Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  She even had a new job – a sensible job in the HR department of a bank in downtown Cincinnati. She would have co-workers who wore conservative suits and stared at spreadsheets. She would make an actual living wage and receive benefits for the very first time. But the most valuable benefit would be the security, just in case her efforts to lose Faith Frye hadn’t been quite good enough.

  Lightly she touched her throat. Although the wound had healed long ago, the scar remained, a permanent illustration of what the man who hunted her was capable of doing. But at least she’d lived. Gordon hadn’t been so fortunate.

  Guilt and grief welled up in equal measures, choking her. I’m so sorry, Gordon. Her former boss had had the bad luck to be standing next to her when the bullets started to fly – bullets meant for her. Now his wife was a widow, his children fatherless.

  She couldn’t bring Gordon back. But she could do everything in her power to make sure it never happened again. If Combs couldn’t find her, he couldn’t hurt her or anyone else. Her grandmother’s passing had presented her with a place to run to when she’d needed it most.

  The house was a gift. That it was also her oldest nightmare couldn’t stop her from accepting it. Forcing her feet to move, she marched up the remaining two steps to the front door, dug the key from her pocket, and went to open the door.

  But the key wouldn’t turn in the lock. After the third try, it finally sank in that it didn’t fit. Her grandmother’s attorney had given her the wrong key.

  She couldn’t go inside if she wanted to. Not today, anyway. The relief that geysered up inside her made her a little ashamed. You’re a coward, Faith.

  It was just a delay of one day, she reasoned. Tomorrow she would get the right key, but for the moment her inability to enter bolstered her courage.

  Peeking through the dirty glass on the front door, she saw a room full of furniture, draped in sheets. Her grandmother had taken only a few favorite pieces when she’d left the house for a town house in the city twenty-three years ago. The rest she’d left to Faith.

  The thought of unveiling the furnishings elicited the first spark of excitement Faith had felt in a long time. Many of the items were museum quality, or so her mother had told her on many occasions. This will all be mine some day, Faith, and when I die it’ll be yours, so pay attention. This is your legacy and it’s high time you learned to appreciate it.

  The memory of her mother’s voice doused her excitement. She could recall the fear that had filled her at her mother’s words like it was yesterday. But I don’t want my legacy, she’d replied. Not if it makes you die, Mama.

  An affectionate tug on her pigtail. Silly girl, I’m not going anywhere for years and years. You’ll be Gran’s age before this place is yours.

  And in her eight-year-old eyes Gran was already ancient. Then I have lots of time to learn about my legacy, don’t I? She’d hidden her relief with a roll of her eyes, she remembered. She also remembered being far more interested in the cook’s son’s Golden Retriever than the silver teapot in her mother’s hands. Can I go outside and play? Pleeeease?

  An exasperated sigh had escaped her mother’s lips. Fine. Just don’t get dirty. Your father will be back soon with the car and we’ll head home. But next time we’re here, young lady . . . Her mother had shaken her finger at her with a smile. We do teapots, 101.

  But the next time Faith had come to this house, there had been no talk of teapots or anything else that was happy. Her mother was gone, leaving her life irrevocably changed.

  Faith ruthlessly shoved the memory from her mind. Dwelling on the past would make her crazy. She had enough problems in the present without dredging up old hurts.

  Except . . . this was a hurt that needed dredging. And then purging. She hadn’t been back to this place since that last horrible day. Never told her mother how angry she was. She’d never told anyone. She’d covered up her rage and hurt and fear and moved forward. Or so she’d told herself, but here she was, twenty-three years later. Still hurting. Still angry. And still afraid.

  Time to deal, Faith. Do it now. Resolute, she walked around the house before she could change her mind, not realizing that she was holding her breath until it came rushing out.

  There it was, off in the corner of the back yard. A respectable distance from the house, as Gran had always said. Someone had kept it tidy all these years, pulling the weeds, cutting the grass around the wrought-iron fence, fashioned in the same style as the one bordering the front. The historical society, Faith remembered. Gran’s attorney had told her that the local historical society paid for the upkeep because the O’Bannion cemetery was a historic landmark.

  Her family was buried here, all the way back to Zeke O’Bannion, who’d died at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862. She knew who rested here, remembered all of their stories because, unlike silver teapots, she’d found their stories riveting. They’d been real people, lived real lives. Like a faithful dog, she’d followed her mother whenever she visited the graves, helping her pull weeds, hanging on her every word as she talked about their ancestors.

  Faith pushed at the gate, frowning when it refused to budge. A glance down revealed the issue – a padlock. Her grandmother’s attorney hadn’t given her any other keys, so she walked around the fence until she came to the most recent headstone, carved in black marble.

  It was a double stone, the inscription on the left weathered over twenty-three years. Tobias William O’Bannion. Faith remembered her grandfather as a stern, severe man who’d attended Mass every single day of his life. Probably to confess to losing his temper, she thought wryly. He’d had a wicked one.

  The inscription on the other side of the black marble was crisp and new. Barbara Agnes Corcoran O’Bannion. Beloved wife, mother, grandmother. Philanthropist.

  Most of that was true. Gran had been a strong supporter of a number of charities. And Tobias had loved her in his own way. I loved her. Enough, in fact, to have taken her name.

  Most of her children had loved her. Faith’s mother’s younger brother, Jordan, had taken care of her uncomplainingly until she’d drawn her last breath. Faith’s mother had been devoted to her, although Faith wasn’t sure how much of her devotion had been love. And the jury was out on Jeremy, her grandmother’s only other living child. He was . . . estranged.

  Faith’s grandmother had been quietly laid to rest next to her husband in a very private service, with only her priest and Faith’s uncle Jordan in attendance, in accordance with her grandmother’s wishes. Faith thought it was likely due to the fact that Tobias’s funeral had become a bitter battleground that had shattered the O’Bannion family.

  And her own little family as well, she thought as she moved past the next five headstones, all children of Barbara and Tobias who had not survived into adulthood. She stopped at the sixth stone. Its design was identical to that of her grandparents, the inscription as weathered as Tobias’s. Not surprising, since they’d been bought and carved at the same time.

  One side, her father’s, was mercifully blank. The other bore a terrible lie.

  Margaret O’Bannion Sullivan. Beloved wife and mother.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ Faith murmured. ‘It’s been a while.’

  As if in response, a high-pitched scream floated across the air. Startled, Faith did a three-sixty, looking for the source, but saw nothing. No one had followed her, of that she’d made certain. There was nothing like being stalked to teach a woman to be careful.

  No one was here. It was just Faith, the house, and the fifty acres of fallow farmland that was all that remained of the O’Bannion family holdings. She patted the pocket of her jacket, calmed by the presence of her gun. ‘It was a dog howling,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s all.’

  Or it could have simply been her mind playing tricks, echoing the scream from her nightmares. Twelve steps and a basement. Sometimes she woke from the nightmare to find herself screaming for real, which had scared the hell out of her ex-husband – a fact that gave Faith a level of satisfaction th
at was admittedly immature. Officer Charlie Frye deserved a hell of a lot more than a start in the night for what he’d done.

  Her mother had done so much worse to her dad. ‘Dad deserved a hell of a lot better than what you did to him. So did I. I still do.’ She hesitated, then spat the words out. ‘I have hated you for twenty-three years. I lied for you. I lied to Dad so that he’d never know what you did. So if you meant to hurt him, you failed. If you meant to hurt me, then congratulations. You hit the bulls-eye.’

  It suddenly occurred to her that her best revenge might be to live as her mother had always expected to – as mistress of the manor. It was almost enough to make Faith smile, but the memory of her father’s devastation made her angry all over again.

  The thought of her father brought to mind the promise she’d made. Reluctantly she snapped a photo of Margaret’s headstone with her phone and texted it to her dad. He’d made a pilgrimage to her grave every few years, but a recent stroke had him housebound. Faith had promised him the photo so he’d know for sure that the grave was okay.

  Got here safely, she typed. All is well. Mama’s grave is –

  Her finger paused as she searched for the right words, rejecting all the wrong ones that would be sure to hurt her father, who still believed the inscription to be true. ‘Well cared for’ was honest, she decided, so she typed it. Will call from the hotel.

  She didn’t dare call now. Standing here looking at her mother’s headstone . . . She wouldn’t be able to keep the bitterness from her voice. Swallowing hard, she hit send, then turned back to her Jeep with a sigh. If she couldn’t get into the house, there was nothing more to be accomplished here today. She’d hit the Wal-Mart near her hotel to buy some cleaning supplies and turn in early. She had a busy day tomorrow.

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 6.05 P.M.

  His hand froze mid strike as the light in the ceiling began to flash. What the hell?

  The alarm. Someone was outside.

  ‘Fuck,’ he bit out. It couldn’t be the caretaker. He’d mown the grass a few days before. It was a trespasser. Rage bubbled up, threatening to break free. Someone had the nerve to trespass here? To interrupt him now?

  He glanced down at the young woman on his table. Her mouth was open, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs, her expression one of desperation. It had taken him two fucking days to get her to this point. After fighting him tooth and nail, she’d finally begun to scream.

  She had the most remarkable threshold for pain. He’d be able to play with her for a long, long time. But not right now. Someone had trespassed and needed to be dealt with.

  If he was lucky, it was someone who was lost, looking for directions. When they realized the house was abandoned, they’d leave. If not . . .

  He smiled. He’d have another playmate.

  He put the knife aside, several feet away. Just in case. The woman on his table had proven to be smart and strong. A little too smart and strong for his liking, but he’d soon fix that. The moment his captives’ wills broke, the moment they realized that no one would come to save them, that he was their master for as long as he chose . . . He smiled. That was satisfaction.

  Closing the door behind him, he left the torture room and went to his office. Powering up his laptop, he brought up the cameras, expecting to see a salesman or someone stranded—

  He stared at the monitor, shock rendering him motionless for several long seconds.

  It can’t be. It simply can’t be. But it was. It was her. She was here. Standing at the cemetery fence. Staring at the grave markers, her face as cold as ice.

  How can she be here? He’d seen the news reports, the pictures of her little blue Prius, twisted and smashed. She could not have walked away from that. I know I killed her.

  ‘Fuck,’ he whispered. Obviously he had not. The girl had more lives than a damn cat.

  Go, finish the job. But first he had to make sure she was alone. He switched to the camera out front and got another jolt. A Jeep Cherokee, bright red. Filled with boxes.

  She’d already bought a new car, but at least there were no other passengers. Good. He’d take care of her once and for all. He’d have to catch her unawares because the bitch carried a gun. He couldn’t allow her the opportunity to use it. She’s all alone out there. Kill her now.

  He switched back to the cemetery camera, then cursed again. She had a cell phone out, taking a picture. He ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Skidded to a stop at the back door and peered through the gap between the boards that covered its window.

  His heart sank. She was typing into the phone, giving it a final tap.

  She’d sent a text. She’d texted a damn photo.

  Somebody would know she’d been here. He couldn’t kill her now. Not here. Never here. Disappointment mixed with his panic. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the law coming around, poking in his business. Or even worse, the press.

  Find her and kill her, but not here. He edged his way to the front room, peered out of the window. His pulse pounding in his head, he watched her get in the Jeep and drive away.

  Part of him wanted to jump in his van and follow her. To kill her now.

  But he made himself slow down and think. He liked to plan. To know exactly what he’d do at every phase of a hunt. At the moment he was too rattled – and anyone would be, seeing her at the cemetery like that. He’d been so sure he’d killed her. But she was obviously quite alive.

  That would soon be remedied.

  He drew a deep breath. He was calming down now. More in control. This was better. A rattled man made mistakes. Mistakes drew attention, requiring even more drastic clean-up. This he had learned the hard way.

  He’d find her easily enough. He’d followed her long enough to know her preference in hotels – and Faith was even more of a creature of habit than he was. Although she’d surprised him with the Jeep. A red one, even. That didn’t seem to be her style, but perhaps she’d been forced to be less choosy when her old car had become a pile of twisted metal.

  How she’d walked away from the wreck was a detail that she would divulge. Before he killed her. Because he would kill her. He’d find her and lure her someplace else and end her, once and for all. Nobody could come looking for her here, to this place. My place. Nobody could know. They’d spoil everything. Everything he’d built. Everything he treasured.

  They’ll take my things. My things. That would not happen. Think carefully. Plan.

  Flinching at a sudden pain in his hand, he looked down to realize he was holding his keys in a white-knuckled fist. He was more rattled than he’d thought.

  Which was . . . normal, he supposed. But ultimately unnecessary. She’s just a woman, just like all the others. Easily overpowered. When he found her, she’d be sorry she’d threatened him.

  Except . . . Faith wasn’t easily overpowered. He’d tried to kill her too many times. She’d become careful, aloof. Now she never allowed herself to be unprotected. So he’d just have to work a little harder to lure her to a place of his choosing. And if you don’t manage to lure her far enough away? If she comes back here? If she tries to come in?

  Then he’d have to kill her here, which might bring the cops. They’ll take my things.

  He drew a deep breath, let it out. Refused to allow the panic to overwhelm him. He would not lose his things. If he had to, he’d move them. All of them.

  Nobody will ever take my things again. Not now. Not ever.

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 6.20 P.M.

  Once Faith had reached the paved road, she began dictating a new to-do list into her phone. Her lists had helped her stay sane, enabling her to accomplish everything she’d needed to do to leave Miami as Faith Corcoran, leaving Faith Frye behind in an insanely short period of time.

  She’d learned the magic of lists after her mother died and her father began turning to the bottle for comfort. She’d had to run their little household back then and she’d only been nine years old. Lists were her salvatio
n.

  Tomorrow she’d contact her grandmother’s attorney to get the correct house key, and then call the utilities to have the power and water turned on. She’d need a landline, too, because cell service was spotty out—

  Oh no. Her heart sank as she realized what she’d forgotten. Cell service. Dammit. She stared at the phone she held clutched in her hand. She’d changed her name, her address, her driver’s license and credit cards, but she hadn’t changed her cell phone number.

  Irritation swept through her. How the hell had she forgotten about her phone? Not only was it still in her old name, it was a damn homing signal.

  She stopped the Jeep in the middle of the road and pulled the chip from the phone. She’d get a new one tomorrow. An untraceable one, just like some of her former ex-con clients carried.

  Then once she got all her ducks in a row, she’d return to the house to begin what was sure to be a massive clean-up job. Correction. It’s not the house. It’s your house. Get used to saying it, and going inside next time will be a lot easier.

  Relax. You left Peter Combs in Miami. No one is stalking you. No one is trying to kill you. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 10.15 P.M.

  Arianna Escobar came to with a gasp, then held her breath, listening hard. She heard nothing. If he was in the room with her, he was holding his breath as well. She waited until she could hold her breath no longer. Air rushed out, and with it, a moan. She’d tried so hard to suppress the moans.

  He loved her moans, she’d learned. He loved her agonized screams even more.

  At the beginning, she’d been determined to give him neither. To give him no satisfaction.

  But he’d hurt her. A whimper escaped her pursed lips. With knives and . . . Another whimper escaped. She’d gritted her teeth and bitten her tongue until she couldn’t take the pain another second more. She’d screamed then, delighting him.