Don't Breathe: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Darkwater Cove Psychological Thriller Book 6)

by Dan Padavona

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you? It’s your choice, but whatever you do, don’t go anywhere alone with that creep. Stay in a crowd, go to parties together if you must. You can’t trust him.”

  Jennifer looks away.

  “I’ll think about what you said.”

  “And stop hiding Sean Braden from Mom and Julian. Mom doesn’t care if you have a boyfriend. You’re a senior, so there’s no need to sneak around.”

  “Yeah, well. A psycho didn’t lock you inside his house and strangle a teenage girl in front of you.” Jennifer bites her lip. Richard Chaney threatened to murder Hunter after Bronson Severson abducted him. He’s been to hell and back, the same as Jennifer. “Sorry. That was insensitive.”

  Hunter’s eyes widen.

  “Did Jennifer Haines just apologize? Wait, I need to post this occasion to Instagram.”

  “You do, and I’ll block your ass,” she says with a chuckle. “Dude, I miss you. When are you coming home?”

  “Thanksgiving break.”

  “That’s like two months. Why can’t you come back sooner?”

  “Uh, well. I don’t have a car, and there’s this little thing called college that keeps me busy day and night.”

  “And Bethany.”

  “There’s that too.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s good. I’m going out for pizza with Bethany and her roommate tonight. I’ll tell her you said hello.”

  A knock on the door pulls Hunter’s head around.

  “Hold up. I’m talking to my sister.” He meets Jennifer’s eyes. “Don’t forget what I said about Sean Braden. If you insist on dating the creep, stop hiding it from Mom. She needs to know where you are if all hell breaks loose.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Stop being the boss. It’s not a good look for you.”

  The call ends. A hoot from the field draws Jennifer’s attention. Sean scores a touchdown and high-fives JT. Sean might be rich and arrogant, but there’s a good guy hidden beneath the bluster. And he’s cute as hell.

  What does Hunter know that she doesn’t?

  When Jennifer rises, she grimaces. The fresh cut on her thigh, hidden beneath the plaid linen shorts, rises in an angry gash. When did she cut herself again?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday, September 16th

  11:45 a.m.

  “Hey, wait up. I want to talk to you.”

  Darcy hurries down the corridor as Ketchum stops and waits for her to catch up.

  “I’m headed to the vending machine, if you want to tag along.”

  “Don’t eat that garbage. I brought an extra pear if you want it. Can we speak in your office?”

  Ketchum lifts an eyebrow.

  “This sounds serious. Follow me.”

  Agent Ketchum closes the door when they step inside his meticulous office. The papers on his deck lie in a neat stack on the corner, all the pens and pencils corralled inside the holder. Three plaques hang on the walls—his master’s degree and two Distinguished Service awards. Darcy can’t help noticing the garbage can is empty. No chewing gum wrappers, crumpled papers, or coffee cups. Doesn’t this man generate trash? Even the carpet smells fresh compared to the musty scent wafting out of Darcy’s office.

  Ketchum gestures to the chair in front of his desk as he sits. He folds his hands together on the desk.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Darcy takes a deep breath. What she’s about to tell him sounds ridiculous inside her head.

  “A woman from Smith Town, the closest town to Genoa Cove, phoned me this morning. The police recovered her twin sister’s body on a popular trail along the outskirts of town.”

  “Sorry to hear it, but why did she contact you?”

  “Leigh Ames is convinced someone murdered her sister, Nadia. The detective in charge is a man named Pinder.”

  “That name rings a bell.”

  “He’s the officer I told you about during the flight to Veil Lake. The Genoa Cove PD believed Officer Pinder and Bronson Severson were corrupt and working together.”

  “Now I remember. They promoted Pinder to detective?”

  “I can’t understand it, either.”

  Ketchum’s cell rings. He silences the phone and hides it in his desk drawer.

  “What did Detective Pinder say about this Nadia Ames?”

  “He claims the girl died from spider bites, and the medical examiner came to the same conclusion.”

  “In North Carolina? Either this climate change thing is bigger than I imagined, or someone screwed up. I’ve never heard of killer spiders in the Carolinas. Regardless, I’m unsure what this has to do with the FBI.”

  Darcy shifts in her chair. How will she convince Ketchum when she can’t convince herself?

  “Let’s assume the spider angle is bogus.”

  “That’s easy.”

  “Right. Nadia Ames didn’t show signs of cardiac arrest. No reason a woman in good health would keel over in the forest during a bike ride.”

  “You think someone killed Nadia Ames and dumped the body and bike in the forest, making it appear like she had an accident.”

  “That’s the tricky part. The medical examiner couldn’t find bruising or ligature marks, no head contusions.”

  Ketchum leans back and stares at the ceiling.

  “That makes it unlikely someone murdered Nadia Ames.”

  “I thought the same thing, but it makes no sense. If the girl crashed her bike and disabled herself in the woods, why doesn’t she have scrapes, bruising, or broken bones?”

  Ketchum opens his mouth to reply, reconsiders, and tries again. He’s lost like Darcy.

  “Even if we buy the medical examiner’s cause of death,” he says, drumming his fingers on the arm chair. “How did this killer spider attack Nadia Ames while she rode her bike?”

  “Nothing adds up.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He slides the chair to the desk and leans forward. “But this mystery doesn’t require FBI involvement, and you’re too busy to handle the case as a private investigator. I’m unsure where we go from here.”

  The office phone rings. Ketchum glares at the flashing light until it stops.

  “A few nights ago,” Darcy says, closing her eyes and cringing at what she’s about to tell him. “I killed a spider on my deck. The thing was the size of a tarantula and more aggressive than any spider I’ve encountered.”

  “Maybe it was a tarantula.”

  “I doubt it. Julian’s new partner was at the house for dinner. She mentioned another death by spider bite between Smith Town and Greenville last week.”

  Scrunching his brow, Ketchum spins to his computer terminal.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  After paging through police reports, Ketchum finds the incident.

  “Here it is. Brit Ryan, age twenty-six of Monterey Falls, North Carolina.”

  “Monterey Falls is ten miles inland from Genoa Cove and Smith Town,” Darcy says, picturing the geography.

  “According to the report, Ryan had a pair of one-inch bite wounds. Her friend, Sasha Graughan, found Ryan dead in the forest. They were on a camping trip with their boyfriends—Jorge Roberts and Chris Doyle. The medical examiner concluded Ryan died from spider bites. No bruising, no evidence of foul play or wrongful death.”

  “So we have two deaths attributed to spider bites within a ten-mile radius, both incidents occurring over an eight-day period.”

  Ketchum squints his eyes in thought.

  “We’ve seen medical examiners and police rush to judgment before. Let’s say the first victim, Brit Ryan, died from spider bites as the police theorize. The ME might look for spider bites on every victim, drawing false conclusions.”

  “I considered the same thing. Except for one issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The spider I killed. You wouldn’t believe the size of the thing without seein
g it yourself. I spoke to our neighbor. He keeps exotic pets, and that spider is unlike anything he’s seen before.”

  Ketchum swivels his chair.

  “Didn’t you just argue people don’t die from spider bites in North Carolina?”

  “What if the spiders aren’t from North Carolina, Adan?”

  He leans toward her.

  “Go on.”

  “The past month, I’ve received multiple hangup calls on my private cell. I checked, and they originated from untraceable numbers.”

  “Burner phones.”

  “What if there’s a serial killer in the region, and he’s using spider bites to cover his activity?”

  “Talk about going out on a limb. I get the mystery over two dead women found in the woods. But with no evidence of foul play, you need a lot of imagination to blame the deaths on a serial killer. What other proof do you have beside the hangup calls?”

  “It’s just a feeling.”

  “I can’t argue for FBI involvement on hunches and feelings.”

  Darcy sits taller and scoots the chair closer to Ketchum’s desk.

  “Why did you bring me back to the FBI?”

  “You know why. You’re the agency’s best profiler, and nobody hunts serial killers better than Darcy Haines.”

  “Yet you don’t trust my judgment.”

  Ketchum raises his hands.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then why are you fighting me on this? Adan, two dead girls left in the forest should convince you a killer is out there. The spider angle confuses the situation, so block it out.”

  He taps a pen on the desk and considers Darcy’s argument.

  “So he murders his victims, let’s the spiders crawl over the girls and leave a bite or two, then dumps the bodies in the woods where one would expect bug bites. Why is he calling you?”

  “For the same reason Richard Chaney stalked me. What if this guy is a Michael Rivers fan?”

  “More likely, you’re his greatest threat. He’s flying under the radar and wants to keep it that way.”

  Darcy expected a debate, but Ketchum agrees with her vague theories.

  “There’s a problem, however,” Ketchum says, resting his chin on his palm as he considers her argument. “As you pointed out, why no signs of an attack on either girl? He can’t murder these women without leaving a mark.”

  “Poison?”

  He tilts his head.

  “That’s a consideration, but the ME should have noticed.”

  “We need to interview Leigh Ames and Brit Ryan’s friends. The police missed something, and given Detective Pinder’s involvement, I don’t trust the process.”

  “We’ll ruffle feathers if we force our way into the investigations. I can’t guarantee the FBI will allow the case.”

  “I might be way off on the killer angle, but it’s worth the risk.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday, September 16th

  3:50 p.m.

  The interior of Ali Haynes’s car steams like a sauna when she opens the door. Lowering the visor, she checks the mirrors and jams the brakes when a car packed with teens speeds past in the school parking lot. A strange brew of guilt and worry gnaws at her. She tossed the bouquet in the trash after Sally crushed a spider crawling on the flowers. Who sent the bouquet? It seems callous to throw the flowers away. But something about the gift left her stomach nauseous, and it wasn’t only the spider infestation that gave her the creeps. The flowers appeared out of nowhere in the main office atop a sheet of paper that read For Ali Haynes. The school requires visitors to check in at the office, but the senior high school doesn’t use security guards to watch the entrance, and no one locks the doors. Anyone could stroll in from the street and leave a package in the office. What if some crazy person brought a bomb into the school and set it to explode after he drove off?

  Now she’s letting her imagination run wild. This guy might be interested in Ali, and it’s been a long time since she dated. God, is that her mother’s voice speaking inside her head?

  “You keep scaring them away,” she says, taunting her reflection in the mirror.

  Annika teased her over secret admirers and long lost loves, but she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend since college, and the only boy she was ever serious about was Kevin Narron in eleventh grade. Too bad she hasn’t spoken to Kevin since the breakup after they departed for college.

  As she turns out of the lot, the westering sun glares through the windshield. Squinting below the visor, both hands gripping the steering wheel, she navigates the busy roads surrounding the school and angles toward the highway. At the last second, she takes a hard right on Shore Way. A drive along the coast will take longer than the cross-town commute. But the gloomy, narrow streets of Smith Town make her feel claustrophobic. The trees grow thick through the center of town. Broad daylight seems like nightfall.

  Ali flips the stereo on. Her music subscription service plays a John Mayer song. She hums along, casting glances toward the beaches where children frolic in the waves and surfers haul boards toward the breakers. When she checks the mirrors, she spies a dark blue SUV trailing a hundred yards behind. Isn’t that the same vehicle she saw in the school parking lot? Hadn’t it been parked beside her car? She studies the SUV. Can’t see past the windshield glare.

  Shrugging, Ali turns the volume louder and kills the air conditioning, opting to lower the windows instead. Ah, that’s better. She smells the sand and sea, the wind whipping her blonde hair back as she presses the gas.

  The phone rings and switches to the stereo speakers, interrupting the music. Scrutinizing the number, she doesn’t recognize the caller. It’s probably a telemarketer. She answers and waits for the tired sales pitch. Hears nothing.

  “Hello?”

  She read an article about phone scams and learned never to say yes when answering the phone. Scammers record responses and claim their victims agreed to buy their ripoff products.

  “Is someone there?”

  Click.

  That was weird. She checks the mirrors and doesn’t see the SUV anymore. Ali scared another one off.

  A moment after the music resumes, another call comes in. This time Ali resolves to let the call go to voice mail. But it’s from a different number this time. Someone from school? Maybe it’s Tina Marquez’s mother calling from work. She answers.

  Silence. Is that breathing she hears beneath the wind?

  Ali swings her car onto the shoulder and raises the windows. She shuts the engine down and listens. Yes, someone breathes on the line. A motor rumbles in the background, hinting the prank caller is driving.

  “You know, the police will ticket you for distracted driving,” she says, grinning at her joke.

  No response.

  “Are you the strong and silent type? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

  Click.

  Ali glances over her shoulder. The coast road lies empty. She stares at the phone, worried it will ring again. When it doesn’t, she starts the engine and pulls off the shoulder. Turns off the radio.

  But as she nears her turnoff, she spots the same SUV crawling a mile behind her car.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wednesday, September 16th

  5:05 p.m.

  Since their morning meeting, Darcy and Ketchum had infuriated the medical examiner, the Smith Town PD, and Nadia Ames’s family. Except for the victim’s sister, Leigh, who convinced Darcy to look into Nadia’s death and refused to accept the police’s assertion a deadly spider killed Nadia. By allowing the FBI to view Ames’s body, the ME delayed delivery to the funeral home, pushing the calling hours and funeral up another day.

  Darcy empathizes with the family. They need closure, and she’s not giving it to them.

  The engine turns off and clicks over to electric as Darcy sits inside the Prius, waiting for Ketchum to arrive. Last she heard, the FBI threw a last second meeting on his plate. She d
rums her hands on her lap and watches for the FBI SUV.

  Only two vehicles remain in the county morgue’s parking lot, and one is an elongated vehicle for transporting bodies. Except for the ME, everyone left for the day. Her shift ended at five o’clock. Darcy pictures the ME inside, grumbling over the FBI holding her up.

  Times like this make Darcy feel as if she balances on the edge of a cliff with a deep gorge below. Uncertainty exists at the beginning of every investigation. The puzzle pieces lie scattered on the table, and she doesn’t know where to start. She turns off the car and steps into the parking lot. Pacing with her arms folded, she relaxes her shoulders when Ketchum’s SUV turns the corner. The big motor rumbles beside her Prius.

  “Sorry for making us late,” he says, locking the doors. “The FBI threw another boatload of training at us, and it’s up to me to break the good news to the field agents.”

  He puts air quotes around good news.

  The front door to the county morgue squeals when Ketchum pushes it open. They stand in an empty lobby. A rectangular couch with cracked vinyl rests against the far wall. Before either can sit, footsteps echo down the corridor.

  The woman who greets them appears much younger than Darcy expected. She’s yet to meet a medical examiner under fifty, and all were males. Shayna Tetinger holds a clipboard in her arm. A shade above five feet, she stares up at Ketchum behind lenses which take up most of her face.

  “Agents Ketchum and Haines, I presume?”

  They display their ID badges.

  “Thanks for meeting us on short notice,” says Ketchum. “I apologize for making you wait.”

  “There’s not much to see,” Tetinger says. “But if you follow me, I’ll take you to Ms. Ames.”

  The long, white corridor angles to the right. After the turn, Tetinger stops and holds the door open for Darcy and Ketchum. Adjustable lights hang from the ceiling inside the examination room. Closed doors along the back mark the storage areas for bodies brought to the morgue. Their footsteps echo off the walls.

  Tetinger pads toward a metal table in the room’s center. Nadia Ames lies on her back as though snoozing. A sheet covers her body from the neck down. Not waiting for Ketchum or Darcy to ask questions, Tetinger points toward two gaping wounds on Ames’s body.