by Alana Terry
Watching Their Steps
Christy Barritt
Alana Terry
Heather Day Gilbert
C.C. Warrens
Chautona Havig
© 2019 Watching Their Steps: A GraceReads Christian Suspense Collection
The individual titles of this collection remain the intellectual property of the author and are used by permission in this collection.
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The events and people in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental
Fonts: Garamond, Eras Medium, Charcoal CY, Alex Brush, Eterea Pro
Cover photos: snvv/depositphotos.com
Cover Art: Chautona Havig
Table of Contents
Watching Their Steps
The Wrecking
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
From the Author
Identity Theft
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
From the Author
Out of Circulation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Criss Cross
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
From the Author
Justified Means
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
From the Author
The Wrecking
Christy Barritt
Chapter 1
SAMANTHA WHITE NEVER knew fear had a sound until now. With her eyes covered, she could only listen.
She’d heard the noise of crystalized snow crunching beneath heavy footsteps, footsteps that brought with them the uncertainty about her future—about whether she would live or die.
She’d listened to the heavy breathing of someone who was nervous and hovering over her as he plotted her next hours in captivity.
If she closed her eyes, she remembered the flinch-inducing creak of an old door opening, the crackle of a fireplace that didn’t remind her of warmth but of the devil, and she remembered . . . silence.
Silence was what she heard when her abductor left her all alone.
Then there was no fire. No footsteps. No heavy breathing.
Except maybe her own.
And she could see nothing.
Not because she was blind. But because of the hood that had been pulled down over her head.
When the man had first covered her head, Samantha had tried to manipulate her body by rubbing her upper half against the couch behind her. She lunged forward and tried to catch the fabric between her knees.
All during the silence.
Of course.
But nothing worked.
She wasn’t sure which fear was worse—the fear that she would continue to live this nightmare or the fear that she would die.
She’d heard the stories on the news. Heard the town scuttlebutt. Listened to her friends whisper their fears as if children talking about the boogieman. Only they weren’t children. And this boogieman was real.
A serial killer had chosen their peaceful, quiet county for his hunting ground. He’d already taken the lives of seven women.
Seven women whose cars had broken down on the side of the road. Seven women who’d been alone in the crevices of these Virginia mountains, a place where cell service was as scarce as the local’s piece of mind since this rampage had started sixteen months ago.
Women tried not to go anywhere alone—but at times it couldn’t be avoided. And that was when he struck.
The media had dubbed him the Grim Wrecker—though not all the women had wrecked. Samantha’s tire had popped on an icy, secluded road. She’d guess her abductor had planned it that way. Perhaps her abductor had followed her—watched her—and he’d planned down to the last detail how he would grab her.
Except she hadn’t even been driving her car. No, she’d borrowed her best friend Elise’s car since her own vehicle was in the shop. And Samantha hadn’t intended on going out alone, but her mom needed an inhaler. So Samantha had driven to the pharmacy. It hadn’t been late or far away. But then she’d run into Hank Turner, and he’d talked her ear off. He’d even offered to give her a ride home after they’d wrapped their co
nversation, but she’d refused.
After all, tragedy happened to other people.
But this time, tragedy had happened to Samantha.
When she’d heard the pop of her tire, she knew she was in trouble. But before she could react, her car had lurched out of control on a patch of black ice. Her head hit the steering wheel. And everything went black.
She’d woken up here, in the cabin. Her hands and feet were bound. The rope holding her hands had been attached to something on the couch—the frame of a sofa bed beneath the cushions maybe.
It had been two days since her nightmare began. Two days with no food or drink.
The man hadn’t hurt her, per se. But he’d watched her. Observed her. Even draped a blanket over her.
What was he planning? When would it begin? How would it end?
Her breath caught.
She heard a sound in the distance. Another round of panic seized her.
Tires crunched across gravel. A door slammed. Footsteps stomped on a wooden porch.
He was back.
Not only that, but it was the third day. She’d followed the news enough to know that was the day the Grim Wrecker always killed his victims.
She let out a guttural cry at the thought.
And the sound of fear surrounded her again as death drew closer.
Chapter 2
IT HAD BEEN 1,032 DAYS since the sound of hope had first found her.
The sound of voices in the background. Heavy feet. Hands reaching for her. Her mask being pulled from her head, light blinding her eyes, and the image of three hunters leering at her. Stumbling across her. Rescuing her.
Samantha had prayed that with the hope, the fear would disappear. But nearly three years later, that hadn’t been the case. Fear always found her, especially in the silence.
Just as she did daily, Samantha opened the front door to her mountain bungalow in Shivering Falls, Virginia, ready to head to work. Ready to do the one thing that made her feel like she could make things right.
Working with victims of abuse for a local nonprofit was a labor of love.
Maybe if Samantha could help someone else, she could somehow help herself. Maybe she could find healing for her own bruised soul. The prospect of life ever returning to normal seemed like a distant dream.
She stared at her front yard a moment. This place was her haven—her own little one-acre refuge in the mountains. The seclusion might bring some people terror, but to her it felt peaceful, especially on calm days when she could hear the trickle of the creek behind her house.
The creek sounded so peaceful with its leaps and bounds and carefree jaunts.
Except for today.
Today, Samantha couldn’t hear the creek, which could only mean one thing—that it was frozen.
This day was gray and dreary, which seemed fitting. Samantha had always liked stormy, turbulent days, but lately this kind of weather matched her moods. And, though most people would think these conditions less than ideal, this brisk day was one more day of living with freedom instead of tyranny.
She’d learned to appreciate that fact.
She pulled on her insulated slicker and opened the storm door, surprised by how sharp the wind was and how frigid the air felt. Forecasters said they might get some snow here in the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia, even though it was only mid-October. Temperatures had dipped unseasonably low this week.
Though she liked storms, something about snow always made her wary. Made her want to freeze right along with the creek behind her house. Took her back in time.
Her psychologist had told her that the senses had a way of rousing memories and making them feel present instead of past. He’d said smells could sweep a person back in time. And, for Samantha, everything about this weather tried to transport her back to the worst days of her life.
It was the crispness of the air. The clean, icy scent of the threatening precipitation. The way snow looked innocent and playful, even though it could clothe in white a potential killer.
Samantha pulled herself together, tugged her jacket closer, and stepped outside. As she did, she spotted an envelope on the stoop.
Curious, she scooped down and picked it up from the cheery welcome mat—one with flip-flops and a smiley face on it. It screamed summer, and Samantha knew she should get a new one. But this one had always lifted her spirits.
Her throat tightened as she looked at the letter. Nothing was on the front—no name or address or stamp. The envelope itself appeared to be ordinary—sealed with an adhesive strip. Standard size and variety.
It was probably an advertisement from a local looking for landscaping work or a church inviting her out for a revival. This was a strange time of year for either of those things, but people weren’t always logical.
Despite her rationale, her fingers trembled as she pulled the seal from the envelope.
A folded white piece of paper was tucked inside. Samantha slipped it out, expecting to simply scan it and toss the letter away before heading to work. Instead, the crudely written words nearly caused her heart to stop.
I want to stop. But I can’t fight these urges any more. You’re the only one who can help me. Will you? Please help me, Samantha.
A scream caught in her throat.
It was him, she realized. The man who’d brought her to the brink of death and back had returned. The Grim Wrecker.
And he knew where she lived.
Chapter 3
ONE THOUSAND THIRTY-two days after her release, the sounds around Samantha held her captive again.
The sound of an agent tapping his foot beneath the wide, glossy table. The subtle tick of the cheap clock on the wall. The urgency stretching tight throughout the room here at the sheriff’s office.
She had called Rick Frost, the agent she’d worked with at the FBI after her ordeal. In the weeks following her rescue—or was it a release?—she’d been questioned extensively about her abduction.
A special task force had been formed to evaluate any evidence she offered. Specialists had come in from Quantico. With no answers or leads or new victims, they’d eventually lost interest.
But it had been at least a year since she’d talked to anyone at the agency. The urgency had melted away like a spring thaw on the heel of a harsh winter.
After her call today, Samantha couldn’t stomach the thought of driving alone after getting that note. What if the Grim Wrecker had tampered with her car? What if he was plotting to somehow abduct her again?
Yet the thought of staying at her house brought her panic also. He’d been there. He’d contacted her. Nowhere seemed safe.
A crew was at her place, looking for any evidence. Any footprints or trace fibers or fingerprints would be photographed, tagged, or bagged. Another agent took her to the local sheriff’s office, where Agent Frost had met her.
Here, there were files spread out. A timeline had been started on a dry erase board. The sheriff as well as a detective had gathered, and they talked for a minute like she wasn’t even there.
As she sat in the uncomfortable swivel chair, she pictured the note again, and her stomach churned with unease.
Her gaze drifted back to the crew who’d been assembled. Frost was in his forties and had flaming red hair, pale skin, and piercing eyes—the opposite of the chilly image his name invoked.
The other FBI agent was new. He’d introduced himself as Agent Daniel Quinn. He was in his thirties and on the taller side, with a head full of light-brown hair, a pleasant oval face, and controlled movements. Beneath his button-up shirt, she could see the defined muscles of someone disciplined and strong.
Agent Quinn’s eyes were kinder than Frost’s, and he was quieter—more of a listener and observer. Maybe it was part of their whole good cop/bad cop routine. Samantha had given up on trying to guess these things. Guessing took too much energy.
Apparently, he’d been brought in from Quantico, and he was an expert on serial killers. Something of a one-man team who came to lend his ex
pertise to situations like these.
Her mind went back to the note again.
I want to stop. But I can’t fight these urges any more. You’re the only one who can help me. Will you? Please help me, Samantha.
Her gut clenched. Bile rose in her. Her head swirled. Every time she thought about the words there, she had the same reaction. Time hadn’t lessened how receiving that letter made her feel.
“Are you sure you haven’t had any contact with him since you were rescued?” Agent Frost turned from his notes and the skeleton of a timeline on the whiteboard and stared at her, his eyes icy cold and beady.
“I’m sure.”
“Because if you know who this guy is, it’s better you tell us now,” he continued.
“I don’t know who he is.”
“I think you do.”
She pushed away her frustration, pushed away her desire to cry. How many times could he ask her that question? They’d done this song and dance too many times before.
“Now that you ask, I’ve been working with him ever since he abducted me, and we’ve been planning this day for years. Is that what you want to hear?” She cringed at the anger in her words, but Frost treated her as if she was an accomplice. She was over it.
“I understand you’re getting frustrated, Samantha.” Quinn jumped in before Frost could add more fuel to the fire, no doubt. “That’s not what we want. We’re concerned that this guy is going to strike again. Sometimes we have to ask the hard questions.”
“I’m concerned for that also.” Her voice wavered with emotion, with memories. “That’s why I called you when I got the letter. I don’t want anyone else to live through what I’ve lived through. I don’t object to hard questions. I do object to your tone, however.”
“You know who this person is,” Frost said, as if he hadn’t heard her—or hadn’t cared. “You have some connection with him. You need to think harder.”
Her hand slapped the table as her internal fire ignited again. She wouldn’t let Frost make her into a victim again. No, she was an overcomer. That was the message she’d tried to bestow upon her clients, and she needed to live it in her own life.
“I have been thinking about it. I’ve been through therapy. Tried every different technique out there. But I can’t remember anything else.”
His gaze remained unchanged. “You don’t want to remember.”
