been emptied out, a puppet going through the motions of living for Emily’s sake, but not her own.

  “When I met you this morning,” Risa continued, “it felt like… finally someone who could help. An objective second opinion—and, if you think my stalker is actually killing people, maybe you could talk to the police? Help make them believe.”

  Leah stood, her decision made. “Send me everything you have. I’ll take a look, pass it on to Luka Jericho.” She nodded to the thumb drive Jack had given her. “I’d also like to help you with your diagnosis, if that’s okay.” Reviewing Risa’s medical records would give her some idea as to any underlying delusions or mental health issues that might be at play. Because something about this whole situation felt off. Maybe it was just that Leah didn’t want to admit that Risa’s stalker was smart enough to outwit Ian—she wasn’t sure. Either way she was going to find out who Risa spoke with at the police department and find a way to make sure they learned to take victims’ complaints more seriously. Maybe have them spend a few days observing the victims that came through the CIC. Might make for a good way to get the police on board with the new pilot program as well.

  Risa sank back in her chair, obviously exhausted. “Thank you. I’d love any opinions or ideas you have.” She hesitated, glancing toward the wall of photos depicting her former life. “You or Detective Jericho. I just can’t—I can’t live like this. Not anymore.”

  Eleven

  The little boy’s shriek startled Emily. She froze; the parachute’s silken hem jerked from her numb fingers. She wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go in the wide-open gymnasium filled with kids. The boy’s noise turned to laughter as he dashed under the colorful parachute the other children raised. Emily’s section of parachute fluttered at her feet, just like her ballerina sheets had after she’d crawled under her bed that night last month. Suddenly the taste of blood filled her mouth.

  Someone else yelled and Emily blinked back tears, clutching her stomach, not sure if she wanted to cry or throw up or run. Mostly, she wanted to curl up in a ball and crawl into the dark. She couldn’t live like this anymore. She was scared. All the time. Even when she was sleeping. That’s when the bad people like the bad man who killed Daddy came.

  Be brave and strong, Daddy always said when he wanted Emily to do something Emily was scared of doing, like her first time on the teeter-totter or when he took her training wheels off her bike. She remembered Daddy’s long fingers, the way they danced over the keyboard of his laptop like he was playing piano. And the way he smelled—a lot like the trees in the back of their new house where it was just Mommy and Emily and Miss Ruby—who was Mommy’s mommy, but no one ever called her Mom and especially not Grandma.

  Daddy wasn’t here anymore. They’d locked him away in a box, dug a hole, and threw dirt on him. He was gone forever and ever, amen. The first few nights after they put his box in the ground, she had nightmares about him waking up in the dark, buried alive. Mommy told her it wasn’t really Daddy in the box, that Daddy would forever live in Emily’s heart, except she sometimes felt like he was slipping away, leaving her heart as cold and empty as the hole they’d buried him in.

  She couldn’t tell Mommy how she felt, not when Mommy was so sad all the time. And Emily wasn’t sure if she could trust Miss Ruby. Mommy definitely didn’t trust Ruby; it was like they were always fighting without ever saying any words out loud.

  Mostly Emily whispered her fears to JoJo, the puppy in Dr. Hailey’s office. JoJo was the only person she could tell her biggest secret: it was her fault Daddy was dead. She hadn’t been brave and strong that night.

  A girl jostled Emily out of the way to take over Emily’s spot around the rim of the parachute. The rain had kept all the kids trapped inside for recess for the entire week and no one was happy about playing the same games over and over. Emily didn’t really care—it was the way the gymnasium made every noise echo and bounce back at her that she hated. She couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from, couldn’t find a safe place to guard against any bad people, leaving her vulnerable and alone despite the crowd of kids and the teachers sitting on the bleachers.

  She thought
coming back to school would be different, especially now that she had Nate as a friend. He was her first real friend, not just someone who would let her sit at their table during lunch but never talk to her. Where was Nate? Her moment of panic had left her disoriented and she’d lost track of him. Right now, she needed to keep track of everyone she loved, making sure they were safe. Couldn’t let anything happen to them. Not like what happened to Daddy.

  Because of her. Because she hid. Because she wasn’t strong and brave.

  She whirled around, searching for Nate. There he was, over in the far corner with a bunch of boys playing dodgeball. The boys had Nate backed up against the wall. None of the teachers noticed; they were too busy checking their phones and talking to each other up on the bleachers. Nate didn’t look upset—instead his face was blank, the way it got when he talked about his mom or what happened at the foster homes he used to live in.

  Emily didn’t trust that look. She headed toward the boys, flinched when they threw their balls at Nate, every bounce and thud reverberating through her. Then she heard someone whispering a very bad name.

  “Hey!” she called out to the boys, all of them much taller than she was. The Homan twins were the ones whispering the very bad word, and throwing the balls hard enough to hurt Nate, their elbows arcing back, entire bodies winding up with the effort.

  “Stop it!” She grabbed the closest Homan boy’s elbow as he prepared to throw another ball. She twisted her own body, keeping her feet planted, and he tottered off balance, tumbling to the floor. The other boys laughed.

  Ruby said the Homan brothers were stupid—which was another bad word Emily wasn’t allowed to use, but Ruby was a grownup and grownups never followed their own rules. The Homans’ farm was just through the woods and over the hill from Nellie’s house and sometimes they came over on their four-wheelers, tore up Nellie’s flower fields and gardens. Nellie was dead, but even though Emily couldn’t remember her great-great-aunt, she still felt protective of Nellie’s farm. Which meant she already didn’t like the Homans, even before they decided to pick on Nate.