The dog followed her around the room as she went. Past the living room was a long hallway. The first door opened into a bathroom, and she stepped inside, averting her gaze from the mirror, and used the toilet. As she stood at the sink to wash her hands, she finally met her own gaze.
The face—her own face—was unfamiliar. But it was the same face she’d seen on the Arizona state ID, though a few years older. So she was Lily Baker.
“Lily Baker.”
The name was foreign as it drifted through the empty room. A fine enough name, even if it meant nothing to her. Her appearance, though, was startling. Dark circles formed inky blue-purple smudges beneath her eyes. Her face was red, windburned, and her cheeks dry, her lips cracked. Thin scratches lined the left side of her face. Along her neck were several deeper cuts.
“The other ones,” Tim had said. The ones she didn’t like to talk about. What did that mean? To her, it looked like she’d run through brush somewhere, but where?
She’d been in a car. Staring at the scratches, she didn’t see how they could have been made in the car accident. They were on the wrong side of her face. Across her right shoulder, a deep bruise was forming where the seat belt had been. She thought about what might be under her clothes but was afraid to look.
Instead, she ran the tap until the water was warm and washed her hands with soap, her sleeves rolled up to keep them dry. She averted her gaze from the scratches Tim had pointed out on her forearm and gently washed the tender skin of her scraped palms. Even after the cleaning at the hospital, the water that slowly drained in the sink basin was dirty. She added more soap before turning and scrubbing her hands. On the inside of her left wrist was a raised pink ridge she hadn’t seen before. Her first thought was that it, too, had happened in the accident. In the dull light of the bathroom, it had the same size and sheen as an earthworm. Glistening, moist. Not a new injury. She touched it. A scar.
Shivers hummed down her spine like small electric shocks. She knew what this was. The placement on the inside of the wrist, the orientation of the line parallel to the veins of her arm.
She had tried to kill herself.
She pushed the thought aside. Not necessarily. It might have been something entirely different—an accident, a defense wound. You don’t remember enough to judge who you are. But she did, didn’t she? The stolen cash, the gun, the married man, whatever Tim had been trying to get her to take—some sort of drugs, surely.
Trembling, she yanked the sleeve down over her wrist and pressed her wet palms to her cheeks. In the mirror she glimpsed a streak of dried blood partially hidden behind her right ear. She lifted the hair and turned her head, probing gingerly. A small knot, painful to the touch. Not actively bleeding.
Eyes closed, she found the stream of warm water and brought her face close, cupping the liquid between her palms. She washed out her mouth, then drank deeply and finally splashed her face, cleaning her neck and ear. She needed a shower, but that would have to wait until Iver got home. Surely he would be home soon. She rinsed her face again, then shut off the faucet and patted her face and neck with carefully folded toilet paper so she didn’t get blood on the light-colored towels.
She rolled her hair into a ponytail and tucked the long end down the back of her fleece. Her eye was swollen and she was scraped up, but she looked better. Less like a criminal.
The wad of cash in her bra argued otherwise. She pulled out the bills without looking at them and shoved them down into her bag. Her head throbbed, and she opened the medicine cabinet to find some Advil or Tylenol.
Medicines and prescription bottles lined the glass shelves of the cabinet, over-the-counter ones like Advil, Motrin, Excedrin, and Aleve, as well as herbs and naturopath solutions she’d never heard of. The labels all included headache and pain relief. Ibuprofen would help with her head, but her fingers moved to the prescription bottles, a solid row of them.
Many were familiar to her: Neurontin for seizures, Ambien for insomnia, several SSRIs, two antianxiety medications, and also a host of ones she’d never heard of—Maxalt, Sumatriptan, Axert, Zofran . . . good God. What was wrong with him? She thought of Tim, his offer to get her something to make her feel good.
She pulled her fingers away from the bottles, glancing at her hand as though it might tell her what it had been looking for. But some part of her knew. Pain meds. Tim had given her pain meds. Was she addicted?
She closed the cabinet door firmly, then went to open it again. At that moment, the room went dark. Outside the bathroom door, the dog started barking. She froze, listened. Other than the dog, she could hear no sounds. Maybe a breaker had flipped. Could the snow have done that? But what if it wasn’t a breaker? She palmed her way across the room and sat on the edge of the bathtub, her heart pounding. She would stay where she was. She would wait. Iver would come home and fix the power.
Without a window, the room was pitch black. On the other side of the bathroom door, the dog whined, his nails clicking on the hardwood as he paced. A few more barks were followed by more whining. Soon, he was scratching at the bathroom door. She remembered the kitchen light had been on when she had arrived. Maybe the dog was afraid of the dark. Damn it.
She ran her hand along the cloth of her bag, feeling the shape of the gun inside.
You don’t need a gun.
But her fingers had already slipped inside to find the hard metal column of the magazine and slid it into the slot at the base of the grip. The click vibrated up her arm, and she froze.
God, no. She was not going out there with a loaded gun.
She released the gun back into her bag as she drew a shaky breath and stepped toward the door. There’s nothing to be afraid of, she told her pounding heart. It’s just the lights. Be smart. She stepped toward the door and gripped the bag. The dog scratched more furiously. Okay, she thought. I’m coming.
She cracked the door and took one step into the dark hallway, her own breathing loud and raspy. The dog pressed his muzzle to her hand, and she gasped at the sensation of his wet nose. He let out a whine, and she breathed, her body pressed to the wall.
“It’s okay, buddy,” she whispered, squatting beside him, listening to the silence.
The dog whined, pushing against her. “It’s just the dark,” she whispered. There would be a flashlight somewhere. Or candles.
Hand gripping the edge of her bag, she pivoted toward the living room. Then a single human grunt came from the darkness, followed by the smell of something reminiscent of herbs and liquor.
“Iver?”
No response. She took one step back, ready to run, and heavy hands grabbed her shoulders and brought her to a halt.
Pain knifed across her injured ankle. She reached into the bag for her gun. Drew it out and swung it toward the figure. An electric current seared the back of her neck, and she dropped to her knees. The gun clattered to the floor as she swayed forward, unable to lift her arms. Heavy fabric covered her head. She fought to breathe, to move. The smell of hay and mold burned her eyes. Her muscles had seized and were frozen, useless.
The dog barked again—angry, frantic barking.
She slammed facedown into the floor, the breath forced from her lungs. She gasped, reaching out a hand to fight him. Her fingers grazed his skin and the uneven surface of hair or a piece of clothing before he wrenched her hand to her side.
“Let me go.” The words came out weak and feathery. Her pulse punched at her ribs, but her limbs were numb. Something constricted her chest, pinned her arms. His knees, his weight. She fought to free an arm, to use her elbow to push herself up, but his hold was too tight. The sensations of being trapped, of her own panic, were instantly familiar. The scent of dank sweat heightened her terror as the man’s weight pressed onto her back.
She kicked a foot up, trying to strike him. Her injured ankle twisted painfully in the air, and she let out a strangled cry. Her attacker straddled her. His hands closed on her neck from behind.
“Let go of me,” she screamed. �
�Help!”
The dog was so close, barking, then growling. The hands loosened on her neck. She stole a frantic breath and tried to roll. The dog let out a sharp yelp and went silent.
“Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”
The gun. It was somewhere nearby. But she couldn’t lift her arms, couldn’t use her hands at all. Still she stretched her fingers across the hard floor, searching for the cold metal.
His hands tightened on her neck again. Her breath halted as pain filled her throat. In the darkness under the fabric, lights spotted her vision. He was choking her. She was going to pass out. She threw her hips upward again, bucking against his weight. A moment later, he slammed her to the floor. Her pulse pounded in her temples. The white spots went gray and melted into the black. Her own voice screamed inside her head—begging, shrieking. Preserve me, O God: for in thee do I put my trust.
The din in her head softened. A part of her remembered where those words came from. Psalm 16:1. Then everything grew silent.
She was going to die. This man was going to kill her.
CHAPTER 15
KYLIE
Kylie Milliard found Gary Ross waiting in the department lobby, leaning against a cement pillar, phone in one hand, thumb flicking upward. Social media, probably, though he wore a pretty serious expression for a guy looking at images of people he hadn’t seen since high school. God, she hated social media. No single woman in her thirties was supposed to ignore social media, but Kylie hated it with a scathing fury that she held for few other things. Cats, she thought. She really hated cats, although that was partly because she was so allergic. She hated social media most.
Ross caught sight of her and pushed off the pillar. “You okay if I join you?”
She paused and narrowed her eyes at him. Away from Vogel and Davis, she wanted Ross to know that she wasn’t keen on sharing the limelight on this case.
“It’s just something to pass the time,” he said, both hands raised, though one was still cupping his phone. “And I could probably give you some insight into Derek Hudson that might be helpful after I’m gone.”
“And when is that, again?”
Ross let out a belly laugh. “Not one to mince words. I like it. Thought I’d stay the weekend, leave on Monday.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “What do you think? Can you suffer through the company of an old bureau guy for two days?”
Since today was Thursday, it was technically three and a half days. “I’ve got to make a stop on the way to the scene,” she said and headed for the door.
It was snowing hard as Kylie drove the three blocks to the diner. She parked on the curb and left the engine running against the cold. “Just have to touch base with my roommate,” she said. “Back in five.”
“Your roommate,” Ross said.
“Roommate,” she repeated. Not that she cared if he believed her or not. What she was doing in the diner was none of his damn business. She jogged through the snow and pulled the door open, stomping her boots on the welcome mat before stepping inside and sliding onto a stool at the counter.
Amber was actually her roommate. Not that Kylie had expected to have a roommate at thirty-one, but a detective job in Hagen, North Dakota, did not pay enough to afford a place of her own, not while Hagen was in the middle of an oil boom and Kylie was still paying off student loans. And Amber had a cute little house, walkable to town. Kylie had been skeptical of how things would work between them, but she enjoyed Amber.
Amber was absolutely everything Kylie was not. For one, she was blonde and tall and smiled way too much. She wore her hair in a high, messy bun perched on top of her head, wisps of it flying left and right as she turned and talked, both of which she did nonstop, even during the diner’s midafternoon lull. Kylie raised a hand to get Amber’s attention. With a quick nod, Amber grabbed the coffeepot and made her way down the bar, refilling cups as she headed for Kylie.
“You here for the banana cream?” Amber asked.
Kylie had a total failing when it came to banana-cream pie. She shook her head. “Heading up to the scene where Brent Nolan died.”
Amber made the sign of a cross in a tiny motion over her heart. Something else Kylie wouldn’t have been caught dead doing.
“I heard about that,” Amber said. “He was such a dear man. Always so sweet to William.” At the mention of her son, Amber glanced to the corner behind the counter where her son’s playpen was usually set up for at least a few hours of her shift, when Amber’s mother wasn’t watching him.
Kylie followed her gaze. At the moment, all Kylie could see was the top of the toddler’s head, a mass of blond hair just like his mother’s.
“Asleep,” Amber said.
Kylie had also never expected to room with a child, but she’d signed the lease before she’d known about William. Well, that part was on her. For a detective, she had missed a lot of clues that there might be a baby living there. At the time, she’d been too desperate for a place to live to care.
Amber poured a few inches of coffee into a mug for her as Kylie leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You know anything about Nolan?”
“He came in from time to time.”
“Any reason to think someone wanted to hurt him?”
Amber’s expression remained totally neutral as she pondered the question. It still amazed Kylie to watch Amber process questions like this, questions other folks would have pretended were shocking and inappropriate. For all that blonde hair, Amber was refreshingly no nonsense.
Amber checked her surroundings to be sure no one was too close before answering. “There was some talk about a woman in town.”
“Mistress? Any idea who?”
“No. And I never saw him with anyone here. Not that folks come to the diner for privacy.” Amber took another look over her shoulder. “Bethany Stevens mentioned Nolan is Pike Drilling’s number two guy.”
Pike Drilling had the largest drilling contract in Hagen. That alone could have made him unpopular with some. Drilling brought money with it, but not everyone shared in the windfall. For many residents, the drilling companies had done nothing for Hagen except make it more expensive for regular folks.
“Bethany also mentioned that she and her husband attended a dinner party with Nolan at the mayor’s house last month.”
So going to the site of the accident was about brownnosing. “Nothing else?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Amber poured her another inch of coffee and nodded outside. “Who you got in the car?”
“Visiting FBI agent, here on the Abigail Jensen murder.”
Amber shook her head and made another cross. “That stuff ain’t supposed to happen in Hagen.”
“Vogel and Sheriff Davis just threw him at me.”
Amber scanned the room. “Wanda was just in here.”
Kylie frowned. “Who?”
“Mrs. Vogel. I guess Vogel’s sister died a few weeks ago.”
Kylie took a sip of the coffee. “I didn’t even know he had a sister.”
“Well, she’s gone now.” Amber took a few steps down the bar and filled a couple of coffee cups with a smile at each customer. Sometimes she was like a scary Tinker Bell robot.
When Amber returned, Kylie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Listen, I couldn’t find any pictures on Facebook from the bar last night. Think you can put out feelers about who was there? I could use pictures.”
“Oh, I know some hos who were there last night. I’ll check Insta, too.” Amber pulled a couple of paper cups off a stack and turned them right side up to fill them before handing Kylie lids for each.
To Amber, ho was a sign of endearment, one she better not ever use on Kylie. Insta was short for Instagram. Sometimes it was hard to believe she and Amber were anywhere close to the same age. “Thanks,” Kylie said.
“I’ll get you a piece of banana cream to go.” Amber narrowed her gaze through the window as if studying Gary Ross, though she couldn’t have seen him for the falling snow. “And cherry for y
our friend.”
With that, Amber was on the move again.
While Kylie waited for their pie, she texted Carl Gilbert and asked him to find out if any of the bartenders from Skål had been out of town in the last week. Kylie scanned the faces in the diner. If Iver had been out of town, someone in this room would know. There was something unsettling about how easily people found things out in Hagen.
A couple of minutes later, Kylie left the diner with coffee, pie, and some useful insight into Brent Nolan. Maybe the accident would be interesting after all.
CHAPTER 16
IVER
With another swig, Iver set down the bottle he’d picked up on the way to the high school and backed up to the three-point line. He dribbled the ball on the worn gymnasium floor, the sound echoing in the empty space. He pitched the basketball in an upward arc. The moment it left his fingers, he knew it was short. The ball hit the edge of the rim and bounced back. Skirting the bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper sack, he caught the ball, dribbled twice, and shot again. This time the ball vibrated against the backboard with a thunderous rattle and flew toward the empty bleachers.
He lifted the bottle to his lips again, comforted by the burn of liquor in his throat. He walked to retrieve the ball, Mike’s voicemail playing in his head. Why had Iver listened to it? He’d been avoiding Mike’s calls, so why play that damn voicemail?
Because he had to know what Mike knew. What Iver had done. He couldn’t get his friend out of his mind, the way Mike had refused to meet his eye at the bar that morning. Mike was his best friend. Sure, they’d given each other hell, but they covered each other’s asses, too. The time Mike had drunk his father’s whiskey when they were sophomores in high school, it was Iver who’d taken the blame. Mike had confessed to spray-painting a locker when that had been Iver’s doing, taking the fall so Iver, who was already on probation, wouldn’t get expelled. But this . . . this was not boys raiding a liquor cabinet or vandalizing the school. Iver stared at the phone, Mike’s words playing back in his mind.
White Out: A Thriller (Badlands Thriller) Page 8
