I Know Your Name: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 5)

by Dan Padavona

  As he mulled over the logistics, Naomi cleared her throat.

  “I don’t want you to be late. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Standing on the ramp outside the front door, LeVar glanced at his phone. A message had arrived five minutes ago. Raven and Darren were searching for a lost boy in Wells Ferry on the western edge of the county, and Chelsey wanted LeVar’s help after he finished his exam. Chelsey Byrd had brought LeVar aboard as a paid student intern. Until he turned twenty-one, New York State wouldn’t license LeVar as a private investigator. But he helped Chelsey and Raven solve cases, while building experience that might land him a law enforcement job someday. It had been an unbelievable journey—from running the streets with the Harmon Kings gang, to earning his GED, enrolling at the community college, and declaring a major in law enforcement. It boggled his mind that his life had changed so much over twelve months.

  “Looks like I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”

  “Let us know how you do on your exam,” Naomi said, shielding her head as sprinkles fell from a glowering sky. “I’m proud of you, LeVar.”

  LeVar started down the ramp and stopped.

  “Is Scout okay? I realize it’s early, but she doesn’t seem herself.”

  Naomi sighed.

  “She’s stressed over the divorce and the custody battle. I still can’t believe Glen is putting his daughter through this drama. He isn’t emotionally fit to care for Scout.”

  “I’m sure the courts will see through his argument.”

  “Glen has money. He can afford the best lawyers. Anytime a custody battle reaches the court, there’s a chance the decision won’t go as planned.”

  “I wish I could help.”

  “LeVar, just being Scout’s friend is enough.”

  LeVar blew out a breath. There had to be more he could do to solve their family crisis.

  “I’ll talk to Scout after I finish work.”

  “That means a lot to me.”

  LeVar glanced at Scout’s window as the girl’s silhouette wheeled past the translucent drapes. His throat constricted.

  “You never have to ask, Mrs. Mourning. I’ll do anything for Scout.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday, 8:10 a.m.

  Chelsey parked her green Honda Civic beside the curb and confirmed Kemp Massey’s name was on the mailbox. The Massey family lived in a two-story corner-lot residence with faded siding. A long porch ran along the front of the house, but there were no rocking chairs, no flowers or welcome mat that made the place seem like home. To Chelsey, the house was dying before her eyes, cast away from its neighbors and relegated to the corner.

  The curtain pulled back, and someone peeked at her through the window. She didn’t like this. Not one bit. Kemp Massey was Darren Holt’s cousin, but Chelsey had never met the man. The more information she dug up on Massey, the less she trusted him.

  Chelsey checked her hair in the mirror, procrastinating. She wished LeVar was here to back her up. Raven called before Chelsey could muster the courage to leave the car.

  “You should be asleep,” Chelsey said, staring at Massey’s window. The man had disappeared.

  “The day shift arrived. Darren and I are crashing at his place for a few hours. He wants to hit the woods again before eleven.”

  “So soon? That’s not enough sleep.”

  “I’m well aware. Darren cares about his cousin. He won’t rest until we find Shawn. Did you interview the father yet?”

  “I’m sitting outside his house now.”

  Raven hesitated.

  “Be careful, Chelsey. Kemp is Darren’s cousin, but I don’t trust him. He lost control in the field. Thomas needed to separate him from Wells Ferry PD. God knows what Kemp would have done had we not stepped in.”

  Raven whispered. Chelsey assumed Darren was nearby.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Any progress on finding Shawn?”

  “The trail turned cold outside the marina. The lake shore is rocky along the inlet, so he wouldn’t leave tracks. Shawn could be anywhere.”

  “You think he killed his mother?”

  “The Wells Ferry officers believe he did. He’s the last person who saw her alive.” Chelsey heard Darren’s voice in the background. “I can’t keep my eyes open. Let us catch some sleep, and we’ll meet you at the office this afternoon. Say around two o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Remember what I said, Chelsey. Be careful around Kemp. He’s not in his right mind.”

  Chelsey slipped the phone into her bag and opened the door. She leaped over a puddle to reach the curb, her senses primed as she approached the front door. Kemp Massey opened the door before Chelsey knocked.

  “You Ms. Byrd?”

  “Wolf Lake Consulting,” Chelsey said, handing him her card.

  He held the storm door open and motioned her inside. She paused before entering. Beyond the entryway, shadows eclipsed the downstairs. Swallowing, Chelsey stepped around Massey. A cluttered living room greeted her. Magazines lay strewn on a coffee table, and the cushions jutted halfway off the couch. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and nervously collected a pile of mail in the foyer. She spotted an overdue notice and a letter from a collections agency.

  “Please, come in. Did you find our house okay?”

  “Easy peasy.”

  He cleared his throat and glanced around the downstairs.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in the kitchen. Follow me.”

  Kemp’s bloodshot eyes couldn’t sit still. They darted from side to side as if he expected demons to crawl through the walls. A stairway to her left led to the bedrooms. She glanced at the upper landing as he led her into the kitchen.

  “Sit,” he said, pulling out two chairs. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Mr. Massey—”

  “Kemp, please.”

  “We should get down to business if we wish to find Shawn before it storms again.”

  “Of course.”

  He swiped a trembling hand across his mouth. She spotted a bandage wrapped around his forefinger.

  “Did you injure yourself?”

  Kemp stared at his finger as though it were an alien appendage.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I cut myself working in the bathroom.”

  Blood stained the bandage. He slid his hand below the table.

  Megan Massey was a highly regarded criminal defense attorney, and she’d chosen her career over her family. Any husband would harbor resentment, and Shawn displayed his frustration by acting out in school. Chelsey wouldn’t rule Kemp and Shawn out as suspects.

  “Let’s start with places Shawn might run to. Places where he’d feel safe. Do you have family in town?”

  “No,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s just us in Wells Ferry.”

  “Who would he contact if he was in trouble?”

  “He’d contact his father.”

  “Understood. What about friends?”

  Kemp drummed his legs beneath the table.

  “Well, there’s his girlfriend, Polly Hart.”

  “The sheriff already spoke to Polly. She hasn’t heard from Shawn since she dropped him off at his mother’s house.”

  “Who leaves her boyfriend by the side of the road in the middle of a thunderstorm? And the goddamn police. They were so convinced Shawn attacked Megan. Why would my son murder his own mother?”

  “Kemp, please. Who else would your son contact?”

  He closed his eyes and muttered to himself.

  “I’m sorry. I should know the answer, but I can’t think straight.”

  Chelsey softened her eyes.

  “You’re upset. Any father would be. Take your time.”

  “Uh, there’s Phil Coplin. Shawn and Phil played baseball together when they were in little league. Best friends back then.”

  “Wasn’t that several years ago?”

  “Oh, right.” Kemp clamped his eyes shut again and massaged his temples. After s
everal seconds, he shoved the chair backward and stood. The father paced back and forth in the kitchen with his hands buried inside his pockets, a kettle overheating. “It’s the pressure and exhaustion. I just don’t remember.”

  Chelsey wondered if Kemp knew anything about his son’s friends. The father seemed caught inside his own private hell, furious at his late-wife, angry at Polly for abandoning Shawn, distrustful of the police.

  She ripped a blank sheet of paper from her notebook and placed it on the table.

  “I’ll leave this here. When you remember who Shawn hung out with, write their names and addresses.”

  “He wouldn’t run to his friends. I’m his father. I’ll protect him.”

  “You know how teenagers think, Kemp. Shawn understands you’re the best choice to protect him. But teenagers cling to friends during stressful times.”

  Chelsey wished she’d relied on her friends during her depression, rather than pushing everyone out of her life.

  Kemp leaned against the counter.

  “You’re probably right.”

  She waited for him to write a few names down. It was obvious Kemp didn’t know Shawn’s friends, or was too stressed to recall.

  “Who wanted to hurt your wife?”

  A shrug.

  “I gave the police a name or two. Clients who might blame Megan for losing in court.”

  “Hanley Stokes.”

  “For certain.”

  “Who else?”

  “Megan and I stopped talking. She wouldn’t tell me if there was a problem.” His eyes lit. “They hang out at the lake all summer,” he said, peering through the window. “Shawn and his friends.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “The lake is too cold during the spring. They don’t swim until Memorial Day.”

  “Who swims with Shawn during the summer?”

  “There was one kid.” Kemp bit his lip and stared at the ceiling. “What is his name? Mike something. Shawn spent the night at his place a lot last summer.”

  “Do you remember Mike’s address?”

  Kemp shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter. Mike is a year older, so he’s away at college.”

  “Anyone else?”

  He flashed an angry glare.

  “Look, Shawn isn’t hiding with a friend. Someone chased him through the woods, and he ended up at the marina. Where he went from there is anyone’s guess. You saw the river, right? It’s still flooding. If Shawn hid inside the forest, he’s close to the river.”

  “Which is why we need to find him before dark.”

  A strained croak came out of his throat.

  “I just want my boy to come home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday, 1:05 p.m.

  Shawn jolted awake when something rustled through the soggy leaves.

  Propping himself up on his elbows, he studied the forest. After he grasped the first weapon he saw—a fist-sized rock—and crawled into a crouch, the teenager slipped behind a tree and pressed his body against the trunk. A centipede the size of his finger scurried over his hand. He flicked the centipede away. Though their poison rarely affected humans, they packed a painful bite.

  When the sound didn’t come again, Shawn crept out of hiding and stretched his achy legs. He’d slept upon a bed of rocks, and his back felt as if someone had clubbed him with a baseball bat. Shafts of milky light bled through the canopy. Judging by the strength of the light, he assumed it was midday. How long had he dozed?

  His chest tightened when he thought of his mother. He’d hated her for leaving him. Now he only wanted to hear her voice one more time, to tell her he was sorry for not listening, not understanding. His parents had problems even before the separation. The late-night arguments, his mother spending more time at the office to avoid his father, the battles over whether to move to the city or stay in Wells Ferry. Separation and divorce were inevitable. Like a fool, Shawn needed someone to blame.

  He’d never speak to his mother again. She wouldn’t ask him about school or his girlfriend, wouldn’t call Shawn and invite him to dinner, or help him move into his college dorm room next fall. Amid the sounds of the forest, he sobbed and wiped his eyes. Whoever killed his mother needed to pay.

  I know your name.

  Shawn cast a glance over his shoulder. The psychopath might have been watching from the forest. The trees grew thick in this part of the woods, bramble and pricker bushes spreading along the trunks like razor wire.

  Though he’d dried his clothes inside the marina, his pants and sweatshirt were damp again. Sleeping on a soggy forest floor did that to you. The low sky warned him of more storms, and he needed to get inside, stay out of the elements, and put walls between him and his stalker.

  He wobbled between the trees and tried to recall where he’d fled after leaving the marina. Without a watch, he’d only known it was late and dark, no sign of the coming sun after he climbed through the window and rushed into the forest. His feet ached, legs screamed in protest as he struggled onward. He was somewhere east of the inlet, the lake a short walk to his west. Shawn assumed he was a wanted man by now, and he didn’t trust the corrupt police. As he approached the shore, he’d risk running into people. If someone spotted Shawn, the police would track him down. He couldn’t trust strangers.

  Running home seemed too dangerous. The killer would expect him to return to his house. If he hadn’t lost his phone, he would have called his father. Or Polly. Or Mike.

  Wait. Mike Nash.

  Shawn’s best friend was away at college until the end of the month, and his parents left for Florida in January and wouldn’t return until Mike’s semester ended. Which meant nobody was staying at the cottage. What he wouldn’t do for a shower, even if it was cold.

  He picked up his pace, invigorated by the prospect of escaping the weather. Maybe the Nash family kept food in the pantry, something to quell the hunger eating a hole through his stomach. And if they had a phone, his problems were solved.

  Shawn pushed the flora aside and hurried west. In the distance, the lake whispered as it raked the shoreline. Keeping the water in sight, he climbed over a fallen tree and splashed through patches of mud before he broke out of the forest. The lake spread out before him. On sunny days, the water was a depthless blue. Today, it was a gray, churning morass, a reflection of the sky. He oriented himself along the shoreline. To the south, the marina poked out along the inlet. If he followed the shore, he’d reach the vacant cottage within an hour.

  Sprinkles fell from the fitful clouds. He refused to endure another storm. Two boats floated on the water, heedless of the weather. Shawn sensed people watching as he struggled over the rocks. Intent on staying hidden, he walked along the edge of the forest and cloaked himself inside the tree line. It seemed he’d walked forever when the cottage materialized through the trees. Mike Nash’s parents were wealthy. His father made a lot of money during the stock market boom and sold out before the crash.

  Though he was certain nobody lived in the cottage this time of year, Shawn hesitated outside the property line and studied the windows for movement. The six-bedroom, hazel-wood contemporary home looked like nirvana after the night Shawn spent in the woods. A large deck sat off the back of the property, and the many windows offered views of the forest and the distant lake. It also allowed people to see inside. Shawn needed to be careful.

  If he found a way inside. There was no guarantee the Nash family hadn’t armed the home with a security alarm.

  Shawn stepped out of the forest and surveyed the house. He moved to each window and tested the panes. Finding the windows locked, he checked the front door, then hoisted himself onto the deck. He stared inside and pictured himself on the couch beside Mike, video game controllers in their hands, their hair damp from a long day in the lake, an open pizza box on the table. He wished he could turn back time to last summer and forget this nightmare. If Mike was here, he’d know what to do. The open floor design lent him unobstructed views of th
e sitting area, dining room, and kitchen. A dark hallway led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. The shower. God, how he craved a shower right now.

  He yanked on the sliding glass door. His breath caught in his chest when the door jiggled on its track. He peered over his shoulder and ensured nobody watched. Then he shoved the door until something popped. The lock released. Shawn grinned. Putting his shoulder into the door, he muscled it aside and stepped into the cottage. He held his breath and listened for an alarm. Nothing.

  His sneakers left muddy tracks on the polished hardwood. This was his friend’s cottage, and Mr. and Mrs. Nash always treated him well, never judging him for coming from a broken home. He slipped his sneakers off and tossed them on the deck. Then he located a broom and dustbin in the closet and cleaned his mess.

  The refrigerator was empty. No surprise. But when he opened the pantry door, he smiled at the canned and boxed food. Soups, cereals, pasta. He could eat like a king for weeks.

  Shawn flipped the light switch. The cottage had power, which meant the electric stove worked. No phone. Like most people in Wells Ferry, the Nash family switched to mobile phones years ago. Before he ate, he needed to shower the filth off his body and change his clothes.

  The dirt poured off his flesh as the warm spray washed over his head. All that mud circled the drain and descended. After soaping his body and shampooing his hair, he felt human again. Like he hadn’t spent the night running for his life from a madman.