The door swings open easily, knocking into the wall, and I’m startled by how different the bedroom looks compared to the last time I was in here, fucking Morgan at the Halloween party. My skin heats at the memory, and I step over the threshold gingerly, careful not to disrupt anything.
It looks like a tornado ripped through the area; previously taped boxes are torn open and thrown haphazardly around the room, some crushed and some shredded, their contents scattered over the bed and carpet as if each box regurgitated and left the mess for someone else to clean up.
The bedsheets have been balled up and tucked between the bed frame and the wall, and there’s broken glass everywhere. I move in, careful not to make the mess worse, tiptoeing to inspect the window and see if there was a break-in.
Pulling back the curtain, I find the window completely intact, and my mind starts racing, a million possibilities swimming through and trying to take root as an explanation.
“What the hell…” I say, trailing off as I turn in a circle, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Did… Gabe do this?
My mind flickers back to Halloween night, and the brief thought I had about whether or not Gabe had been sleeping in the room because of the way the bed had been made up. It felt lived in, even if I didn’t spare the time to think too much about it.
I had more pressing things on my mind at the time, like getting Morgan naked and fucking her brains out.
But if Gabe was sleeping here, why would he destroy the room?
Exhaling, I peek out the window, noting that his car is gone, guilt weaving its tendrils around my heart. Maybe he was more drunk than I realized, and I just fucking sent him on his way.
Still, it’s not like him to leave without saying goodbye, so maybe something just set him off.
Maybe I’m not at fault here.
A scratching sound draws my attention, and I freeze up, anxiety flooding my chest and making my heart skip a beat as I glance around, sure I’ve somehow missed an intruder. Darting back across the room, I stick my head out the door, glancing up and down the hall.
It’s totally still, the only audible sound Charlie’s heavy breathing in the next room. I sigh, thoughts of everything that happened at Halloween and before swirling around chaotically in my brain, making me hear things.
Chest tight, I move to pull the spare room door closed, figuring that’s a conversation for whenever Gabe decides to show back up.
Just as I’ve started out of the room, I pause, something shiny glinting from beneath the bed and catching my eye.
Tapping my foot on the floor, I shrug. “It’s not like he’s ever been one to respect my privacy.”
Shoving the door wider, I walk back into the room, crouching down and feeling blindly for the object. My fingers brush something cold and metallic, and my eyebrows knit together as I pull it out.
Time seems to come to a complete standstill when I slide it into view, gripping the metal sides so tight that my fingers go numb.
My breathing stalls out like my lungs have filled with wet cement, and my heart stutters a staccato rhythm in my chest, like a toy winding down.
Running my thumbs over the smooth corners, I try to clear my throat and unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Getting to my feet, I slowly set the object on the bed, blinking rapidly, as if that might make it disappear.
My lockbox.
A ragged breath tears out of me as I toy with the lock—a little golden buckle with my father’s initials engraved on it.
Broken, like someone took a hammer to it so they could access the inside.
“What the fuck,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head as I push back the lid, noting that the box is empty.
Any sliver of hope I’d been holding on to that I might recover my photos and newspaper articles about Morgan Jensen vanishes as my eyes take in the hollow box.
I deflate with the realization, my shoulder slumping forward.
But then I glance up at the inside of the lid, apprehension raging inside me. Red flags erect in my head, trying to stop me from pulling at the tape, but then the items pop free.
The first is a folded-up print of an ancient scroll; I smooth out the edges, scrunching my face up when I see the Latin scribbled on the page.
Next, one of my pictures, this one of all us church kids, gathered around Preacher Cartwright’s aboveground pool, celebrating the man’s birthday. Or something. I can’t remember the exact occasion, only that nobody really wanted to attend.
Our mothers made us, though, insisting we be hospitable; I’m standing up front with my arms around Morgan and Isa’s shoulders, giving the former a noogie while she tries to wiggle from my grip.
Sweeping my eyes over the familiar faces, I spot Klepsky off to the side by himself, arms crossed over his chest and a vicious scowl marring his youth.
It’s not until I see Gabe, though, that the nauseous feeling in my stomach grows, spiraling into an unmaintainable mass of fear and anxiety.
I bring the picture up closer, taking in his scrawny body—and the preacher standing right beside him, one hand clamped tight around Gabe’s bare shoulder.
Cartwright’s smiling, the gesture stretched so thin, it’s almost possible to see right through him.
But Gabe’s not.
In fact, his face is impassive. Blank and unseeing, a lot like the Fate Reaper’s corpses.
Too much like them.
Dread settles like an anchor in the pit of my stomach, pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was putting together slotting into place.
The constant disappearing act.
His presence at every single crime scene, as if anyone’s just that lucky.
“I took French in high school,” Gabe says after a beat, glancing up at us from where he’s crouched beside Sloane’s car. “Remind me of Latin’s significance?”
“It’s only the entire basis for our country’s legal jargon,” Sloane says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not like that’s pertinent to your job or anything.” She arches a brow, eyeing his badge. “Officer.”
“Also,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “You did take Latin. Private tutoring with Preacher Cartwright, remember?”
“Ah, yes. So we could ‘properly annotate ancient scripture.’ Must have repressed that horrible experience.”
The photo slips from my fingers as I blink from the memory, my mind firing through a dozen different scenarios, collecting signs like little bread crumbs.
An ache so deep and visceral lances through my chest that I have to steady myself on the mattress.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say, reaching into the box for the last item. The petals are shriveled, somehow preserved after all these years, but I’d recognize the flowers anywhere.
Black roses.
Chapter 49
My mind races a thousand miles a minute as I try to figure out how this could have happened. What we missed—what I missed—that had us arresting an innocent man.
My fingers grip my cell as I pull it from my pocket, but when I glance down, I realize there’re no bars.
A boom of thunder sounds on cue.
Must be out from the storm.
Great.
I knew Klepsky was too obvious.
But if he isn’t the killer, why did he have so much evidence against him?
Unless…
Someone planted it.
Still, it just doesn’t make sense why anyone would go through the trouble of framing someone else; first with Lincoln and then with Klepsky, only to continue the murders after an arrest has been made.
But then I think about all of my other cases, and disappointment roots itself in the center of my chest. The killer’s playing games.
Trying to make me feel stupid.
With one last look at Preacher Cartwright, I spin around, moving toward the door to head back to my car and get somewhere so I can call this in.
The sun has fully set now, the moon shining off the fog that blankets the ar
ea like a curtain. I can barely see three steps in front of me, the air so thick and moist it sinks into my skin and douses my insides, making every breath harder to come by.
Anxiety pricks me like needles as I make my way to the car.
Crack.
My heart skips at the sound of a branch breaking in the distance.
“Hello?” I ask, squinting my eyes to try and see in front of me.
Silence.
My stomach tightens painfully, my senses going on high alert.
I take another careful step forward, my head leaning to the side as I try to make out a shape, or… anything.
“Hello?” I yell out again.
It’s quiet other than the waves crashing in the distance, and I breathe deep, counting to three and trying to find my center.
I’m only spooked because there’s a dead body and no cell service.
But then another sound crashes through my eardrums, a crunch of brittle leaves, and my heart stutters in my chest.
There’s someone here.
And it sounds like they’re coming from the direction of my car, although it’s hard to say for sure with this weather.
My fists clench as I spin around and head in the opposite direction, hoping that maybe if I walk far enough, I can get at least one or two bars on my phone.
Anxiety swirls deep in my gut, making my nerves fray and I quicken my pace, stumbling over loose gravel and small twigs.
Another sound from behind me, this time closer, and my heart surges, slamming against my ribs.
My lungs burn from sucking in mouthfuls of cold air, and adrenaline mixes with the fear that’s pumping through my system as I resist the urge to look around and try to see if anyone’s there.
When I hear heavy footfalls slapping the ground behind me, I let go of my reservations and break into a sprint, my stomach cramping and legs burning.
My foot stumbles over something round, and I trip and fall, searing pain radiating up my ankle. Shit, shit, shit.
I wince as I try to stand, collapsing back down onto the ground, my teeth biting through the skin of my cheek to hold in the grunt of pain. Small pebbles scrape along my palms as I drag myself forward, ignoring the way the loose dirt stings the fresh scratches on my forearms.
The sound of waves comes closer, and I realize I must be close to the edge of the cliff. My breathing stutters, my insides curdling.
The only place to go is down.
Only this is no dream, and I know I can’t jump. There’s no bed of black roses to catch me, only the icy, raging water and the sharp, rocky shore.
The footsteps get closer, my ears straining against the noise. And then they stop, and I lift my hands to cover my mouth, too scared to even breathe.
“Nowhere left to run?”
The line is so familiar it smacks me in the chest, whooshing the air from my lungs and throwing me into a memory.
“Nowhere left to run?” A skinny boy with sandy blond hair appears through the fog, and I take small steps back on my feet, my heart throbbing from the exertion of being chased.
“Gabe… stop it. This isn’t funny anymore,” I say, my hands splayed in front of me.
The corner of his mouth tips up, a manic look filtering through his gaze as he steps close.
I move back, bits of gravel flying from under my shoe and crumbling down the side of the steep cliff.
“No, it isn’t funny, is it?” he snaps.
“What’s your problem?” I twist around, panic pouring through me as I realize if I move anymore, I’ll fall.
He has me cornered, with nowhere to go.
“You, Morgan. You are my problem,” he spits.
My brows pull in, confusion and fear mixing like poison in my blood. “Is this because Linc didn’t let you come with us to the lightroom?”
“He never lets me come!” he yells, his foot kicking out at a rock, sending it flying into the distance.
My eyes widen. I’ve never seen Gabe like this—so angry.
“And he never stays. You two just go running off into your stupid little lighthouse, never caring about what happens to the rest of us.”
“It’s not my fault your mom makes you stay at church.” I swallow, my eyes bouncing to our surroundings. I need to figure out how to calm him down. “Gabe, you can… you can come play with us if you want. I’m sure Linc won’t mind.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he pulls something from his pants pocket. As he steps closer, I see it’s a large kitchen knife, the metal glinting as he moves toward me.
Terror surges through my insides as I push my hands out farther in front of me. “You’re gonna be in so much trouble once your parents find out about this.”
He cackles, a high-pitched laugh, so loud it grates against my ears. “My parents don’t give a damn about what happens to me,” he hisses.
Something cracks in the distance, and both of our heads snap to the side.
A pretty woman with tangled brown hair steps through the fog, a bouquet of deep purple roses in her hands, so dark they look almost black.
“Mom,” I whisper, relief rushing through me.
Her head tilts as she takes in the scene, her milky blue eyes resting on me and then Gabe, before looking down at the knife in his hand.
She doesn’t seem scared—which isn’t surprising—my mother is so far gone in her head she doesn’t even recognize me half the time.
Gabe groans, throwing his head back. “Just great. Here come the Jensen’s, ruining everything as usual.”
“What is wrong with you?” I scoff, narrowing my eyes, resentment at someone talking badly about my family making the words spew from my mouth. “You’re awful. I don’t know why Linc even wants to be your friend.”
His gaze hardens, and he lunges forward, the knife outstretched in his hand. I scream, my arms flying out again to brace for the impact.
It all happens in slow motion after that.
My mom running in between us, the blade lodging deep into her middle.
Horror washes through me. “No!”
Shock slides over every nerve in my body like ice, until I’m frozen in place, helpless to do anything but watch as my mom’s fist loosens, the bouquet of roses falling to the ground, petals breaking off the stem and scattering as she sinks to her knees.
Gabe stares down at her, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted, as if he can’t quite believe what it is he just did. His gaze keeps bobbing from the knife that he’s still holding back up to my mother’s face. “Holy shit,” he whispers.
Tears stream down my face, my stomach splitting open with a pain so strong it blurs my vision. “Mom,” I force out between sobs, my body finally reacting to my brain and moving toward her. “Mommy, please.”
She looks at me, and I swear to God her eyes are the clearest they’ve been in years, the icy blue penetrating through to my soul.
“Morgan,” she whispers. “Run.”
I snap back to the present, my mouth gaping in horror and a splitting pain pounding between my eyes as I stare at Gabriel Wilson, making his way toward me slowly through the fog.
“It was you,” I say.
He smirks, hands on his hips, his shirt splotchy with red stains. “I was really, really hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
I scoot back on my butt, tension wringing my muscles tight, knowing I have nowhere else to go. I glance behind me.
His gaze follows my line of sight, his lips tilting up. “Poetic, isn’t it?” His footsteps stall as he chuckles. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t remember.”
My stomach drops to the ground.
“You know, I really thought I made sure you were dead.” He shakes his head, pulling a gun from the waistband of his pants. “Mistakes of a thirteen-year-old, I guess.”
His grin widens until it splits his face, his hand moving in front of him, as if he’s writing a note in the air. “Note to self: a rock to the back of the head and thrown from a cliff does not guarantee death.”
“Yo-You…” I stutter, my brain trying to wrap around the information overload. “You killed my mother.”
He nods, his eyes sparking. “So you do remember?”
I swallow around the knot in my throat, my brain trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get myself out of this situation, and trying to come to terms with the fact that Gabe outsmarted me at every turn.
I didn’t even think of him.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he sighs. “She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only you I needed gone.” His eyes narrow into slits.
I tilt my head. “And you killed all those women?”
“Those women reaped what they sowed.” His voice is flat, his eyes hollow as he stops right in front of me, crouching down, the gun dangling between his legs. “I thought I had moved on from it.” He shrugs. “But you know what they say about repressed trauma.”
I suck in a breath, the puzzle coming together in my brain. “Preacher Cartwright?”
Gabe’s jaw tenses, his gaze growing glassy. “That sick bastard was living on borrowed time, anyway, may he rot in hell.” He spits on the ground. “Pedophile fuck.”
A rock sinks in my gut. “He molested you.”
A tear tracks down Gabe’s cheek, and he leans his head to the side, cracking his neck, before lifting his hand until the barrel of his gun rubs against his temple. “I will never let my son go through what I did.”
I latch onto the emotion, hoping I can keep him talking long enough to figure out how the hell I’m going to escape this situation. “Gabe, I can’t… I can’t imagine.”
“No. You will never understand what it’s like,” he speaks through his teeth. The tendons in his neck strain and he taps the barrel of his gun to his temple again, tears pouring steadily from his eyes. “Years of mental torture. Years of staying after Sunday school to ‘help.’”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, my stomach churning.
“Years of watching Lincoln fucking Porter walk away and spend time with you, instead of staying behind with the rest of us.”
Another piece clicks into place. “That’s why you tried to frame him?”
His nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing. “He’s always had it so easy, always gotten everything he’s ever wanted.” He snaps his fingers. “Like that. The ‘town golden boy.’”
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 33