by Stacy Green
“What theory?” Avery and Emilie fired off the same question. The detective looked furious, but Emilie desperately wanted to hear more.
“Madigan thinks your attacker chose the tunnels because they’re symbolic to him,” Ronson said. “Representative of Dante’s journey to hell and a possible form of penance for kidnapping you.”
It made sense to Emilie and somehow sounded exactly like the man she feared. “But how does that help you catch him?”
Ronson messed with her short hair. “It’s just another piece of the puzzle. It gives us a better idea of his state of mind, and it might help us predict his next move. If he’s got to go through some ritual, he’s not going to grab you off the streets. He’s going to construct another elaborate plan that will satisfy his need for repentance.”
That should probably make Emilie feel better, but it only made her more confused and angry. The more complicated Creepy was, the harder to catch him. “So how does some rich art enthusiast end up trolling the Las Vegas tunnels?”
“Could be the bottom fell out at some point,” Ronson said. “Maybe he was already heading down the drain—no pun intended—when he met you and just grasping at some semblance of his old life. Or maybe he’s still rich.”
“And the tunnels have deep meaning to him?”
“They’re a good place to stash a body,” Avery said.
Ronson shot a reproachful glance at him. “This man is a predator. Something about you triggered an emotional response within him. From the moment he realized this connection, however imagined it may be, he decided to pursue you. But I agree with Madigan—a part of him feels guilty at this choice, so he must also pay an imagined price for it. The sketch artist is on her way for a new composite. When are you being released?”
Emilie shook as if she’d been doused with ice water. “Tomorrow. Apparently I need rest and nourishment.”
“I want you to think about hypnotherapy,” Ronson said. “It could help unlock more details you’ve forgotten.”
“Are you serious?” Avery laughed. “That mental mumbo-jumbo is a joke.”
“No, it’s not.” Ronson’s controlled voice had a sharp edge. “Hypnosis has been successful in treating addictions, medical issues, and in memory retrieval. You’d be amazed at what some people are able to remember.”
“I’m not sure.” Emilie twisted the sheet. Exposing her life for a few little details that probably wouldn’t help the case wasn’t worth the risk. She’d kept her secret too long to have it stolen from her by some medical magician.
“Just think about it.” Ronson left with Avery, and Emilie lay back down in the bed, staring at Le lac d’Annecy. Art no longer represented peace of mind but darkness instead—a living, breathing entity waiting to snare her within its labyrinth forever.
* * * *
NATHAN KNOCKED AND hoped there would be no answer. What the hell was he doing? Getting close to Emilie Davis was only going to complicate his life and prove Avery right. But he couldn’t stop worrying about her, and now here he was, stepping into something that was going to get him into trouble.
“Come in.” Emilie’s voice sounded weak.
He pushed open the door. She lay in bed, her auburn hair spilling over the stark white pillow. She held an ice pack to her head. Her skin was ghostly pale with dark circles under her eyes. An IV stuck out of her right arm.
“Nathan.” Emilie sat up and smoothed her hair, blushing. “You’re pretty much the last person I expected to see.” She set the ice on the bedside table.
“Why?” He sat down in the chair next to her bed.
“Do you usually check in on old cases?”
“Honestly, no. But Ronson told me you were in the hospital. I wanted to stop by.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He felt his ears turning red. “How are you?”
“Pretty shitty. I’m sure I look even worse.”
“You look fine.”
She pulled the sheet tightly around her.
“Here.” Nathan grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed and spread it over her. “Get warm.”
“I had another flashback.” She played with the hem of the sheet. The tips of her ears were pink.
“I heard. You wanna talk about it?”
“I told Ronson everything I remembered. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Not the details.”
Emilie looked down at her hands. “He talked to me about being afraid of the dark. Said darkness was our friend and that sometimes we have no choice but to stay there. I freaked out. Thought for sure he was in the apartment with me.”
“He wasn’t there.” Nathan hoped his tone was reassuring instead of condescending.
“I know, but I saw his face before I passed out. I’ve met him before, at an art exhibit at the Bellagio in December. He looked different, but I know it was Creepy.” She closed her eyes. “In the art gallery, we talked about history. That day in the bank, he repeated my exact words.”
“You’re sure?”
Emilie nodded. “His eyes were the same. I’ll never forget those.”
So Creepy had been stalking Emilie for at least six months, maybe longer. The exhibit may have just been the first time he’d gotten the nerve to talk to her.
“That’s good,” Nathan said. “That you remembered, I mean. It will help Ronson.”
“She told me about your Dante theory.”
Nathan picked at his bandage. “It’s just a theory.”
“Ronson believes it. So do I.” Emilie sipped her water, eyeing Nathan over the rim of the cup. He shifted in the chair, aware of every movement of his limbs and unsure of what to say.
Emilie sat the cup down. “She wants me to get hypnotized.”
“It works,” Nathan jumped at the chance to break the awkward silence. “My sister uses it in her practice.”
Emilie looked down at the sheets, her forehead lined with deep wrinkles. “I’m sure there’s nothing else to remember.”
“How do you know? You’d completely forgotten about the art gallery.” She needed to talk to a therapist anyway. Getting hypnotized might give Ronson a break.
“And now I remember it. Nothing else happened that night.” Her words came out fast and clipped.
Nathan skirted her growing frustration. Emilie needed to do this for her own good. “But maybe there are other encounters—ones you don’t remember because they didn’t seem relevant. Hypnosis could bring those out.”
“I don’t think so.”
Don’t you want to help yourself? Nathan wanted to yell at her. What about getting Creepy off the streets? He’s a menace to anyone who gets in his way.
He didn’t understand how she could just surrender so easily. “You’re making it easy for him, you know.”
“What?”
It wasn’t his place to lecture her. He didn’t really know Emilie at all, and getting involved in someone else’s messed up life was never a good idea. But Nathan couldn’t let her sit here in denial while Creepy made his plans. “This bastard is out there. Probably still watching you every day. He sees you falling apart, growing weaker. Think about it. If he snatched you today, would you have the will to fight? Or would you submit to whatever misery he has planned?”
“You think I wouldn’t fight?” Emilie sat up straighter, anger flashing in her eyes.
“I think you’re mentally exhausted, and I don’t blame you.” Nathan tried to sound empathetic. “I think you’d give in to ease the torment.”
“So what if I did? At least it would be over.” Her chin dropped to her chest, her long hair blocking his view of her face.
“That would just be the beginning.” No reason to dance around the situation. Emilie needed to see things clearly while she had the chance. “I don’t think he wants to kill you.”
She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “You think he wants to keep me?”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “He wants to own you. And by pushing everything away, you may as well be offerin
g yourself to him.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” She raised her hands and then slapped them on the bed rails. “I can’t fight someone I can’t see.”
“Whatever you can.” Nathan had never met a more stubborn woman. He leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. “You have to do anything you can think of to beat him.”
She froze, glancing at the miniscule space between them. Nathan sat back.
“There’s too much at stake,” Emilie whispered.
“What’s more important than your life?”
She lay back down, curling into a ball. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right, I probably wouldn’t.” Nathan pulled out his wallet and fished out a white business card. “If you come to your senses, give Kelsi a call. She’s very good at what she does.”
He grabbed the complementary hospital pen from the bedside table and scribbled on the back of the card. “My number. If you ever want to talk about what’s really holding you back, let me know.” He laid the card on the table.
Emilie rolled over, putting her back to him and ending the conversation. Nathan paused at the door. “Whatever you’re afraid of, it can’t be as bad as what Creepy has in store for you.”
17
THE BRIGHT MORNING sun stretched over the McCullough Mountain Range, the sloping mountains that lay just east of Emilie’s condo. She watched the sky turn from a cool early-morning gray to brilliant hues of pink and orange. The sunshine made the black rocks of the mountains look like glittering jewels. Mémé had loved sunrises. She was often up before dawn just to watch the sky come alive.
“Every day is a new beginning, my child,” she would tell Emilie. “Whatever bad things may have happened the day before are washed away.”
But Emilie couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the mountains this morning. Today was her first day back to work, and the rising sun taunted her as the minutes ticked away.
Otis stretched out next to her and pawed the silver bell hanging from the delicate chain around her neck. She thought about what Nathan had said in the hospital. He was right. Emilie just couldn’t bring herself to reveal the story. She didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want to see their looks of pity. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.
What would Nathan think if he knew the truth of my past?
The sun climbed higher. The light hit the small squares of stained glass in her bedroom window, and a rainbow of colors danced across the wall. Emilie climbed out of bed. Time to face the inevitable.
She meandered through her morning routine, sipping a cup of hot tea over a bowl of oatmeal, while waging an internal battle. Jeremy would give her more time. She could put off life for another week.
Her anxiety was about more than the scene of the crime. She would have to face her coworkers. They’d undoubtedly read the newspapers. Emilie pictured conversation stopping every time she walked into a room and hushed whispers when her back was turned. Worse yet, what if one of them had helped Creepy? Ronson had found no evidence any of the bank’s employees had been involved, but she hadn’t ruled the option out. If the co-conspirator worked in the bank, Emilie’s every move could be reported back to the man stalking her.
She pinched her bottom lip. Banged her knuckles against the table. To hell with her pathetic worries. She wasn’t going to let one obsessed freak control her life.
Grim determination set in. Emilie rinsed her cup and bowl and set them carefully in the sink. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she pulled her thick hair into a neat twist, letting a few tendrils escape. Her bruises were mostly gone, and a light coat of foundation covered the remnants. She sifted through her closet and chose a sleeveless purple dress with a belted waist. Purple represented good judgment and peace of mind. Hopefully if he was indeed watching, Creepy would get the message.
WestOne Bank looked just as it always did, its large windows reflecting the busy flow of Fremont Street. The yellow crime tape was long gone. Fresh planters full of sage and wildflowers stood along the bank’s front. Emilie parked in her designated space next to Jeremy’s black Lexus and sat in her car. She clenched the steering wheel until her hands ached.
Emilie blasted the air conditioning and tried to relax. I can do this. She had no other choice. Fear and self-doubt had caused her to waste sixteen years of her life. I won’t let them win again.
She threw open the car door and stood on shaky legs. Like any other morning, the aroma of fresh doughnuts drifted from a nearby bakery, and the sidewalk was full of people hurrying to work.
Her heels thudded against the cement as she walked toward the employee entrance. A prickly sensation at the back of her neck alerted her nervous system. Chill bumps erupted on her skin.
The normally noisy street was silent, the pressure of the quiet making her feel weighted down and breathless. She looked around, terrified of what she might see. A chubby woman in orthopedic shoes trod past the bank, muttering into a cellphone. Two tourists—the fact made obvious by their T-shirts boasting the obnoxious “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” slogan—came out of the bakery clutching coffee and an enormous box of sweets.
A dark blue sedan was parked across the street. A man sat inside, but Emilie couldn’t make out his features or skin tone. Was this Creepy? She froze in mid-stride.
Then she remembered—Ronson had placed undercover officers at the bank. The sedan must belong to them. Idiot. I have to get a grip on myself if I’m going to make it through the day.
WestOne’s lobby resembled nothing of the chaos it had been in when she’d last seen it.
Fresh paint covered the bullet holes in the drywall. Two more new, large planters bloomed with vibrantly colored fake flowers at either end of the teller’s counter.
Jeremy waited for her near the counter. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Yes.”
“You can work with me if you want.”
“Thanks, but Lisa already complains about preferential treatment. And I’m sure my desk is overloaded.”
“I’ll let you get to it, then.”
She flipped on the lights in her office. Nothing had changed. A mound of paperwork awaited her. She sifted through the mess hoping routine would drown the nervous energy rippling through her body. Two customers had complaints about their checking account balances, a real-estate developer wanted additional financing, and several qualified individuals had applied for the recently vacated teller position.
One by one, employees knocked on her door to welcome her back. Emilie searched their faces for any sign of insincerity.
Mollie and Miranda both hugged her and offered to help her catch up on work. Emilie declined. She needed to hole up in her office and lose herself in numbers for a while.
Lisa was the last to arrive. Ronson had released a statement to the press that bank employees had been cleared, but Emilie knew Lisa was still on the list.
“I see you’ve come back.” Lisa didn’t bother to knock. She leaned on the door frame, stick-thin in the black dress she wore. Her over-processed blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Thick makeup covered the blemishes on her cheeks. “Sure you’re ready for that?”
“Yep.”
Lisa’s eyes gleamed. “Didn’t you just have a breakdown?”
“No.” Emilie chewed back a nasty comment. Lisa never liked her, but things got worse when Emilie was promoted to branch manager. Petty jealousy and high school antics were a weekly occurrence, but Lisa’s numbers as a loan officer were too good to fire her. For now.
“That’s what the newspaper said.”
“Newspaper was wrong.” Emilie slammed her hand down on the stapler. Too bad she couldn’t staple Lisa’s mouth shut.
“Cops interviewed me, you know.”
“I’m sure they talked to all the employees.”
“They did.” Lisa folded her skinny arms across her small chest. “But they talked to me more than once. Someone thought I had motive to hurt you.”
“Get to the point.” Emilie’s patience was down to a sliver.
“My point is that you must have told them I could be involved. I don’t appreciate that.”
“Anything else?”
Lisa stepped into the office and ran her finger over the nameplate on Emilie’s desk. “Just that you should be careful. The bad guy is still out there, and the cops know nothing about him. With all the effort he put into trying to kidnap you, I bet he’s going to try again.” Lisa’s smile was about as real as her hair color.
“I will be.” Emilie looked at the clock. “Past nine. We should both get back to work.”
“Of course. Welcome back.”
“Thanks.” Too bad throwing the stapler at Lisa’s head would be considered assault. “Would you shut the door on your way out? I have so much work to catch up on.”
“Sure.”
As she passed the office’s window, Emilie was certain Lisa winked at her.
Had she just been warned?
* * * *
NATHAN AND JOHNSON peered through the two-way glass in one of the station’s interrogation rooms. A man sat alone in the small, gray room, his shoulders hunched over and his forehead resting on his hands.
The man, whose name was Rod Burrell, wore ratty cast-offs. His brown cargo pants were frayed at the cuffs and his red T-shirt worn thin. His generic work boots were scuffed, and one was missing a lace. A large knapsack rested near his feet. Nathan guessed it held Burrell’s worldly possessions. He wore a dingy white cap, his brown hair curling around the cap’s edges.
“What’s his story?”
“He used to work at White Knights Cleaning Service,” Johnson said. “They clean WestOne Bank. Ronson said this guy was fired eight months ago and wound up in the tunnels.”
“He’s seen our stalker?”
“That’s what he says.”
Nathan shifted his attention as Ronson entered the room looking cool and collected. Two steps behind her, Avery faltered. He clamped his hand over his nose and mouth.
“Pussy,” Johnson chortled. “What’d he expect? The dude’s been living in the tunnels. Showers aren’t easy to come by.”
