She said nothing.
He rose and shook his head. “If you won’t tell me, I’m calling the police back in here, making them take you home.”
“Please,” she whispered. “I can’t talk to the police.”
“Then tell me what’s going on,” he demanded. “Why are you here?”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
Iver held her gaze. “What the hell is happening?”
“I don’t know, Iver. I don’t know anything.”
“But you know me,” he said, his eyes searching hers. She looked away, and he touched her leg. “Don’t you?”
A momentum built in her chest, a driving force that she couldn’t contain. The words burst out of her. “I don’t even know myself.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know yourself? Like you’ve done something you’re ashamed of?”
That, too. She shook her head. “No. Like I don’t know. I have no memory. Well, it’s just images and fragments. When I saw you, I could remember bits of something. Walking home, that girl crying in the van—I remember that. I thought she was my sister. Abby.”
She had other memories, ones that didn’t make sense. After the accident, Lily had recalled standing in the snow with the other girl, Abby. Only Abby wasn’t a girl. She was a woman. The two had huddled in the dark, frozen, as they listened to boots crunching through the snow. Someone was coming.
“Lily?”
She shook her head, unable to repeat those memories. “That’s all I can remember. I only know my name because it was on my ID.” She pulled out her wallet and withdrew the ID card.
His expression softened. “You have amnesia?”
“I guess.”
“Since when?” He shook his head. “I mean, what is the first thing you remember?”
“Nothing. I woke up . . .” She wasn’t ready to tell him about the car accident, about Brent. Was that her fault?
“You woke up . . . ,” he prompted.
“And I had no memory.” She shook her head. “But I still knew how to do things. Like how to check for concussion. I could remember the names of the tendons of the hand but not my name.”
“They’re different memory systems,” Iver explained. “Declarative versus nondeclarative.”
“Are you a doctor now?” she asked.
He smiled. “No. I’ve got firsthand experience after a brain injury in Afghanistan.”
“You were in Afghanistan? The war?” He laughed, and she stared at him. “What’s funny?”
His smile slid away. “You might be the only person in Hagen who doesn’t know I was in Afghanistan.”
“That must’ve been awful.”
“It was.”
They sat a moment in silence. Then Iver got up, left the bathroom, and returned after a moment with her mug of tea. She took it from his hand without comment, the smell of mint calming.
“Was there an accident?” he asked. “Do you remember?”
She thought about the car. It must have crashed through the guardrail before she’d woken, but was that serious enough to cause amnesia? She hadn’t even realized that amnesia like this was a real thing outside of TV and movies. She couldn’t remember ever watching a movie. She let go of his hand and cupped her face. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure it out. Do you remember anything?”
Lily shook her head. “But maybe Abby remembers.” She had to remind herself that Abby wasn’t her sister. But they were close; Lily could feel it. “I could talk to her.”
Iver made a sound like he’d been punched. “Oh.”
“Do you know where she is?” she asked, an uneven thumping in her throat.
“We should really speak to the police,” he said.
“Why? What did she do?”
“She didn’t do anything, Lily. She was murdered last night.”
Lily closed her eyes and pictured the face in the image. Murdered.
The warm tea in her mug spilled over the edge onto her thumb. The floor was shaking. Then she realized the trembling was in her hands. Iver took the mug from her as the vibrations shuddered through her limbs, the panic building in her chest. She had been attacked in this house. A man had tried to kill her. And her friend was already dead.
Someone wanted her dead. He hadn’t been successful tonight, but surely, he would try again.
CHAPTER 20
KYLIE
The call on Kylie’s radio came in as she was approaching town, her headlights cutting a swath through the dark and reflecting on the falling snow. It was Marjorie at Dispatch requesting Patrol at an address on Fourth Street. “Woman attacked in the home. Sullivan and Damonza are there now.” A woman attacked in her home in downtown Hagen. Damn. What the hell was happening to Hagen? Such a quiet little pissant of a town. Until now.
Kylie dialed the station. “Heard the call on the attack. You have an address?”
“416 Fourth Street. Name’s Larson.”
“Iver Larson?”
“One and the same.”
Kylie popped the knuckles of one hand and took a left, heading toward Larson’s side of town. “Interesting.”
“And I got an anonymous call about thirty minutes ago—woman saw Iver Larson driving in town last night, around two a.m.”
“Any idea who Anonymous is?”
“Nope. Called from a burner phone, if you can believe that. Actually, both these last two calls came from burners.”
“Same burner?”
“No. Different numbers—one a woman, one a man.”
Burner phones in Hagen. Maybe she didn’t know sleepy little Hagen as well as she thought. “Okay, I’m heading over to Larson’s.”
Kylie navigated the quiet streets until she reached Iver Larson’s address. Patrol officer Larry Sullivan sat in his cruiser in front of Larson’s, his face illuminated by the car’s interior light, and Kylie parked on the curb behind him. A text from Amber came in as she was getting out of her patrol car.
Sarah Ollman was in the bar that night. That’s why no pics.
Kylie stared at the name. Tobias Ollman was pastor of the Lutheran church. His daughter, Sarah, was in high school. If her father found out she’d been in the bar . . . Kylie glanced at the clock. It was only seven p.m. She’d have to pay Sarah a visit after she got some answers from Larson.
Sullivan rolled the window down as she approached.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Someone called in a fight. Woman looks pretty beat up, but she’s not pressing charges. Power was off at the main, and Larson’s saying there were some boots tracks in the backyard, like someone else attacked her. But we only found the two of them inside. No sign of anyone else.”
Kylie studied the house. “Larson is there?”
Sullivan nodded. “He’s there, all right.”
She patted the top of the car. “I’m going to go in for a little chat.”
“You want company?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, though.”
When Iver Larson opened the door, his eyes narrowed at the sight of her. Fine. They weren’t going to be friends. Across the room, a woman came out of the bathroom, her eyes red, her skin sallow and bruised. She looked like hell. But she also looked vaguely familiar.
Kylie entered the house without asking for permission. “You should have someone look at your injuries.”
With a quick glance at Larson, the woman shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You were attacked. You should be looked at by a medical professional.”
“I am a medical professional.”
“We’ve already answered all of these questions,” Larson interrupted. “And Lily has said she’s fine. You should leave.”
“Lily?” Kylie repeated, remembering where she’d seen that face, though a much younger version. “Lily Baker?”
The woman looked terrified. “Yes.”
“You know that Abigail Jensen was killed last night?”
Neither one spoke.<
br />
“The woman in the dumpster,” Kylie said to Larson. “Her name was Abigail Jensen. Does that name sound familiar, Iver?”
“No.”
Baker said nothing.
Kylie turned to Baker. “She was one of the girls who was taken when you were. You must know the name.”
Baker shifted her gaze to Larson.
“Iver?” Kylie prompted, wondering what was going on there. Why wasn’t Baker reacting?
Larson rubbed his face. “I didn’t recognize her from back then.”
Even from four feet away, she could smell the alcohol on him. “You’ve been drinking?”
“What does it matter?”
“I’m just wondering if alcohol is the trigger that makes you violent.”
“I’m not violent,” Larson said, the cut of his jaw more pronounced as he clenched it. He rubbed his face.
Kylie scanned the room. “Broke a picture frame. Looks like it got a little rough.”
“Someone was in the house,” Baker said from across the room, her arms wrapped around herself. “He attacked me. Iver saved me.”
She nodded, and Kylie noticed the way she glanced at Larson again.
“There were boot prints in back,” Larson said. “I showed them to Sullivan.”
“Boot prints?”
“Fresh tracks in the snow that don’t match my tread. I can show you—” Larson took two steps and halted. “They’ll be gone now, but they were there. You can ask him.”
“So someone broke in and attacked Ms. Baker here, in your home?”
“I think so,” Larson said.
There was something unexpectedly earnest in Iver’s expression. Either he really believed someone else might have been there, or he wanted to believe it so badly he’d almost convinced himself. “Someone knew you were here?” she asked Baker.
Baker hesitated and shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Kylie turned back to Larson. “Is there someone who would want to hurt you?”
He blinked as though in surprise. “No.”
“The front door was unlocked?”
“Yes. My mom was supposed to come by.” He seemed to only now remember his mother.
“Is it common for her to show up when you’re not home?”
“My mom?” he asked.
“No, Ms. Baker.”
He shook his head without looking at Baker. “No.”
“You two aren’t dating?” Kylie asked.
“No.” He crossed his arms, and she made a note of the reaction. “Old friends.”
“Does it seem weird that she was attacked in your house?”
“Very.”
“You two had plans tonight?”
“No.”
“You weren’t expecting her?”
“No.”
“You might want to be more forthcoming, Mr. Larson. In the past twenty-four hours, you’ve been in the same place where two women were attacked. One of them is dead. And it looks like Lily Baker was on her way.”
Larson straightened up and uncrossed his arms. “I am being forthcoming. I don’t know anything.”
“Sullivan told me that the power was cut off to the house. Pitch black. Ms. Baker never saw her attacker. Could have been anyone . . . but when the officers arrived, it was just you and her on the floor.”
Larson said nothing, the muscle in his jaw a knot beneath his ear.
“Odds seem to suggest the attacker was you,” Kylie said.
Larson clenched his fists. “Why would I want to hurt her? Why would I want to hurt either of them?”
Larson had said they weren’t dating, but there was something there, strained and awkward.
Baker stood motionless, watching Larson. Was Baker afraid of Larson? Or dependent on him? He’d said they were only friends. Why, then, were their interactions so strange?
“It’s almost like someone’s coming after Hudson’s survivors—first Jensen, then you,” Kylie said, studying Baker’s expression. “Any reason you can think of for that?”
“No,” Larson said.
“You don’t seem to have much to say, Ms. Baker. Your fellow hostage was killed, and then you were attacked. Mr. Larson at the scene both times.” When Baker said nothing, Kylie added, “You do remember Abigail Jensen, don’t you?”
“Of course she does,” Larson said, an edge to his voice. “You know what they went through together. You don’t need to ask that.”
Baker said nothing, her focus on her hands, as though she were translating from a language she rarely spoke.
“I do,” Kylie said, turning her attention back to Baker. “In fact, I was trying to reach you earlier today to talk about Abigail Jensen. Was she staying with you? It didn’t seem like she knew anyone else in town.”
“It’s been a long night, Detective,” Larson interrupted. “Maybe you could ask your questions tomorrow.”
“A woman is dead, Mr. Larson.”
Baker shook her head. “I really don’t feel up to talking tonight.”
Kylie wanted to scream. She didn’t feel up to talking? A woman had been murdered and thrown in a dumpster. Lily had been attacked. Kylie didn’t give a shit that she didn’t feel up to talking. But what could she do? There were no grounds to arrest Larson, not if Baker wouldn’t press charges. Kylie drew a slow, steady breath. “Just one more question for you, Mr. Larson,” Kylie said.
Iver nodded.
“You said you left the bar at about ten thirty last night, and then you were here, alone, for the rest of the night?”
He licked his lips, and she wanted to pounce on him. She knew he’d been lying, the bastard. What else had he lied about? There had to be something going on between him and Baker, too. Had he threatened her? Was she being held against her will?
She poised her pen. “Is that still your statement?”
“I—”
The room hummed with tension. She could almost hear the low bass of it, a tap tap tap in the background of the quiet.
“He wasn’t alone,” Baker said.
Larson looked at her, surprise on his face.
Baker kept her gaze on Kylie as she moved across the room toward Larson. “I was here,” she said.
“You were here last night?” Kylie asked.
“Yes.”
“Really?” Kylie glanced between Larson and Baker, waiting for one of them to crack. Was this the thing he’d been lying about? The fact that they were together? People were so stupid. But it seemed like there was more. “What time did you get here?”
“About eight, I think. I fell asleep at some point, but I woke up when he got home.”
“And what time was that?”
“I didn’t look at the clock,” she said.
“So it could have been three in the morning?”
“I left the bar around ten thirty,” Iver said. “I already told you that this morning.”
Kylie thought about the anonymous call that Iver had been driving around town at two in the morning. She wasn’t ready to play that card just yet.
Baker squeezed his arm. “I think I need to lie down.”
Without giving Kylie the chance to ask anything else, Baker retreated down the hallway.
“Whatever you’re not telling me is going to get you in a shitload of trouble, Larson.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Larson said. “You can let yourself out.”
CHAPTER 21
LILY
Lily Baker sat on the floor of Iver’s bedroom, her back to the bed, and stared at the blank wall beside the door. A handful of smudges and two dents were the only decoration on the smooth surface. She imagined Iver walking his hands along the wall in the dark as he made his way to the door. Or carrying something heavy—moving a piece of furniture or a box—and knocking a corner into the paint. She studied the marks with her full attention as she pushed away the questions that spiked her blood like adrenaline and set her pulse racing, its percussion vibrating in her teeth.
Host
ages. The detective had said something about hostages. She and Abby. About someone named Hudson. And Tim knew about the scars and where they had come from. What had happened to her?
The sounds of the others talking in the living room had gone quiet. There was only the occasional creak of the house settling in the cold, the distant clicking of Cal’s nails on the hardwood floor. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, unmoving, when a quiet knock on the door startled her.
“Lily?” Iver entered the room and approached slowly. “Are you okay?”
Her fingers found the fresh injuries on her neck. The skin burned at her touch, a tacky sensation on her fingers.
“You’re bleeding.” He reached for her hand and pulled it away. “Let me get something to clean it.” Without waiting for her response, he crossed to the bathroom and returned with a handful of cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “I don’t have any hydrogen peroxide.”
“It’s okay,” she said, the words like a dull knife in her throat.
“The cuts on your neck are bleeding, probably from—” Iver went silent.
“His hands,” she whispered.
The sound that came from Iver was almost a growl as he settled onto the floor beside her. He drenched the cotton balls in alcohol, the sharp smell filling her nose as he took hold of her chin to tilt her head and dab the cuts on her neck. She felt a brief flash of cold and pain and the warmth of his fingers, and her stomach rolled as the touch brought back the moments of being on that floor with that man on top of her, his hands tight on her throat.
“Done,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
She met his gaze. “I’m not even sure I know what okay is.”
Iver nodded. “I know that feeling.”
She folded her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, pressing her cheek on one knee.
“Do you want to know about it?”
She looked up at him. “About . . . ?”
“What happened to you back then?”
Her breath caught at the back of her mouth. The van. She had crawled in to be with Abby, to calm her down. Lily, too, had been upset that night, angry at Iver. They’d had an argument, but she couldn’t remember the details. She searched her memories for anything else from that time, from the months that followed. It was all blank.
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