Never Forget Me: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 7)

by Dan Padavona

  Scout rolled her eyes. Darren leaned against the cabin and folded his arms.

  “I could use a reliable worker to read annual passes and take payments.” Darren pointed at Scout. “Ever run a cash register?”

  The teenager deflated.

  “No.”

  “Good, because we don’t have one.” Darren turned toward the road, where a wood booth stood in the median. Two cars lined up at the booth. “So that’s where the magic happens. I’ll warn you, the job is highly complicated. When a visitor approaches the booth, they pay you nine dollars. If they give you a ten, you hand them a one. Unless they have a state park pass, in which case you zap their card with an electronic reader gizmo and wave them through.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Like I said: highly complicated. When can you start?”

  Scout’s eyes widened.

  “You’re offering me the job?”

  “You bet. Ten dollars an hour. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “Thank you, Darren. I promise I won’t let you down. I’ll show up on time and work hard.”

  “Listen, if you get bored, I’ll train you to work at the gift shop. Fair warning. I’ll have to teach you how to smile and hand out brochures. Deal?”

  Scout shook Darren’s hand.

  “I can’t believe it. A real job.” Scout’s smile faded. “What will I tell Mom?”

  “Your mother will be proud of you,” Thomas said, touching her shoulder. “We’ll talk to her over dinner.”

  Darren tilted his head at the cabin.

  “Raven just woke up, if you want to say hello. She worked late with Chelsey last night and didn’t return to the cabin until after two.”

  Raven Hopkins worked as a private investigator at Wolf Lake Consulting and lived with Darren at the cabin. Her brother, LeVar Hopkins, was a reformed gang member, who interned at the investigation firm while he studied criminal justice. LeVar lived in Thomas’s guest house beside Wolf Lake. Together, Darren, Raven, Scout, and LeVar researched cold cases and solved crimes. Raven and LeVar’s mother referred to their group as the mystery gang, referencing the old Scooby Doo cartoons.

  Scout thanked Darren again and wheeled herself into the cabin. After the door closed, Thomas turned to Darren.

  “That was a cool thing you did.”

  Darren waved the compliment away.

  “Scout is reliable, and every kid needs a first job. And we need the help. I’m short-staffed this summer.”

  “How’s Raven holding up to the long hours?”

  “She’s exhausted.”

  “I hear you. Chelsey works late every night. I worry she’s taking on too many cases.”

  Darren chewed his lip.

  “Raven mentioned the same thing. Is everything all right with Chelsey?”

  Thomas’s girlfriend had moved into his A-frame during the spring. When she was a teenager, Chelsey suffered from major depression.

  “As far as I can tell. Did Raven say something to you?”

  “Not much. She’s perplexed why they’re investigating day and night. I told Raven there’s no sense in complaining when demand is strong. Better than closing shop because nobody gives you business.”

  Wolf Lake Consulting was the region’s most respected private investigation firm. Thomas hoped Chelsey wasn’t pushing herself to stay on top.

  “I’ll talk to Chelsey.”

  Thomas’s phone hummed in his pocket. He read the screen and scowled as Darren slid his work gloves on.

  “Problem?”

  “Treman Mills PD requested backup. They just dug a body out of the gorge.”

  “So much for your vacation time.”

  3

  Thomas climbed out of his silver Ford F-150 as a Nightshade County sheriff’s cruiser pulled alongside his truck. He waited for Veronica Aguilar, his lead deputy, to join him. Her therapist, Dr. Ryka Mandal, had recently cleared Aguilar for fieldwork. Since Aguilar had shot Avery Neal, a corrupt police officer and murderer, she’d suffered from PTSD and nearly quit her job. While she struggled with her recovery, kidnapper Justice Thorin abducted Aguilar and held her captive in an underground prison on his property. Aguilar broke out of the prison and saved a four-year-old boy, who Thorin had kidnapped days before. The act of heroism didn’t surprise Thomas. Aguilar was the finest cop he’d ever worked with. The rescue reset Aguilar’s brain and reminded her why she’d become a deputy. Her confidence burgeoned, her nightmares ended, and she returned to work with renewed vigor.

  Still, Thomas monitored Aguilar. He worried about his lead deputy and needed to ensure Dr. Mandal, who also counseled Thomas, hadn’t rushed Aguilar back to the field.

  A stream wound past the truck and cut through the heart of the gorge. Cliffs towered overhead, the tops shimmering beneath the harsh sun. As Thomas greeted his deputy, a stout man with a walrus mustache and jowls to match waddled toward them. He wore dress slacks and a brown jacket, his shoes scuffed, and his tie flapping in the breeze.

  “Detective Sandoval,” Thomas said, raising a hand.

  “Sorry to drag you away on your day off,” Sandoval said. “But I had no choice. Technically, we’re five hundred yards outside of Treman Mills. The gorge falls under county jurisdiction.”

  “What do we have?”

  “A fisherman spotted a guy in running gear lying beside the stream. He called our department instead of the county, so I drove out for a look. Recognized the runner as soon as I saw his face. Harding Little, a big shot attorney in Treman Mills. He’s a local product. Graduated from Treman Mills High eleven years ago, attended some fancy New England college, and formed his own practice in Treman Mills.”

  “Does he run out here often?”

  “Little was always an athlete. All-state basketball selection, and he ran track during the spring. He lacked the height to play pro ball, but nobody could stop him on the court.” Sandoval turned toward the dead figure. “Or in court. He was a cutthroat attorney.”

  “Cutthroat attorneys make plenty of enemies,” Aguilar said.

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Thomas shielded his eyes from the sunlight as they navigated the treacherous terrain. Harding Little’s crumpled figure lay beside the river. He wore running sneakers, athletic shorts, and a torn and bloodstained T-shirt. A crow circled in the sky.

  “How long has he been here?”

  Sandoval shook his head.

  “The bugs found him. I’d say eighteen to twenty-four hours. Before you arrived, I located his Volvo on an access road a mile from the gorge.”

  Thomas set his hands on his hips and studied the area. Beside the stream, sharp rocks lined the base of the gorge.

  “I wouldn’t run through the gorge. I’d wreck an ankle on the rocks.”

  Sandoval puffed out his mustache.

  “I don’t think Little was running in the gorge.”

  Aguilar removed her hat and wiped her forehead, confused. Then she glanced up. “Are you saying he fell?”

  “Wait until you see the body.”

  Thomas steeled his stomach as they climbed over rocks and forged a path toward the stream. Up close, he understood what Sandoval meant. Little’s right leg was shattered, with the foot twisted in the wrong direction. Though the attorney lay on his stomach, his face pointed skyward. It appeared as if an eighteen-wheeler had struck Little head-on and launched him through the air.

  “How could he fall off a cliff?” Thomas asked. “You said he’s an experienced runner and comes out here often.”

  “The cliffs are eroding. Get too close, or step in the wrong spot, and down you go.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Word around town is he slept around on his wife. I don’t think he felt guilty about it.”

  Thomas peered up at the cliffs. From the base of the gorge, they appeared as earthen skyscrapers. Imagining himself that high up made his head spin.

  “Have you checked the cliff?”

  “Not yet. That’s next on
my agenda.”

  A horn beeped. The county coroner’s vehicle pulled behind Aguilar’s cruiser. Virgil Harbough, the county medical examiner, stepped out of the vehicle. In his early sixties, Harbough had already passed his retirement eligibility date. The gray-haired man was slight of build, prone to blowing away if the wind gusted. Twenty-seven-year-old Claire Brookins, Harbough’s russet-haired assistant, helped the medical examiner over the rocks.

  “It appears he fell off the cliff, Virgil,” Thomas said, gesturing at the ledge.

  Harbough glanced at Harding Little’s ruined body, then swung his gaze to the cliff. His eyes widened.

  “Helluva drop.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Never knew a jogger who fell off a cliff. Was he running in the dark?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  The medical examiner set his bag beside the body and removed a camera from around his shoulders. Harbough deferred to Claire, allowing his assistant to run the show while he clicked pictures. It was the worst kept secret in the county that Harbough was grooming Claire to take over when he retired. Claire Brookins held multiple degrees from Syracuse University’s medical school. It was inevitable she’d become the county medical examiner when Harbough stepped down.

  Thomas, Aguilar, and Sandoval gave Claire room as she worked. The cause of death appeared obvious, though Thomas waited for Claire to offer an opinion.

  “With the way his body is broken up, it’s difficult to make a final determination. But there’s no evidence suggesting someone attacked Little and threw him off the cliff.”

  “So he just jogged off the ledge?” Thomas asked.

  “That’s for you to determine,” she said, flashing a wry smile.

  Harbough snapped pictures as Claire dictated notes into a voice recorder.

  Sandoval stared back the way they’d come. “Long walk to the top. We’d better get going.”

  Thomas and Aguilar helped Sandoval maneuver between the rocks and stream. It was too easy to jam an ankle between the sharp rocks, and the stream was high enough to pull them under if they wandered into the water. Thomas and Sandoval were out of breath after they hiked to the cliffs. Muscular and lean, Aguilar seemed no worse for wear. To Thomas’s shock, she wasn’t even breathing heavily as the wind shoved them around.

  Thomas placed a hand above his brow and turned back to Sandoval. “Where did you say you found Little’s car?”

  “One mile back that way,” Sandoval said, pointing westward as he shouted over the wind.

  Thomas followed Sandoval’s arm to a road fenced in by forest. He scanned the terrain until he spotted a well-worn trail, where generations of runners had matted down the grass and weeds. Thomas waved them forward.

  “No discernible prints here,” Sandoval said, studying the ground.

  They moved with careful deliberation, not wanting to miss an important piece of evidence. Aguilar retrieved a soda can from the grass and bagged it. After the weeds gave way to gravel, Thomas stopped and pointed toward the cliff edge.

  “Sneaker prints. See what I’m looking at?”

  Aguilar used the edge of a yellow evidence marker to gage the shoe size before she snapped a photograph. The wind tossed dust across the path. The prints had almost vanished.

  Thomas scratched his head and stared. The prints disappeared a few feet in front of the ledge. As if a winged creature had dipped out of the sky and carried Harding Little away.

  Sandoval set his hands on his hips. “What the hell?”

  As Aguilar photographed the remaining prints, Thomas strode through the grass and circumvented the runner’s path.

  “Suicide?” Aguilar asked, placing the camera strap around her shoulders.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Or he was running in the dark. Either way, he ran straight off the ledge.”

  4

  Inside Wolf Lake Consulting, Chelsey Byrd pushed the wavy, brunette locks off her shoulder and flipped through bill statements, confused why the heating bill would cost one hundred dollars. Hadn’t it been warm last month? She blew the hair out of her eyes and slapped the bill face down on the table. The next envelope came from the tax assessor’s office, and that was never good news. She ripped the letter open and pored over the page. Her stomach dropped.

  “Ten percent?”

  “What’s ten percent?” Raven asked, setting her bag down on her desk.

  “Nothing.”

  Chelsey tucked the letter inside her desk and rubbed her eyes. Wolf Lake Consulting operated out of a converted single-story, two-bedroom home. The village had raised the assessed value of the house by ten percent, which meant her tax bill would rise by a similar amount. After accepting Thomas Shepherd’s offer to move into his A-frame, Chelsey had put her personal residence on the market. The village had reassessed her residence eight percent higher. If she didn’t sell the house soon, the two tax bills would force her into bankruptcy.

  Across the room, LeVar slid into his chair and flicked on his monitor. Last night, Chelsey had turned off all the monitors and set the computers in standby mode, hoping to save money on energy costs. LeVar read his email and slipped on headphones, bobbing his head to a hip-hop beat. His dreadlocks spilled over his shoulders. As he caught up on his messages, he caught Chelsey staring and removed the headphones.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Could you turn the music down? It’s difficult to concentrate.”

  LeVar shared a look with his sister. “Didn’t realize the music was that loud.”

  Chelsey snatched more bills off the desk and carried them to the kitchen. The last thing she wanted was to take her frustrations out on Raven and LeVar. When she opened the water bill, she covered her mouth to keep herself from crying. Two-hundred dollars? Though Chelsey showered at the office after she jogged to work, she didn’t use that much water. She worried about leaky pipes. In her mind, she pictured dollar bills draining out of the ancient plumbing and disappearing into the earth.

  If she couldn’t reduce expenses, she’d need to tap her emergency reserves. And after she squandered her reserves, then what?

  The last resort was to reduce Raven’s hours. That wasn’t an option. Raven was too talented. If Chelsey cut her friend’s hours, Raven would take a job with a competitor. No, Raven won’t leave, Chelsey thought as she stared through the kitchen window at the bustling village. Raven and Chelsey were best friends, and Raven would swallow her pride and accept the reduced hours. Heck, Raven would probably accept a pay cut if Chelsey asked. Not an option. Chelsey refused to choose between her business and her friends. At least LeVar worked for free. Raven’s brother, a former gang member with the feared Harmon Kings, was a student intern at Wolf Lake Consulting.

  Chelsey opened a spreadsheet. The column on the left listed revenue coming into Wolf Lake Consulting, the column on the right expenses. After including her best estimate for the autumn tax bill, the projected profit-and-loss turned negative. She was out of options. Unable to guarantee anyone would purchase her personal residence in the coming weeks, she had to increase revenue. That meant more cases, and her staff was already bogged down and overworked.

  A knock on the door brought her head around. Raven stood in the entryway with concern etched into her face.

  “Everything okay, Chelsey? You seem stressed this morning.”

  Chelsey slipped the bills into a folder and closed her laptop.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night. But I’m good to go now.”

  “If there’s anything you want to get off your chest, I’m here for you.”

  “Much appreciated. By the way, we have a new client.”

  Raven slapped her forehead.

  “We don’t have time for another client. Who is it now?”

  “Come with me.”

  Chelsey led Raven into the office and motioned for LeVar to meet them at her desk. The nineteen-year-old removed his headphones, killed the music, and rolled his chair across the floor.

>   “What’s going on?” LeVar asked.

  “New client,” Raven said, shaking her head.

  “Another one?”

  Chelsey cleared her throat.

  “Rosemary Bourn hired us to follow her husband, Osmond.”

  Raven pinched the bridge of her nose. “You said no more infidelity cases this month.”

  “I did.”

  “What makes this case special?”

  “She gave us a generous down payment. And since I’m still chasing the Hewitt family for their check, I need this down payment.”

  “They still haven’t paid? We wrapped up that investigation two weeks ago.”

  Chelsey opened a folder. “Call them and remind them of the late penalty. In the meantime, Bourn paid, so I said yes.”

  LeVar slid his chair closer to the desk. “Tell us about Rosemary and Osmond.”

  Chelsey placed a picture of Osmond Bourn on the desk. The man had a thick neck, buzzed auburn hair, a chiseled chin, and muscular arms. He looked like a linebacker.

  “Rosemary and Osmond are each thirty-six. Married eleven years, no kids. Rosemary is a stay-at-home wife, and Osmond works as a contractor. I see his signs around the village now and then. He does everything from roofs to landscaping to kitchen remodels. I almost called him last year when I lost my rain gutters in an ice storm.”

  “With a mug like that, he should be a professional wrestler. I’d pay good money to watch him fight Hulk Hogan inside a steel cage.”

  “They own a French Tudor on Riverwalk Drive.”

  Raven sat forward. “You mean the place with the topiaries out front?” Raven whistled. “Riverwalk Drive, that’s the high-rent district. That house must have five bedrooms.”

  “Six.”

  LeVar scratched his chin. “Osmond is a glorified handyman, and Rosemary doesn’t work. How can they afford a place like that?”

  Chelsey lifted a shoulder. “I guess the contracting business has been good to Osmond. Anyhow, that’s not important. Rosemary claims her husband works long days without telling her when he’ll come home, and he leaves in the middle of the night. Sometimes she wakes up at four in the morning and finds Osmond gone. Then he sneaks into the house and slips into bed while she pretends she’s asleep.”