“And this one?” she asked, tapping the other photo.
He looked at it upside down now. It was the weathered sign for carryout that had taken her to Gary’s in Sweetwater, Texas. A lifetime ago. But really only a few days.
His gaze flicked up and over her shoulder at the two men, before looking at her again. “Well, that was her mom’s last name. Before she married Doug. Melissa Gary.”
Clarke felt like she was on the edge of a cliff, and the pebbles beneath her feet had begun to slide off into the crashing waves below. “Was that her maiden name?”
“Um.” His eyes rolled to the ceiling in thought. “No. She’d been married before, but it wasn’t to Bess’s dad. Then they all took Stanhope as their last name.”
“Did Bess have a relationship with her biological father?”
He huffed out a breath. “Ah, no.”
“Why?”
He fidgeted, his thumbs smoothing over the bones of his wrist, shifting his weight in the chair. “He died when she was little. Like when she was a baby. She doesn’t talk about him at all. But . . .”
“But what?” She tried to temper the sharpness in her voice.
“I don’t know, her mom made a comment one time. Like Bess wasn’t in the room, and I never brought it up. But I think the dude, well . . . I think he was married.”
Clarke studied the pictures she’d taped to the mirrored window of the interrogation room.
She chewed on the cap of her Sharpie while ignoring the handful of agents and locals behind her. Bradley was MIA, and the rest of the cops didn’t know what the last picture meant.
She walked over to the makeshift board. “The first, a bar in Maine, is to me. A message that this time it’s going to be personal.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sam, the only person she cared about, following along. She tapped the marker against where she’d just scrawled her own name.
Sam nodded, eyebrows knit.
She slid over to the two photos Peterson had called out. She drew arrows off each of them and wrote “Bess” in big, bold letters underneath.
She wrote her own name beneath the club and the church. “Scars.” “Sam.” “Maybe.”
Then the last one. The one with the little boy. She wrote “Bess” and a little plus sign, then added her own name.
Then she stepped back. It was a message. She just couldn’t see the end yet. She tapped the recapped marker against her lips.
“Why is the last one both of you?” Lucas asked. She didn’t look back, as she walked up to the picture, her finger finding the spot on the far corner of it.
“It’s a Liberty Bell pin,” she said. Della had confirmed it via text only a few minutes earlier, but Clarke hadn’t needed it. She’d been positive.
“Bess is from Philadelphia,” Lucas said slowly. “But how’s that relate to you?”
She’d already moved back to the table to take in the whole scope of it.
“I am, too,” she tossed over her shoulder, and the room went still. They were catching up.
“So it’s not just about me,” she said, once again directing her attention to Sam. “It’s about both of us.”
“Well.” Roger’s voice cut through her tunnel vision. “It’s about her mother, not her.”
She shifted, focusing on him. “What?”
“The clues.” He nodded his head toward the board. “They’re not about Bess, really. It’s her mother’s name, her mother’s home, her mother’s profession.”
She nibbled the inside of her cheek. “They all affect Bess, too, but I see what you mean.”
“Have you ever heard of either of them before?” Lucas asked the obvious question. “Even in passing? Ever gone to a florist in Philadelphia?”
She bit out a laugh. “No, I was only in Philly when I was younger. I wasn’t buying anyone flowers at that age. I haven’t been back since.”
“So maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Lucas countered.
“It does,” she said softly. But what did it have to do with Bess?
“What do they mean, then?” someone called out. She sighed, turning around to the crowd, debating if she had enough authority to boot them all out. Even if she didn’t, she knew someone who did. She slid her eyes to Roger, who simply stared back. He wasn’t going to do it. She sighed again and opened her mouth to answer when the chief came in.
“Sorry, all,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Clarke shifted her attention without hesitation. “Can you come look at this picture?”
“Of course.” Bradley edged around the room until she was bent slightly at the waist, her face close to the picture. “Is that . . . ?”
She trailed off. Straightened. Frowned and leaned back down. Clarke’s pulse fluttered.
“I think . . . hey, Evans,” she called to someone behind her. A beefy man with a thick, gray handlebar mustache pushed his way through the crowd. He was flushed, clearly pleased to be called upon during what was the most action he’d probably seen in his entire life.
“Yeah, Chief?” His voice was a deep rumble, and he couldn’t quite keep the pride out of it.
“Is that . . . Tony’s nephew?” She turned and stepped out of the way for him to repeat the movements she’d gone through only moments earlier.
He hummed, leaning in. “Now that you mention it . . .”
Clarke dug half moons into her palms, and the small muscle near her eyelid fluttered.
“Yeah, that’s definitely Tony’s nephew.”
Bradley nodded. “Looks like him at least, yeah.” She turned toward Clarke. “Tony used to live in town. He had a pizza place. You may have seen it.”
Clarke tried to call up the image. She vaguely remembered driving past a weathered building at the edge of Main Street.
“Yes, well, he owned it for . . . what . . . maybe twenty years, but then the recession hit, and he had to close up. The bank got the building, but they’ve never been able to unload it. It’s just sitting there. It’s on the list.”
Clarke dug in her pocket for the paper she’d nabbed earlier. And there it was, about three-quarters of the way down. Tony’s Pizza.
“Have we checked there?”
Both Roger and the chief swiveled to the agents and officers in the room, who were glancing sideways at one another and shaking heads.
“We just really started searches, ma’am,” one called out.
Throwing the marker against the wall would do nothing. Except it would feel really, really good. Jesus Christ, process was going to get these girls killed.
“What are you all standing around for, then?” she asked, and ignored the way Roger’s face tightened. There was a rumble of disquiet behind her, as well. Perhaps they didn’t appreciate the implication, but she didn’t appreciate them sitting around when they should be doing their jobs. Turning away from them all in disgust, she looked at the chief. “This kid . . . you said you recognized him?”
“Yeah, he came up a couple summers in a row for maybe a week at a time,” she said slowly. The entire room was on edge because of Clarke, and the chief could read it. “He stopped when he got older. But, yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
“And the background, does that look like the pizza place?” she asked. “I know it’s blurred.”
“Looks like.”
“Holy hell,” Clarke muttered, locking eyes with Sam.
She was halfway to the door when Roger dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“What are you . . .” She whirled on him, unable to process much more than the Run, go, find him that had taken over every space in her mind.
“You can’t just tear out of here half-assed,” Roger said. “We need a plan.”
“No, we need to go.” What was he even saying?
“Agent Sinclair, watch yourself.” It was a quiet warning, for her ears only.
“No. Screw protocol and procedure, Roger.” She didn’t bother to grant him the same courtesy. Let him fire her. She didn’t care.
Cross was blocks away. The girls were blocks away. “Because to me it looks like your ‘planning’ has gotten you jackshit so far.” She waved a hand to encompass the agents who should have been out scouting the buildings.
Roger’s jaw tightened.
“Agent Sinclair, you are out of line. Either control yourself or you’re off the case.”
“Your answer for everything.” There was a buzz in her head she couldn’t quite think past. “For God’s sake, Roger. For once in your life, do something right because it’s the right thing to do. Stop thinking about the press or how it’s going to affect your next promotion.”
“Out.” Roger pointed to the door. His voice was calm and controlled. Ice to her fire. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She turned without a fight.
“No, Sam,” she heard behind her as she slammed through the door.
She collapsed against the wall just outside the room, her body crashing from the high brought on from the adrenaline. So stupid. She was so ridiculously stupid. And she couldn’t control it, not when it came to the bastard.
“We aren’t going to do this with an audience.” Roger’s voice interrupted her self-flagellation.
Her eyes flew open. The shock of him standing there, watching her with something that looked suspiciously like understanding on his face, had her pushing off the wall.
“I already got the message, Roger,” she said, cautious now.
He shook his head. “You’re not off the case, Clarke.”
When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “No. That’s not all of it. You’re going to listen to me now. I know you don’t respect me, for a lot of reasons, some valid, some not. But I am your boss, and if you ever speak to me like that again in a room full of agents, it’s not just a case you’ll be thrown off of.”
She nodded once.
“Look.” He sighed, running a hand over his thick black hair. Regret hung heavy in his shoulders. “I’m willing to overlook this outburst because I know what this case means to you. What getting him means to you. But, Clarke, you were about to get not only yourself but the hostages killed. What were you thinking?”
She hadn’t been. He knew that.
“Don’t you think he’s ready for you? It could be a trap. Hell, even if it isn’t, storming in there with no plan with guns and hostages involved? You’d be lucky if anyone survived that. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take ten more minutes”—he paused to let it sink in how much time she’d already wasted with her outburst—“and then we’re going to go in with an actual strategy.”
Shame burned in her throat. There was nothing to say, so she just nodded again.
“Take a minute to collect yourself, and then you can come back in,” Roger said. “But if you slip like this again, I’m pulling you. I can’t have you jeopardizing this. It’s too important.”
He turned, ready to step back into the interrogation room.
“Hey, Roger,” she called. He stopped but didn’t look at her. “Are you doing this for Sam?”
His back went taut, and he glanced at her over her shoulder. “You always forget I was there, too,” he said softly. “So, no, Clarke, I’m not doing this because of Sam. I’m doing it because, believe it or not, I actually care about you.”
He smiled at her stunned expression before pushing through the door.
“Tell me about the building.” Roger had taken control of the room by the time she slunk in the back. Sam’s eyes sought hers immediately, but all she could do was shrug one shoulder and hope he got the message.
They both turned their attention to the chief, who had flicked a glance toward Clarke when she’d come back in but had returned to speaking to Roger.
“Two entry points. One is the front doors. There’s lots of windows, though. They wrap around the whole part along the street.” She was all no-nonsense. “The back door. It opens into the alleyway.”
“And the floor plan?”
“Big and open in the front. No walls breaking it up. Then the kitchen running along the back. It has a basement where they keep some of Tony’s old machinery. It’s unfinished, with no windows.” She paused. “It always creeped me out to go down there.”
“A place where no one could hear you scream,” Clarke said.
Bradley looked over, eyes wide. “Yeah.”
“This is it,” Clarke said, and every single person in the room turned toward her, but she kept her gaze on Roger. “Sir.”
He blinked, and something passed between them, across the distance of the room and across the years of simmering animosity. It was something that edged close to respect.
“I agree,” he finally said. And then the spell broke, and everyone started moving, and there were more sketches made on the mirror, and somehow Sam was beside her, nudging her shoulder.
“Are we all going to join hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ now?” he asked with a little smirk.
“Oh, fuck off.”
He shifted so he was standing in front of her, blocking the rest of the room from seeing the moment. His eyes traced over her face. “Are you okay, kid?”
It was so familiar, the question. She reached out, squeezing his forearm. “I am. Really. I’m sorry.”
“I get it.”
“Yeah, I’m just surprised Roger did,” she said.
There was a smile at the corner of his lips. “I keep telling you he’s not as bad as you make him out to be.”
The man in question turned to them in that moment. “Hey, you two, I need you.”
And then finally after way too much talking, he clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“All right. Let’s move, people.”
And then they were off, moving through the station en masse, bursting out onto the sidewalk. The restaurant was only a few blocks away, so cars weren’t needed.
Their feet pounding against the sidewalk was a perfect echo of the pulse in her ears. So close. They were so close.
They slowed to a stop around the corner of the pizza place, as they’d planned. She, Roger, and Sam were going to lead the way around the back. Bradley would take the front.
Clarke bounced on the balls of her feet, loosening up her muscles as she did, then rolled the crick out of her neck before nodding to Sam, who was going through his own routine.
But he stopped and took two strides so that he was in front of her. His eyes wouldn’t let hers shift away as he gripped the nape of her neck.
“Listen to me, kid, listen to me.” His voice was low and calm, where she’d expected it to be tight and urgent. “Remember what I told you.”
She matched his breathing to get hers to even out. “Don’t let him get in my head.”
He nodded once, not releasing her gaze. “I’m serious. This isn’t the Clarke Show.”
She bristled. It was never the Clarke Show. Her life. It was the Sam Show sometimes. But mostly, these days, it was the Simon Cross Show. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought solely about herself. Which might be his point. “I got it.”
He studied her, his eyes flicking over her face. “You better be sure. And if you’re not, get there. Our lives depend on it.”
That’s what she had to keep tucked into the rational part of her brain—Sam’s life depended on her not losing it. She didn’t much care about her own, but his—his must be protected at all costs.
“Okay,” she promised. Even though the fire from her palm where her gun lay was seeping into her forearm, up past her elbow into her shoulder and niggling at her brain stem. That fire was casting a haze on everything around her. All she saw was Simon. All she saw was her gun against Simon’s head.
All she saw was the end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BESS
July 16, 2018
Bess didn’t know how long it had been since they’d managed to get the ticket to their freedom. She didn’t know how much longer they could wait.
Anna had taken the brunt of the punish
ment. Her visits to the room had increased with a frequency that chilled Bess. How much blood could someone lose? The girl had completely stopped communicating after what seemed like a particularly brutal session. That had been hours—if not days—ago. Time was no longer measured the way it had been on the outside. Now it was measured in Anna’s torture sessions. In drugged trips to the bathroom.
Simon seemed to vary his pattern, though, so she could never quite hold on to a solid reality. It was a good strategy on his part. Keep them off balance as much as possible in the tiniest of ways.
She tried to maintain near-constant chatter to Anna when she could, even though the girl was no longer responding. Anna. She’d say her name over and over again. Hold on to yourself, she willed the girl.
From what she could tell, Simon hadn’t found the jagged piece of metal that Anna had grabbed. She needed Anna to be ready.
“Anna,” Bess whispered. “Anna, we have to try.”
A shuffle. Just the smallest shift of clothing against cement. But she’d heard.
“Today,” she said, just in case that wasn’t clear.
Silence.
You can’t last much longer was on the tip of her tongue. That wasn’t what Anna needed to hear, though. “He’s moving toward a deadline, babe. We need to beat him with our own.”
More shuffling. That was promising. Or at least it was the most reaction she’d managed to get out of her since she’d stopped talking.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “I need you to go for his jugular. Dig the metal in as hard as you can right in the soft spot of his neck.” The words sat familiar in her mouth, as they’d gone over this many times before. She repeated them anyway.
Nothing.
“There will be a lot of blood, but once you do that, he’s going to go down. He’ll be distracted at the very least. If you need to stab him again, do it. Throat, eyes, groin. Those are the most vulnerable points. Go for them. That piece of metal in his eyes—he’s not going to be able to function after that.”
Still silence. She pressed on.
“Then you go for the keys.” He still kept them there. Taunting them. A power play that was going to cost him his most precious keepsakes. “Come unlock me, and then we’ll head for the door. He’ll still be down, but if he’s not, it’ll be both of us against him. We can take him. Anna.”
It Ends With Her Page 20
