“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pry or bring that up.”
He waves away my apology. “It happened eight years ago…April twenty-second, two thousand seven. Her name was Kathleen. She was a schoolteacher. She talked me into becoming a teacher, too. When we thought she was finally pregnant, after we’d been hoping and trying for so long…it turned out to be ovarian cancer. She fought it for as long as she could, but…it got to the point where she couldn’t fight anymore.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “What a terrible way to lose someone.”
“She was a great one,” he says, a small smile on his lips. “I should know. I had been married twice before her. The first time I was married for a little over a year when I was sixteen. The second time, we were married for forty-eight hours—me and some buddies decided to drive to Las Vegas for a long weekend, and I met a nice young lady whose asshole fiancé left her at the altar. Well, I couldn’t let her leave there without getting married…or at least that’s what my inebriated brain told me…so I became her husband for two days. When I met Kathleen, everyone thought it was going to end in another divorce, but we were married for seven years before she passed away and I never loved her any less.”
“That’s so sweet,” I say. “How did you two meet?”
“A bar,” he says, shrugging. His smile becomes more genuine. “Sometimes it’s that simple…like you don’t need to meet while being shot.”
I laugh. “Oh, well, you know Sam and me. We thrive off of dysfunction.”
“How are you two doing?”
“Good,” I say. “I think. I don’t know. He’s still pretty bad at communicating.”
“Well, you two seem to work well together when things get tough. That’s important,” he says. “Just make sure that you’re happy.”
As I take a sip of my beer, my cell phone rings. I take it out of my pocket and glance at the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” I say. I click answer on the screen and hold it up to my ear. “Hey, Sam.”
“You’re really mad at me, I know,” he says. “And I am really, really, really sorry. But a body was found and…it’s pretty bad. And when I say pretty bad, I mean I’m going to be in Pearland all night. We’re going to go over this whole area with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Oh,” I answer. Kevin raises an eyebrow at me, clearly picking up the curtness in my tone.
“I think it’s better if you don’t go home, yet,” Sam says. “This was murder and…you tend to attract trouble.”
“I don’t attract trouble.” I grumble. “Trouble just jumps over hurdles to find me.”
“Either way,” he says. “It’s best if you aren’t alone. Where are you now?”
“I’m at Kevin’s. He has a new puppy and we’re having a drink together.”
“Okay, well, please stay there,” he says.
I feel a flicker of annoyance that he’s not jealous of me spending time with another man. I know it’s petty and I should be happy that he doesn’t freak out that I have male friends, but there could be at least some concern that I could find someone I cared for more than I cared for him.
“How did the buyers like the house?”
“I don’t think they’re going to buy it.”
“Why? It’s a good house. Rayna has an easy pitch for it. She should have been able to sell it a lot sooner than now. It’s a great family house in a good school district”
Except for the fact that a serial killer attended Waycroft High School.
“She didn’t do much while the couple was there.” I confess. “I was the one who told them all of its great characteristics.”
“Grace, it’s her job to sell the house,” Sam says. “You’re paying her to do that. There’s no point in giving her a check if she’s just standing around.”
“She’s the only realtor around that I know won’t rip me off,” I tell him.
“Alicia wouldn’t rip you off.”
I bite my tongue. Alicia. The ex-girlfriend who threw a stiletto heel at Sam and there’s still a dent in the wall at his house.
“Look, Grace, I know you don’t like her, but she would do well at selling the house. She’s good with people.”
“I bet she is,” I say, the sarcasm much heavier than I had intended it to be.
“Grace, please, just think about it. At least take into consideration the fact that she could actually sell the house,” he says. “I’m sorry. The forensic team is here. I have to go. I’ll see you later.”
There’s a click and the noise on the other end of the phone goes silent. I slide my phone away from my ear and set it down beside me.
“Trouble in paradise?” Kevin asks. I reach down and pet the puppy that has fallen asleep on my feet.
“There’s always trouble,” I tell him. “Do you think I could spend tonight here?”
“Of course,” he says. “What’s going on? What kind of trouble are we talking about?”
“The gruesome killer kind.”
“Ah, your favorite,” he teases and stands up. “I’ll go get you a pillow and some sheets.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He walks out of the living room. I look back at the picture of Kathleen and him. They both seem so genuinely happy. I have no doubt that their marriage could have lasted forever. But what about Sam and me? We still seem to have trouble communicating. If we thrive off dysfunction, are we really thriving or just breaking down and fixing each other?
I don’t have the answers. I don’t know if I want them.
Chapter Seven
Francis, 2015
(Thursday Evening; The Guardian Inn, Room #403, Murray, Virginia)
MARCH 15
To: [email protected]; [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Mom and Dad,
I made it into Manhattan and I’ve checked out Broadway. The trip actually had a small bump—the car finally gave out—so I just left it on the side of the road and kept on moving. Sorry! I took a ride with a trucker (female, so I was pretty certain I was safe). Anyway, New York City is amazing. There’s forty theaters total—Broadway is just the name of the road. It’s pretty exciting. I’ve moved into a nice apartment that is pretty cheap compared to the others—it’s a bit moldy, but I like it. I haven’t started auditioning, yet, but I will start next week. Anyway, I probably won’t be able to get home any time soon. I want to focus on the auditions. Honestly, I’m still angry that neither of you supported me when I wanted to become a Broadway actor. I’m not ready to see either of you, but when I am ready, I’ll tell you.
Love,
Bryce
I had sent that e-mail to Bryce’s parents the day after I killed their son. I found their e-mails in his phone. They haven’t replied. Maybe Bryce has as much of a messed-up relationship with his parents as I do with mine. I scanned through his e-mails to make sure my tone was similar to his. I hope I didn’t tip them off, but I doubt I did since his sister hasn’t figured out that she’s been texting a stranger for the last three weeks.
I click on the envelope icon on Bryce’s phone to look at her texts.
Kayla: Send me an autograph if you meet anyone famous.
Me: Okay.
Kayla: Did you have Miss Vollenberg for 7th grade? I hate her.
Me: No. I’ve heard horror stories about her though.
She’s incredibly smart for a thirteen-year-old. Sometimes I imagine she really is my sister. I think I could be a good big brother.
Which reminds me of Grace’s older brother, which makes me think of Grace herself.
I had talked to the Schneider boy and his friend when I first arrived in Murray, but the boy seemed to think Grace wasn’t going to come around to the house anymore. That was disappointing. Killing them both crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to kill for the sake of killing. That would dull the thrill of it all.
Kayla: I miss you.
Me: I miss you, too.
Kayla: I lo
ve you.
My fingertips linger over the keyboard. When has anyone ever said that to me? Has anyone ever said that to me? But it’s not even to me. It’s to Bryce.
Me: Okay.
The hotel phone rings, and I grab it. “Hello?”
“Hey, Bryce, it’s Steve.”
After I talked to the Schneider boy, his friend Kevin Deats came out of his house with his newest foster dog to take it for a walk. He greeted the boys and fell into a conversation with me when I asked about his dog. I was simply trying to be polite so that he wouldn’t think I was a crazy stranger preying after children, but he took my comment as a conversation-starter. He asked me to walk with him and I thought it wouldn’t help my facade to be rude by refusing. It quickly became clear that Kevin thought I was walking around knocking on doors trying to find whatever work I could. His pity was despicable and I wanted to tear out his throat for thinking I was so helpless, but I just smiled and pretended that he was right. After finding out that I could drive a truck, he steered me toward Steve Rolf's house, mentioning that in addition to running a general contracting business, Steve also offered landscaping and snowplowing services.
I talked to Steve Rolf, who was honestly thrilled to be able to hire someone who spoke English and whose citizenship he likely didn't have to worry about. He liked the fact that I kept to myself and didn’t have the same bravado as the other men. I liked him because he didn’t ask me where I came from or anything about my past. He didn’t even ask if I had a criminal record. Since I only began working a few weeks ago and he is already trying to get me to be a project supervisor, I have a feeling that I am replacing some son he never had or a son that he did have and no longer visits him.
“Hey, Steve,” I say. “I’m guessing there’s a job you want me to do if you’re calling at night.”
“Yep,” he says. “A spring landscape cleanup and refresh. It will be a good starter job for you to tackle for your first project estimate and project planning effort. It will also be good for you to go solo on a client walk-through as long as you remember to focus on the customer, rather than all of the work that needs to be done. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I say.
“Really? Because last time we were there you avoided Miss Grace when we helped with the house repairs.”
I flush. I can’t believe he noticed that.
“Are you always that shy around women? I would think that a guy like you is picking up women on a nightly basis,” Steve says.
I exhale, relief rushing through me. He doesn’t think I’m avoiding her because I know her. Good. “I guess. I used to be a bit of a loser in high school. I don’t know how to approach them.”
“Maybe I could help you with that sometime. I used to be quite good with women. Well, anyway, lately I’ve been talking to the guy…Dr. Sam Meadows, so you might not even need to talk to her,” he says. “I know you’ll do well.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“You should go Sunday morning. Nobody else will be there because they’re church people.”
“I’ll be there.”
“If they are there for some reason, stay out of Lori Schneider’s way,” he says. “She’s a classic bitch. But you seem to get along with her kids, so that will help you along with the job. Maybe you can get them to do some free labor.”
“I’ve played a few games of basketball with them…and they aren’t the type to do anything for free.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Well, I have to go. The missus is impatiently glaring at me because she doesn’t like me doing business after hours. Have a good night.”
“Good night.”
As I hang up, my heart is pounding inside my chest. My plans have come to fruition better than I could have dreamed. I had broken the house lockbox, lifted the key and made a copy of it before putting it back, planning to lure Grace back to the house somehow. Now I have the means to do that. I’ll also have proper tools with me, because I’ll be driving one of Steve's well-stocked utility trucks. Bryce’s murder will look like child’s play in comparison to my plans for her.
Chapter Eight
Francis, 2003
(September; Christopher Tate’s House, Dayton, Ohio)
AT ELEVEN YEARS OLD, everything about myself and my environment is changing. I’m now in middle school, where we get up two hours earlier to catch the bus. All of these new, complicated emotions are stirring in me—Mom calls them hormones, but it seems like they are more than that. When I imagine these emotions as sentient beings, they remind me of a movie I watched when I was six years old that had monsters that looked like shadows except they had long, sharp nails on each of their fingers. Girls look different to me—I watch them the same way I used to watch butterflies, except I can’t catch the girls in a net and the girls flee away from me more than the butterflies ever did. The other boys in my classes are becoming more muscular and they have these cocky grins like they understand everything that’s happening. I have no idea what’s happening. It’s like life is rushing past me and I could never run fast enough to catch up.
I feel lost in a world that demands that I know all of its secrets.
Dad has been angry with me all day. He’s the PE teacher at school and my ability to play sports is nonexistent. I was eliminated from dodgeball today within two seconds after he blew his whistle. For the second game, I lasted a total of six seconds. I’m fairly certain that this kid, Jeffrey Dowry, was aiming for me.
Dad bounces a dodgeball against the asphalt of our driveway a few feet away from me. A mesh bag full of more rubber balls lies beside his feet. Mom sits on the porch stairs, watching us with quiet approval.
“You need to catch the ball,” he tells me, anger making his words come out like bullets. I nod. Without a moment’s notice, he throws the ball straight at me. It hits me square in the chest. I stumble back as the ball rolls down the driveway. Dad takes a step toward me. “Get the ball, moron!”
I race down the driveway, chasing the ball. I manage to get in front of it before it rolls into the road. I run back to Dad with the ball in my hands. He jerks it out of my grasp.
“Get back where you were,” he spits out. As I step back into place, he throws the ball again. It slams into my eye. I don’t see where it goes because I’m clutching my face, pain pulsing around my eye. “Come on, Francis! Get the damn ball!”
But I can’t. I begin to cry, my shoulders shaking and my hands catching my tears.
“Jesus H. Christ, Danielle, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this kid?” Dad asks Mom. I quiet myself, waiting for her to defend me or at least tell him to calm down.
“Just keep going,” she says. “He won’t stop acting like a baby if he thinks the world will stop for him because he’s crying. At some point, he’ll learn how to act like a man.”
I lower my hands to see her walking back into the house. Hatred swirls inside my stomach. Even as Dad walks toward me and grabs me by my shirt collar, yelling about retrieving the ball, all I can feel is an anger and fury toward Mom. I know at this moment that these emotions, which are unknown and uncontrollable, will only grow stronger until they engulf me. And, for once, I have no problem with letting them take over.
Chapter Nine
Sam, 2015
(Thursday Night; Neabsco Creek, Pearland, Virginia)
DR. BRIDGET CARTER, the director of the forensic biology lab, has rustic red hair that’s tied into a tight ponytail and bright-green eyes that always remind me of moss. Half a dozen other people from the forensics laboratory are combing over the crime scene while Dr. Carter and I look over the body. The tow truck driver hangs around, waiting to be given further instructions or told to leave the car and go home. He doesn’t seem to mind much, but I have a feeling it’s because he's billing by the hour, and the county cops always pay their bills.
“I would agree that the killer seemed to specifically destroy aspects of this man that would identify him,” she says. She lifts up his fingers
with her gloved hands and flips his palm up. The fingertips are scraped off. “No teeth or fingerprints to check, so we’re going to have to rely on there being a DNA record somewhere. We might be able to reconstruct his face and we could attempt to identify him by that.”
“But if it was a serial killer, then he wouldn’t have known his victim,” I say.
“Probably not,” she says. “But then why would the killer go through such great lengths to hide this man’s identity? The only reason I could think of is that the killer knew the man and the man would lead back to the killer.”
“Dr. Meadows!” Officer Ty Halloran rushes up to me. “I just got the call. The owner of the car…his name is Michael Rafters, but he reported the car stolen on April sixteenth. He doesn’t have a criminal record and he has a pretty good alibi for the time the victim could have been killed. He was on an Alaskan cruise three weeks ago. He doesn’t know anyone who’s missing or who would be in his car.”
“Do you think this could have been the car thief?” I ask Officer Halloran.
He shrugs. “I have no idea. Michael Rafters is from Ohio, so I don’t know why the hell a thief would drive here. At the very least, you would think he would head down south to Mexico.”
“Ohio?” I ask. I vaguely remember Halloran telling me the car’s plates were from Ohio, but I had been too distracted by the gore of the victim to think too much about it. Now, my thoughts jump to Grace. She grew up in Byhalia, Ohio.
“Yeah,” Officer Halloran says. “Weird, right? Who steals a car and stops in Pearland, Virginia?”
“Someone crazy,” I say, shrugging. I turn back to Dr. Carter and the body. For a moment, all I notice is the slash mark around the body’s throat. Why would someone go from Ohio to Pearland, Virginia? Maybe the killer had relatives here. Maybe he was just passing through. Please, let him just be passing through.
Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Page 3
