by Alex Gates
The lock clicked open. Frank gestured for me to head inside.
I gave it one final knock. “Nina?”
Nothing.
Fine. We’d play it her way.
“Rachel? It’s the police.” I pushed open the door. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk—”
That stench.
I gagged. So did Frank.
The reeking secret of death lingered the house.
I tasted it in my throat, but death had a funny way of tasting a lot like my own horrified bile.
Frank retched in the doorway. “Oh, God. What the hell is that?”
Nothing that should have ever happened to this girl. Not now. Not once she found her way home and had been safe.
My hand poised over my gun, but it was too late for any heroics. I knew what happened before I peeked into the kitchen to see for myself how many lives Alan Henry had ruined.
Nina Martin stared lifelessly at the floor, a bullet hole through her back.
And like that, I’d lost another chance to save a missing person.
Her blonde hair was matted with the pooling blood, surrounding her body in a halo of crimson. She’d been dead for nearly two days, left to die alone, cold and scared. She’d been running before she died. An overturned chair lay near her body, and her dinner spilled from the crash.
SpeghettiO’s.
Because it wasn’t enough of a crime that someone had stolen her childhood. He had to take that last bit of innocence.
Why had she run away from home for this place? Her parents’ house was warm and clean. White carpets and pictures on the fridge. Schedules posted over the alcove, right where they kicked off their shoes, so everyone knew their loved ones appointments for the day.
Nina died in a kitchen with a stove that only had one functional burner. The cabinets sat off-kilter on their frames, and the limestone encrusted faucet dripped a coppery tinted water.
The appliances rusted. The curtains faded. The heat wasn’t on, and the single pane windows let the cold slip under the sills.
Nina was murdered in a slum. Killed by a man who had lured her away from a perfect home to inflict whatever hell he could on an innocent girl. It wasn’t enough to kill himself, and Cora Abbott didn’t sate his lust for blood. The monster had to kill a child before ridding the world of his filth.
I surveyed the room, mourning how the blood had dried through the kitchen, spilling into a heat register before pooling under the fridge and trailing beneath a highchair—brand new, the tray still wrapped in plastic.
Oh no.
In the sink, three sippy cups, pink and purple, sat out to dry.
Next to it was a handful of plastic toys, rattles and noisemakers, sitting on a towel. Clean. Ready to be used.
My pulse surged.
I didn’t want to think it. Didn’t want to even consider it.
But the truth terrified me more than discovering Nina’s corpse.
I sprinted from the kitchen. The living room was still pristine, untouched. And in the corner…a bouncy chair perfect for a toddler.
Nina hadn’t bought furniture for a newborn. She hadn’t run because she was pregnant.
She’d already had the baby.
I raced to the stairs, tripping over the first as I launched up the steps. Old wood creaked under my feet, squealing as I burst down the hall, checking the first door. Just a bedroom, bare save for a few of the Babies R Us boxes waiting to be broken down. I turned, rushing to the hall. The bathroom door slammed against the wall too hard, rattling her razor and toothpaste off the sink. The drinking glass toppled too, shattered on the tile floor.
The crash echoed.
But no baby cried.
I race to the last door, but I nearly retched before knocking it open. Adults were one thing. Kids another.
But a baby?
I didn’t know anyone on the force who’d have the courage to walk into that room unless they hoped beyond hope to save someone.
The door creaked open. I held my breath as I crossed inside.
The nursery was untouched. Pretty, despite the curling wall paper and thread-bare carpeting. Nina had tried to make it look like a home. A changing table was pushed against the wall. A white crib nestled cozy in the corner, next to a picturesque rocking chair.
That must have been where she held the baby.
I bit my lip. No father could do this to their child. Only a monster could murder so many, so close to him, without reason.
I forced the step towards the crib.
But inside was just as horrifying.
I found nothing.
No blood. No body.
No baby.
The bedding wasn’t even wrinkled. In fact, it looked…freshly made.
I spun around. The changing table had an unused trash can next to it. Empty. No diapers. The baby’s supplies—diapers, creams, lotions, baby wash—all untouched.
Unopened.
It didn’t look like a child had ever been in this house.
What the hell was going on?
I rushed back to Frank, wheezing in panic on the stairs.
“Any other rooms?” I asked.
“No. Well, the basement, but it’s full of boxes. Is that a…” He stared into the pink-tinted room. “A nursery?”
I gritted my teeth, facing him with a frantic growl as I grabbed my cell to call in the murder. “Didn’t you know Nina had a baby?”
“A baby?” Frank shook his head so hard I could hear his teeth chatter. “She didn’t have a baby!”
“What do you call that?” I pointed to the nursery.
“She didn’t say she had a kid with her! It’s not on the lease!”
“Don’t lie to me, Frank.”
“I swear! She never mentioned a kid! I even had to fix a busted shower head for her. I never saw a baby. No crying. No nothing!”
This didn’t make sense. “You had to see something.”
“I’m telling you! Nina lived here alone. There wasn’t a baby!”
I ran a hand through my hair, staring at the nursery, the crib, the toys. Someone had bought toys and supplies for an older baby. Not a newborn. Six months? Twelve?
So where was the child?
Nina’s bedroom was the only messy room in the house. The bed hadn’t been made before she died. I didn’t touch it. I’d order forensics to check it—to make sure the son of a bitch hadn’t raped her before murdering her in cold blood.
But nothing in the room said fourteen-year-old girl. No pictures hung on the walls. No knick-knacks or anything personal decorated the top of her dresser. The closet was only filled with dresses. I passed through them, one by one. Nothing stylish, that was certain. Paisley print. Long sleeves. Almost like they were…
Hand-stitched?
But weirdest of all was Nina’s newest hobby. I crossed to her nightstand, picking up the needle, thread, and embroidery hoop. The project wasn’t finished, but her needlepoint seemed perfect, not a stitch out of place.
She’d used dark brown thread to craft the trunk of a tree and decorated the inside with lighter thread, forming two hearts within the wood. Inside, she’d written names.
Rachel. Jonah.
And in the green leaves of the tree, sprouting from the apparent love of the parents, a little girl’s name scrawled in pin-point needlework.
Rebecca.
The baby’s name was Rebecca.
But who the hell was Jonah?
And what had he done with the baby?
7
Maybe this is hell. Or maybe the pain has driven you insane.
Maybe it’s a little of both?
-Him
“Jonah Goodman.” Falconi slapped a folder on my desk. “Mother-fucking-Alan-Henry’s real name is Jonah-fucking-Goodman.”
This perked me up more than my half-drunk coffee and untouched Chipotle bean burrito.
Finally, something I could work with!
“Does everyone in this case have a fake name?” I asked.
“Nina Martin apparently thinks she’s Rachel Goodman. Jonah Goodman uses the assumed name of Alan Henry.”
“Gonna find out.” Falconi twirled his car keys. “Riley and I are notifying the family.”
“All of them?”
“I guess his wife already knows he’s human slime.”
My stomach pitted. I didn’t let it show. “Oh, she knew. That man took advantage of her long before he ever killed her. And the baby—”
“Is there a baby?”
I groaned. “Not you too.”
“Just saying, McKenna. No one ever saw a kid. And if she was only now buying supplies for it…?”
I gritted my teeth. “Leave the missing persons to me?”
Falconi winked. “Promise to find them alive this time?”
Not funny. I didn’t have enough patience or coffee for any of them today. “Go bother the family. Let me find this baby.”
My middle finger mercifully recoiled to my fist before it caused any incidents or revealed me to be too unladylike. He knocked twice on my desk before leaving, calling to Riley in the hall with the address.
Forest County?
Goddamn. Jonah and his wife died a long way from home.
I returned to my computer, guzzling the coffee, staring at a screen that refused to give me the answers I needed.
But I’d stay here all night if that’s what it took.
Someone knew where that baby was.
And whoever did could tell us why Jonah Goodman AKA Alan Henry murdered two innocent women before taking his own life.
But three hours and no leads later, my cell vibrated next to my ear.
I jerked awake, wiping my chin before the report on Nina Martin/Rachel Goodman got covered in drool. Not the DNA anyone wanted to find.
James’s name flashed on the phone. Two years ago, he’d promised he wouldn’t be the type to constantly check up on me. And he wasn’t, though on the days he was out of town, he always had something important to tell me every night around eight.
I didn’t need protecting from the shadows anymore. But I also didn’t mind hearing his voice. And, as FBI consultant to the department, he had a hell of a lot of insight to our cases. I’m sure the call was purely professional.
“Hey.” A single word from him was soothing, like a mug of hot cocoa. No wonder people so easily spilled their hearts and sins to him. “Any luck?”
“If by luck you mean headaches, then yes.”
“That bad?”
The click of laptop keys chattered over the connection. He needed a quieter computer, but he liked his. The screen was big, and the resolution sharp. He could still see the letters in the document crisp and clear, without fiddling too much with the font size or brightness settings. The doctors warned that’d come in time. Sooner, if he didn’t stop straining his eyes by working so late.
The computer was supposed to be off by eight. The TV by ten. Despite being a psychologist and attending medical school, James still thought he knew better than the doctors.
…Or he wanted to do all he could for the bureau and his cases before his vision forced him out.
I tucked the reports and papers away, staring at the picture I’d taken of Nina’s nursery. “I’ve never had a case this weird before.”
“No one has any information?”
“I talked to the Martins. Nina didn’t mention having a boyfriend, let alone a baby with this man. The landlord never saw a child in the house. I’ve searched public records under the name Rebecca Martin and Rebecca Goodman—there’s nothing about this baby. No medical records. No social security information. It’s like the child doesn’t exist.”
Only James could pose a question so gently, so innocently, it was as if the question came from inside my own head, my own conscience. I hated it, but it was a damn good talent for a criminal profiler.
“Are you sure there is a child?”
“She had a nursery. Crib and changing tables and diapers. Clothes in the closet, and bottles washed and ready to go. But…”
“But?”
My pen blotted a dark stain in the corner of my notepad. I gave it a good push before answering. “I had the forensics team comb the place, hoping to find some of the baby’s DNA just in case there’s a hit somewhere.”
“And?”
He made me say it. I sighed. “The only prints and hair in that house belong to Nina. There’s not even one slobber covered teething ring to help ID the baby.”
“So, what do you think?”
I’d lost count of how many times James had ever asked me that question. He’d always said people revealed more to themselves than to others. But the day had tapped me out. I had no idea.
“You tell me. Expert opinion.”
“You know the answer, London.” He paused, giving me time to answer. But no sense saying what he wanted to hear—not when I knew it wasn’t true. “Nina Martin ran away from home just after her twelfth birthday. She was lost for two years. You don’t know where she went, who she was with, or what happened to her. Suddenly, she reappears with an entirely new personality. Her parents hardly recognize her, and, after two weeks of abnormal behavior, she runs again—even though they had provided her with a home, safety, food, everything.”
And there had to be an explanation. The most obvious one.
“She had to get the baby,” I said. “She left to find the baby.”
“Or…” James let the word hang. “She’d experienced such a traumatic event with this Alan Henry—”
“Jonah Goodman.”
“…He has another identity?”
“Told you it was strange.”
“Well, her time with Jonah Goodman was frightening enough, traumatic enough, and painful enough, that she invented a world in which she would be safe.”
“I don’t believe it.”
His voice warmed. Damn me for trusting his instincts. How often could one man be right?
“The child might be a delusion invented by Nina to shield her from the intense trauma inflicted on her within Goodman’s care. Maybe something originally manifested in her mind at twelve, and that’s what caused her to run away. Without proper treatment and care, the symptoms became more severe. Goodman prayed on a weak, mentally ill girl, and she reacted to the abuse by fabricating a more perfect life for herself—one in which she had this child.”
But the statistics didn’t lie. “Childhood schizophrenia is rare.”
“It still happens.”
“You didn’t see the nursery, James. This girl put so much work into it. She had everything—things I didn’t even know a kid would need. She must have had experience with a kid. She bought what was necessary.”
“That type of delusion might harbor obsessive tendencies—say studying childcare and self-help parenting books.”
“Didn’t find any in the house.”
“You didn’t find a baby either.”
I rubbed my temples. The station went quiet after eight o’clock, and most had gone home, crossing by my desk on the way out. Great. How many people had caught me sleeping on my files? I’d either look dedicated to the job or obsessed with the case. Dedicated was good…unless it antagonized the other officers for not working as hard. But obsessed pinned me as unreliable and untrustworthy. Just another scale on the balance of life that tipped the wrong way.
“You sound tired,” James said. “You should head home.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“When are you coming home?”
He paused. “Depends. Which home do you mean? Mine or yours?”
Up to his old tricks. “I meant Pittsburgh.”
He hummed. “I could make it back quicker if I knew I had someone waiting for me.”
He was the only one I’d ever waited for—and I still wasn’t sure what that meant. “Then I guess I’ll see you soon.”
He didn’t say those three words, but I felt them. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
“I don’t fi
nd it. It finds me.”
“That’s what I worry about.” He murmured my name. More words unsaid. “I’ll see you soon. Go home. Get some sleep.”
I promised him I would, though, for some reason, I never slept as well without him in the bed next to me.
Strange how I could go from wanting nobody to needing a certain somebody. He’d love that I was getting soft.
Maybe I did need sleep. Fair enough. It’d been days since I had a full-night’s sleep, and the fatigue burning my eyes started to seem familiar. I gave them a rub before pushing away from the desk and grabbing my things.
My desk line rang before I made it to the door. I hesitated, hand on the knob.
Fine. So I was obsessed.
But I wasn’t about to leave the station if someone needed me.
I dropped my stuff in the hall and raced back to the phone, catching it on the seventh ring.
“Detective McKenna!” The panicked voice screamed over the connection. “Please help me!”
I stiffened. The fear leeched through the call, chilling me from the hand holding the receiver to my frantically thudding heart. I pressed the receiver hard against my ear, straining to hear.
I recognized that voice.
That desperation.
“Louisa?” I asked. “Is that you?”
“You have to help! He found me!”
“Who? Who found you?”
“He’s here! Please! You have to help! I don’t know what he’s going to do! He knows I’m looking for Anna!”
My stomach rolled. “Where are you?”
“At home! He’s outside now! He has a gun—”
A shot fired.
And the line went dead.
8
There’s a subtle difference between charred and well-done.
You’ll know it when you feel it.
-Him
Fifteen seconds could mean life or death during a gunfight.
Fifteen minutes passed before my Crown Vic skidded into Louisa’s driveway.
I radioed to dispatch that I’d arrived, but my backup had an ETA of five minutes.
