by Mary Stone
Lips pursed, Winter paused to look thoughtful. “I guess,” she finally said.
“No.” Autumn shook her head again. “Not ‘I guess.’ It’s true. Stress has a million and a half negative effects on the body, not to mention what it does to your brain. When you’re stressed, your brain defaults to its ‘fight or flight’ response. We used to be a bunch of cavemen hunting wooly mammoths, so a stress response is, physically speaking, still roughly the same. Immune system suppression, heightened blood pressure, slower metabolism, all kinds of physical attributes.”
Winter squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s just, you know what happened to my family, right?”
Autumn nodded.
“Well, I guess that’s at the start of this whole thing. Douglas Kilroy.” When Winter glanced back to Autumn, she looked even more tired than she had before, as if saying The Preacher’s real name drained some of the life from her. “Him killing my parents and taking Justin is the whole reason I was so determined to join the FBI. He’s why I put aside everything remotely normal for myself and just focused on passing the physical exam and making it through Quantico. I wanted to track him down, and I knew that the bureau had the most resources out of all the different law enforcement agencies across the country.”
Tucking one leg beneath herself, Autumn turned more fully to face her friend. “That makes sense to me, honestly. Everyone deals with trauma in different ways. Your way of dealing with it was to do something about it.”
Winter tugged on a lock of her long hair. “I based my whole life on him, though. And now that he’s dead, I just can’t help but wonder if I’m even doing what I should be doing at this point. I just feel…rudderless. Or, at least I did until I got, um, another case to work.”
Autumn could tell there was more to Winter’s “other case,” but she would circle back to that. “And that’s a totally valid way to feel. What Kilroy did was a big part of your motivation to join the FBI, but if that revenge was all that was driving you, I don’t think you’d have made it as far as you have. Plus, Kilroy wasn’t the only part of it, you know? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You like working for the bureau, right?”
Winter didn’t seem quite so tired when she nodded. “Of course. It’s stressful as hell, but it’s rewarding.”
“See.” Autumn flashed her a grin. “This might seem like pretty weird advice from someone with a Ph.D. in psychology, but honestly, just roll with it. The path you took to get where you are might be a weird one, but as long as you’re in a place where you can build a life for yourself, then you must’ve done something right.”
Leaning against the cushion at her back, Winter turned her gaze to the ceiling. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it that way. In my mind, it was always black and white. Either that’s what I was there for, or it wasn’t.”
“Wanting that vengeance, that closure, and wanting to help people aren’t mutually exclusive. You know those people’s pain better than anyone, so it seems to me that you’re a great person to help them. And it doesn’t mean you can’t change too. You’re not a robot or a ghost. Just because you carried out your mission or resolved your turmoil doesn’t mean you vanish. Maybe you’ve got to find out a little more about who you are, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”
Winter chuckled, though the sound was quiet. “I can definitely see why you’re doing so well as a psychologist. I guess that’s as good a way to bring up the rest of this as anything.”
The haunted shadow had moved back in behind Winter’s blue eyes. Whatever was on her mind was much more palpable than questioning her life’s path.
A shiver worked its way down Autumn’s back, and she reflexively rubbed her bare forearms. Her so-called sixth sense was useful, but sometimes, she wished she had the brain of a normal person. She could deal without the foreboding chills and unexpected rushes of anxiety—especially other people’s anxiety.
“The rest of this?” Autumn prompted.
Fidgeting with the drawstring of her gray hoodie, Winter shifted her gaze back to Autumn. “A couple weeks ago, just before Tyler Haldane was shot and killed, I got an email. It said, ‘hey sis, heard you’ve been looking for me.’”
The hair on Autumn’s arms stood on end. “Sis? You think the email is from your missing brother?” She tried to think through everything she knew. “Weren’t you guys looking for him before the Catherine Schmidt case?”
The expression on Winter’s face turned grave as she nodded. “Yeah. We couldn’t find him. And the kid we thought might be him was using a fake ID, and no one at the high school he graduated from knew where he went. I handed that email off to Cyber Crimes, and they traced the location it was sent from.”
As Autumn met Winter’s eyes, she forced herself to not look as anxious as she felt. “Where?”
“Harrisonburg.”
Autumn didn’t have to ask for an elaboration. She knew where Winter had lived when her parents were murdered and her brother kidnapped.
“This is going to sound crazy, but I need to go to that town. To the house. I don’t know how I know it. I didn’t get a vision or anything, but I know there’s going to be something at that house. The tech people said that Justin masked the device ID he used to send the email, and he could’ve masked his location. But he didn’t.”
The chill of apprehension coursed freely through Autumn’s veins. “That doesn’t sound crazy.”
But just because Winter’s theory had sound reasoning didn’t mean that her mental state was solid. Whether due to her sixth sense or not, Autumn could tell that Winter was in a precarious emotional space. As disconcerting as the cryptic email felt and as much as her knee-jerk reaction was to stay as far away from that house as possible, her friend needed help.
Autumn swallowed against the rising bile in the back of her throat. “Is there some sort of protocol we should follow? Since it’s part of an investigation and all?”
Winter shook her head. “No, if I try to take this to anyone at the bureau, they’ll think I’m insane. It’s just a hunch, and I’ve got nothing substantial to back it up. If I see anything suspicious, then I’ll call it in. But right now, honestly, I just need to know if anything is there.”
“Okay,” Autumn replied before she could think more about what she was about to agree to do. “I’ll go with you. In fact, I’ll even drive. I got a new car, and it gets ridiculous gas mileage.”
Though slight, Winter’s lips curved into a smile. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I can go myself and just let you know what I find. If I find anything at all.”
Autumn waved a dismissive hand as she rose to stand. “Please, it’s what friends are for. If I remember right, you tracked down a serial killer mad scientist who was trying to cut open my head to steal my brain. The least I can do is go with you to some creepy old house to look for clues.”
At the remark, Winter’s smile seemed less strained.
Autumn could only hope that all they were about to do was look for clues.
She knew that Winter wanted to find her brother, but Autumn hoped they didn’t. Not there, not at that house.
The loss and the uncertainty around her brother’s disappearance weighed heavily on Winter, but the Justin Black Winter once knew had died on the same night as their parents.
Who she would find in Justin’s stead? Autumn honestly didn’t want to know.
6
The jingle of a cheery ringtone jerked Eric Dalton out of his slumber as his phone buzzed against the wooden surface of a nightstand. He wondered for a second if he was home, if the entire trip to Virginia had been some type of fever-induced dream. But before he even opened his eyes, he knew the sentiments were wishful thinking.
With a groan, he reached to the nightstand and groped for the archaic flip phone. The screen of his smartphone was still dark, but the front-facing display of the prepaid phone glowed as another jingle sounded out. He didn�
�t recognize the number, but with them, he never did.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Hello, Mr. Dalton,” a familiar voice replied.
The greeting was laden with the man’s native Russian accent, and even though Eric had never met him in person, the same picture popped into his mind for each of their interactions.
A tall, burly fellow dressed in a three-piece suit, cigar in one hand, cell phone in the other, reclined against an expensive leather chair. Maybe there was a tiger curled up at his feet, or maybe it was a lion. Either way, the tone of the man’s voice and the foreboding edge with which he spoke each word instilled an image of a figure that was only one step removed from a dictator.
“I’m in Richmond,” Eric blurted. “I told you, I’m going to keep up my end of this thing. But my…” he licked his lips, “my son, we aren’t exactly close. I still have a week, don’t I?”
“You have only six days.” The response was equal parts icy and amused. God, Eric hoped he never had to meet this man in person. Moreover, he hoped his daughter never had to meet the man in person.
“I’ll get it done. I’ll get you that address.”
“Yes, you will. If you fail, your daughter will die just as your son-in-law will die.”
“What?” The word burst from Eric on a rush of surprise. The night that Natalie had been kidnapped, he had received a call from a different Russian to advise that she would be held until he completed his end of their agreement. But they hadn’t mentioned Jonathan. “That wasn’t part of this! He wasn’t supposed to be involved in any of this!”
“Maybe,” the Russian replied. “But that has now changed. He was shot in the stomach, Mr. Dalton. You were in the military, were you not? You know what happens when a person receives a wound such as this and does not make it to the hospital, yes?”
“Oh my god,” was all Eric could manage.
“Maybe, just maybe,” the Russian went on. “If you prove to be fast enough, you can save his life too. You should hurry, though. It was a low caliber shot, but he has lost much blood. I do not imagine he has much time left.”
With a light click, the line went silent.
Eric snapped a long string of words he once used on a daily basis during his military days. He flipped the cheap phone closed and dropped it to the carpeted floor with a thud. Squeezing his eyes closed, he covered his face with both hands.
How had he let all this happen?
He told Special Agent Stafford the truth the day before. He did owe the Russians money because he and Kelly had been saddled with a mountain of debt after her accident.
What he hadn’t fully shared, what he hadn’t told even Kelly, was that the bill should have been much, much lower. The intensive surgeries were expensive enough, but after Kelly lost her leg, she’d been devastated.
His interest in the outdoors and in sports had come from his wife. Ever since they were first introduced during a layover in Baltimore, she had been an active woman. Her passion for physical activity, fitness, and helping others had been the driving force behind her decision to open a yoga studio. After she quit her job as a tax accountant, she rented out a cramped section of a strip mall, and the rest was history.
Their bottom tier insurance had covered a portion of the treatment in the intensive care unit, but the minimal plan didn’t extend to the physical therapy, the prosthetic leg, and prosthetic adjustments that came after the amputation of a major appendage.
So, he had lied to his wife.
He’d told Kelly that the more extensive physical therapy was covered, and he’d changed the address on all the statements to direct them to a P.O. box so she wouldn’t stumble across a past due notification.
If he hadn’t, if she had been forced to return home in a wheelchair or a pair of crutches, Eric wasn’t so sure she would still be alive today. Being active was as much a part of Kelly as flying was to Eric. If she couldn’t do what she loved, her outlook for the future would have been bleak.
Physical therapy was a new form of activity for Kelly, and a new challenge. A challenge she had risen to accept with no second thought. The doctors routinely praised her tenacity, and the physical therapist told Eric that she admired Kelly’s persistence and discipline.
None of those interactions would have been possible if he hadn’t made a deal with the Russians. Maybe he could have sold their house, emptied their retirement savings accounts, or taken on a lower paying job to make the hefty payments, but he had earned his place in the world. He’d been born into abject poverty, and he had seen the toll that financial stress could take on a human being.
He had been there once, and he intended never to go back. For his entire life, he’d worked to provide his family with the finer things. They might not have been upper-class, but they could afford the nice things—designer clothes, name-brand electronics, expensive jewelry—that Eric’s parents had never had. He was here now, and he wouldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back. He didn’t like to think of himself as materialistic, but maybe, on some level, he was.
With Liv, Noah, and Lucy, he hadn’t been able to envision the same type of future for himself that he’d found with Kelly. When he met her on a layover in Baltimore, he had realized almost immediately that he wanted a different lifestyle for himself. He wasn’t proud of his infidelity, but in the end, he was glad for the decision.
In fact, he was pleased with most of the decisions in his life.
Except one. And this one happened to be the mother of all bad decisions.
Eric knew there was no way in hell he would be able to pay back the five hundred thousand dollars he had borrowed from the Russians, but the plan had never been to repay them in money.
They wanted something else. And he needed to deliver.
The Russian operation in Baltimore was up against a RICO case that had been brought on by the Federal Bureau of Investigation some six months earlier. From what they had gleaned from their lawyers, the entire Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations case hinged on the testimony of one key witness, who was now in protective custody.
Since the Russians hadn’t been in Baltimore for long, they didn’t have the same types of law enforcement connections as the Italian crime families or the other organized criminal enterprises that occupied the city.
To them, Eric was their connection.
More specifically, Noah was their connection.
A week. Eric had been granted a week to convince his estranged son to locate a witness in a federal RICO case. The Russians hadn’t elaborated on what would happen once they found the witness, but Eric had seen enough crime shows to use his imagination. Chances were good, their first interaction with Noah wouldn’t be their last, either. They would have dirt on him, and without a doubt, they would leverage that blackmail for all it was worth.
But if Eric didn’t follow through with his end of the arrangement, Natalie would die a slow, painful death.
He had to believe that he’d made the right choice. Noah’s career might be forfeited, but Natalie’s life would be spared. That had to be right.
7
Winter had managed a couple hours of shut-eye on the drive to her hometown, but as soon as they crossed the city limits, she was awake. The drone of the road and the radio were the only sounds. She couldn’t remember the name of the band that played over the speakers of Autumn’s sporty car, but the singer’s eerie voice was fitting.
As they pulled away from a stop sign, Winter glanced down to watch Autumn shift gears. “I think—”
With a sharp intake of breath, Autumn jumped in her seat. “Jesus, Winter. You scared the shit out of me!”
Winter held her hands up in surrender. “Sorry! I was just going to say that you’re the only person I know who drives a manual.”
The green glow from the dashboard caught her silver hoop earrings as Autumn shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ve just been jumpy since we left.”
Winter took in her surroundings
and rubbed her tired eyes. “We’re really close.” They rode for another ten minutes or so in relative silence before she gestured to an upcoming intersection. “Take a right at this stop sign, and then it’s just up that hill a little bit.”
A silence enveloped them as they made the final leg of the journey. The sense of unease in the air between them was palpable. Autumn’s clenched jaw and stiff posture were curious, but Winter didn’t have a chance to give voice to her concern before her eyes settled on it.
It was exactly the same as when she’d last seen it.
The same dusty for-sale sign in the front yard, the same peeling paint, the same boards nailed over the living room window. Claw-like branches of an old maple swayed with the night breeze like a collection of bony fingers grasping at the ruined shingles. Though the light at the end of the street had been fixed, the two-story house still seemed to be cloaked in inky black shadows.
Try as she might, Winter couldn’t pry her stare away from her childhood home. If it was any other house, the sight would be unremarkable. Hell, it could have passed for just another residence that had been foreclosed during the housing market crash of 2008. The timeframe matched.
But Winter knew all too well what had happened behind the nondescript beige walls of that house. She knew the bloodshed, the heartache, and the fear that permeated each and every inch of the two-thousand square feet. Unless the flooring and the drywall had been replaced, the master bedroom would likely still light up like a Christmas tree with a blacklight and a little Luminol.
She’d thought she was past this. She thought she had conquered the unrelenting sense of loss when she watched the back of Douglas Kilroy’s head spatter the dusty floor of an abandoned church.
