by Mary Stone
Blood. Blood gushed from her mama’s neck, spilling onto the floor and trickling along the wood like a tiny red stream.
“B-aby.”
Hoarse, more of a rasp than a word. Not like her mama at all. Tears burned Bethany’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t cry, not now.
Not when Mama needed her to be strong.
“Yes, Mama?”
Mama’s lips moved, but only a wet gurgle came out. The noise was wrong, all wrong. Once again, Bethany wished she were still a baby so she could close her eyes and pretend herself back into the little house by the mountains, with her mama teaching her how to survive the zombies and heating up hot chocolate.
But she wasn’t a baby. Not anymore.
Bethany slipped her hand into Mama’s waiting one. The skin was cool to the touch, but she pretended not to notice, smiling instead of crying even though her throat hurt and her eyes burned.
A hole opened up in her heart, like someone had taken a shovel and dug part of it out, but she let Mama guide her hand to the pretty policewoman’s, who knelt on the other side.
All three of their hands were joined together, resting on Mama’s belly.
The policewoman’s eyes were sad when they met Bethany’s over her mama’s body. Bethany hated that look. Sorrow. Pity. Anger flashed, and she wanted to scream.
Don’t you know anything? She’s not like those other ladies. She’s a superhero! Superheroes are always okay in the end.
Her throat was too clogged for the words to come out, though. To escape the policewoman’s sadness, she looked down at their hands. Smeared across all three of them was her mother’s blood.
Bethany stared at the red stain while the hole in her heart grew bigger. A choking pain spread through her chest.
“Mama,” the words almost couldn’t come out, “please don’t die.”
Over her bent head, the policewoman murmured two words very softly, “I promise.”
Mama’s fingers gave Bethany one final ghostlike squeeze before her hand went limp.
“No! Mama, please.”
Bethany jerked her head up in time to watch Mama release a soft sigh. Her chest rose and fell once more, but it didn’t rise again.
The hole in Bethany’s heart crumbled into a crater, then the rest of Bethany’s body crumbled too. She flung herself onto the woman who’d given her life, giant sobs shaking her body like earthquakes.
“Mama…I…I love you, Mama. You’ll…always be my…my…superhero.”
She sobbed until her head started to spin, and her vision turned fuzzy. Gentle hands stroked her back, but she barely noticed them as she clung to her mama, and the room gradually faded away.
35
The forensic team crinkled through the rooms of Kingsley’s childhood home on paper-booty wrapped feet, sifting through every last hair, fiber, and trace evidence with their usual brand of meticulous, by-the-book precision. Unlike Ellie, they seemed tireless in their smooth efficiency.
Cataloging the pictures on the wall. Brushing for prints to be entered into the database. Collecting blood samples and trailing string across the back bedroom and hall as they used the blood splatters and evidence to recreate the positioning of the attackers and the wounded.
They’d already taken Ellie and Clay’s guns like procedure dictated in officer involved shootings, and Ellie didn’t care if they never gave it back.
Ellie’s bones ached from an exhaustion so deep, she worried that no amount of sleep would ever banish the fatigue completely. This night was endless. Her watch claimed it was just after three o’clock in the morning, but she wouldn’t be surprised to discover this was Groundhog Day, and she’d been stuck in this same hellish night loop without sleep for three months straight.
She wanted nothing more than to go home, pop a Benadryl, and slip into a deep sleep. Forget the past twelve hours. Hell, forget the past week, month, maybe even year.
But that wasn’t an option. Kingsley might be dead, but Ellie’s job was to make sure that his legacy of horror and crime stopped too. The only way to do that was to collect all the evidence into custody and tie up every single loose knot, once and for all.
Besides, if she finished up here, guilt would dictate that she head straight for the hospital, to check in on her mom and keep her dad from driving the nursing staff bonkers. In typical Helen Kline style, Ellie’s mom was chafing at the overnight stay, if the flurry of texts Ellie had already received were anything to go by.
The texts alternated between insisting that she was fine and no one should be stuck in the hospital over a silly bump on the head, no matter how ugly, to when was Ellie coming to visit, to claiming that Ellie couldn’t dare refuse her poor, injured mother a lunch date now.
Clearly, her mother was far stronger than Ellie had ever given her credit for.
That, and Helen Kline really was as hardheaded as Ellie suspected, a fact for which she’d never been more thankful.
Making sure to stay out of the path of the criminologists, Ellie ventured farther into the living room. In order to expedite evidence retrieval, Chief Johnson had assigned a pair of crime techs to each room, plus an additional two were assigned to the car and one more pair to the shed in the backyard. That poor team had already experienced quite a shock when they’d opened the door and discovered a dead body.
They were still waiting on next of kin to officially confirm the ID, but Ellie was already certain who the woman with the platinum blonde hair and broken neck was. She should be. She’d only just met with Letitia Wiggins a couple of days ago.
With her gloved hand, Ellie picked up a photo of Kingsley as a boy. He was no more than seven in the picture, with a gap-toothed smile, close-cropped brown hair with uneven bangs, tucked under the arm of a pretty woman. His nose was bright blue from a splotch of sunscreen, and sand coated a stomach still soft with baby fat that poked above a pair of green and yellow striped swim trunks.
They looked so normal, standing in the sand and squinting into the sun with water in the background. Just your typical mom and kid spending the day at the beach.
The idea that maybe they were even at Folly Beach wrenched Ellie’s heart. How did this little boy, with his happy smile, cheap haircut, and pretty mom, go from weekends playing at the beach like every other kid to notorious serial killer? What psychic injury tipped him over the edge?
A strange mix of relief and sorrow gripped Ellie as she set the photo down. Now they’d never know because the man was dead. The little boy had died long ago. Likely back within the historic, privileged brick walls of Far Ridge Boy’s Academy.
Clay entered the bedroom and placed his hand on her shoulder. His wordless way of asking if she was okay.
Habit had Ellie start to slip away, but she caught herself in time and hesitated. Ever since they’d first met, there’d been something special between them. Ellie had continually shrugged Clay’s interest in a relationship off, though, because of Kingsley. The monster who’d kidnapped her had consumed too much of her energy, her life, for Ellie to even consider dating again after Nick. Instead, she’d thrown up an impenetrable wall to protect herself and anyone else from being hurt.
But now Kingsley was gone. No longer a threat, to anyone. If there was ever a time for a fresh start, this was it.
Finally, time to stop looking over her shoulder and move forward with her life.
Ellie drew in a deep breath, covered his hand with hers, and squeezed. She didn’t run. Didn’t clear her throat or make a joke. Such a tiny gesture and yet one that conveyed a world of meaning.
No, more than that. A gesture that contained a promise for a fresh new future.
A future where a real relationship might finally stand a chance to flourish and thrive.
The best part? Clay understood all of this. The deliberate brush of his thumb on her shoulder told her as much. No verbal explanation necessary.
Ellie savored the warm pressure of his hand until it dropped away.
“The living roo
m is finished. Kitchen too.” Clay’s gaze roamed over the techs as they itemized the photos hanging from the wall. “The bedrooms are going to take a while still, a few more hours at least. I’m good supervising if you need to leave and get some rest.”
Rest. That concept had never sounded so good.
Ellie sighed and massaged her neck. “Tempting, but I think I’ve got another few hours left in me. Appreciate the offer, though.”
He studied her in that quiet, steady way of his, the one that made Ellie wonder if he was peering through her eyes and straight into her soul. “Any word on Bethany?”
Her stomach twisted again. Sharper this time. Kidnapped and held hostage by an evil man who’d turned out to be her great-grandfather. Starved. Witnessing multiple murders, including her own mother’s.
As long as she lived, Ellie would never forget the image of the little girl clinging to Katarina’s dead body as she sobbed, or her brave, wobbly little voice when she whispered that her mama was her superhero. Her heart ached for the poor baby, who would require a lifetime of therapy to address the trauma.
“She’s asleep in the back of my Explorer. We’re waiting on the social worker to show up.”
Clay shook his head. “Poor kid. She’s experienced more pain and horror in a week than most people do in their entire lives.”
Ellie’s mind flashed to those final, terrible moments in the back bedroom. With her life draining from her carotid artery and her fingers smeared with the blood, Katarina had used her final breaths to connect Bethany’s hand to Ellie’s. Like a blood promise.
Maybe Ellie’s imagination had conjured up details, but she was sure that Katarina’s last tiny sigh had been one of relief before her chest stopped rising.
“I’m going to do my best to make sure that Bethany doesn’t experience any more upheaval or turmoil while she’s still a kid.”
“You know that won’t be easy.”
Ellie squared her weary shoulders. “Not for most people, but money opens a lot of doors. I’ve spent most of my life refusing offers of family connections or sway to help me out because I wanted to achieve my goals based on my own merits. Not those of my wealthy ancestors. But for Bethany, I’ll call in every offer and favor available. Giving her a chance at a stable life with a loving family from here on out is a million times more important than my pride.”
“No one who knows you would ever believe otherwise.” Clay’s expression was soft as he motioned to the hallway. “Check on their progress?”
Ellie fell in beside him as they wandered down the narrow corridor. Hard to believe that only hours ago, she and Clay and Shane had sprinted down this very same hall, frantic to reach Bethany and her mother. Kingsley had died in the cramped bedroom he’d likely grown up in.
Ellie pictured that gap-toothed little boy’s face. Had he rolled toy trucks in the spot on the floor where he’d bled out? Built pillow forts or played with Legos? Had the pretty woman in the photo knelt beside that bed each night when he was younger before kissing his forehead and tucking him in?
Ellie stumbled, and Clay’s hand shot out to steady her. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
Clay’s expression remained concerned, but he didn’t press her.
Quit torturing yourself. You don’t know what Kingsley was like as a kid, and it’s irrelevant now anyway. No matter how cute his baby pictures, he grew up to be a sadistic murderer. His death will save countless lives and wondering about what could have been is an exercise in futility.
They turned into the master bedroom. The adult Kingsley’s domain. One forensic tech dusted for prints on the far side of the room, while the other one snapped photos.
Ellie spun in a tight circle before taking a slow lap of the room, mentally itemizing and assessing each object in turn. First stop was the closet, full of expensive suits, crisp button-downs, and pressed slacks. All neatly hung and arranged by category and color. A testament to Kingsley’s need for order, or perhaps the result of Far Ridge Boy’s Academy’s abusive training methods.
With her gloved hand, Ellie fingered a navy sport coat. Each item was tailored, elegant, and age appropriate. Just the sort of attire that would earn the approval of a haughty perfectionist like Letitia Wiggins.
She moved on to the bed. Immaculate, like something from a model home. Not a crinkle or crease to be found, yet another remnant from his boarding school days, with their strict adherence to tidiness as a moral attribute.
If Ellie had ever needed a reason not to feel guilty when her apartment fell into disarray, this was it. The orderly, tidy nature of Kingsley’s room was a front, a tool in which to hide his inner turmoil and pain from the world, and even himself.
The bookshelf was next. Ellie paused to study a series of photos before her gaze fell on a collection of pastel books with gold trim arranged in a neat line along the bottom shelf.
Photo albums or scrapbooks. Each one bearing a name across the spine.
Ellie picked up the first one and flipped through the pages. When she comprehended what she was looking at, acid scalded her gut like liquid fire. Scrapbooks had been correct, but the contents didn’t contain ticket stubs or report cards from Kingsley’s childhood days.
No, these were books dedicated to his victims. As she scanned the pages, the bile spread, burning up her esophagus. Newspaper clippings and pictures blurred before her eyes, outlining how Kingsley started with the stalking phase, progressed to kidnapping, and culminated in torture and murder.
Typed notes next to some of the photos illuminated Kingsley’s suggestions to himself on how to prevent a victim from dying too quickly or ways to draw out a particular torture method. Comments about the psychological traits of the women he found the most satisfying and how to forge stronger specimens.
On the last page of every book, he’d rendered a judgment in bold letters.
Success.
Failure.
The successes were few…only Ellie.
The failures were the women he’d tortured to death, which he blamed on them. For not possessing the strength of will to stay alive.
Her hands quivered, and she swallowed the bile that raced toward her mouth. Forget the little boy. Right now, Ellie wished she could shoot the man all over again. There weren’t enough bullets in the world to have made him suffer the way he deserved.
Enough of this. The vile torture catalogs could wait.
She was about to snap the book shut and slide it back onto the shelf when the back of her neck started tingling. Had Kingsley kept a record of every single kidnapping victim or murder? Given his pathological need to organize and catalog his exploits, the answer was almost certainly yes.
Head spinning, Ellie sifted through the albums, flipping past images of unfamiliar women before she opened to a picture of herself.
Another shiver went through her as she stared into the face of her fifteen-year-old self. To the side of the image was a note.
Freed this one because I was longing for a chase, but she dared to get away from me. I will bide my time and make her pay.
And just like that, Ellie’s mind opened up, and the last moments of her captivity clicked into her mind like she’d pushed the button of a remote.
She yelled the vile words…
The screaming had ended…
Kingsley just smiled, congratulating her on discovering the beast inside her own heart.
He approached her, knife in his hand. The other woman’s blood dripped from the tip like a faucet.
Pain, but not from the knife. A punch to the face.
Then…she was running, running, running.
A man chasing her. Laughing.
The bright lights of a car.
More pain.
“He freed me on purpose.”
Not out of compassion or any act of humanity. To chase her. Toy with her.
“Sucks for you,” Ellie muttered. “Who has the last laugh now?”
It wasn’t funny, though.
&
nbsp; Exhausted to her core, Ellie started to put the book away, then stopped, considering.
Could she finally find her answer?
Heart heavy with a mixture of hope and dread, Ellie turned the pages until a high-school-aged girl holding a flute appeared. At first glance, the photo appeared normal. Just another high schooler posing with her instrument before band practice. Except the girl’s eyes told a different story than the forced, sharp smile.
Another shiver crawled down Ellie’s spine. Something in those dark eyes tugged at her memory. Not so much the color, but the haunted, hopeless expression that was so at odds with the smile.
A black-and-white printout of a police report was stuck to the opposite page, detailing the dropped charges against Kent Finn, who’d been accused of assaulting a minor.
The minor’s name was redacted, hidden by a black rectangle due to her age. Even so, Ellie knew without a doubt that the girl with the flute and haunted eyes was the victim.
Sophie.
A flood of emotion hit Ellie all at once as she returned her blurry gaze to the photo. The lines of the girl’s face, her chin, the shape of her nose. Once again, they plucked at a blank spot in the back of her mind.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her breathing hitched with the words, and she allowed herself a few minutes to simply gaze at the face that had haunted her for so long.
Ellie tugged at her collar to cool the sweat beading on her neck. Beneath the latex gloves, her palms grew moist. All of a sudden, the room turned unbearably hot, making her desperate to escape outside to the cool night air.
Instead, she forced herself to keep flipping the pages. To read the missing child report for a fourteen-year-old Sophie, less than four months after the assault charges were dropped. To study the solicitation report that followed a few years later, for a woman who went by the name Sofie and claimed to be eighteen.
Ellie finished the arrest report before moving on to Sofie’s accompanying mug shot. The image hit her like a booted foot stomping on her chest. That face. She knew that scowling face.
