by Mia Sheridan
Suspended disbelief in real life is called willing stupidity.
She’d kept seeing him for another six months before she’d been unable to lie to herself any longer. Regardless, even after it’d ended, she still thought of him, still missed him, her heart still flipped and that old familiar neediness filled her chest when she saw him across campus, walking with some other pretty student. She still longed for the way he’d made her feel. She thought of what Marshall had asked her a moment before. Did she keep seeing Vaughn after she knew he was married—with two daughters nonetheless—because she was trying to get back at her father? “I wasn’t trying to get back at anyone. It’s like . . . I recreated the situation with my father unconsciously. The feelings were the same. Are the same. I craved the rejection as much as the acceptance. I wanted to hurt myself.”
“Why?” he barked. He seemed upset in some way she couldn’t discern, and she wondered if she was going too far here. Wondered if she’d accidentally say something that, instead of cultivating empathy, would create anger, cause him to revile her more than he did. But it was all she had. The truth of her life as she was finally beginning to see it. She felt a sudden kinship with her captor—that Stockholm Syndrome rising up. It was a . . . familiarity that went beyond words or understanding. She tried to move closer to him but her chains pulled her tight, trapping her where she was.
“I didn’t set out to hurt myself intentionally, but seeing it now, yeah. Yeah, I did. Somewhere deep down.” She paused. “Maybe we’re all just going through the motions, trying to rework the stories that ended so badly in our early years. Trying so desperately to play a different role in the tragedies of our lives, yet using the same flawed script. Do you ever think that, Mar—” She realized her mistake and cleared her throat. He didn’t appear to notice. He didn’t react at all. “Do you ever think that?”
“What about the other p-players? What about them?”
Josie sighed. “You can’t change them.”
“No,” he murmured. He turned his head, his hazel eyes catching the light for a moment. She saw that he had a ring of dark brown surrounding the lighter hazel. She’d never seen eyes like his before. “But you c-can make them suffer.” He smiled then, she could tell by the movement of his mask. A deep chill went down her spine as he stood and left.
CHAPTER TEN
Josie peeked out her curtain, watching as the patrol car drove slowly past her house, the window rolled down, the officer peering at her property. Officer Horton. He’d come to the house earlier and introduced himself, given her his card with his cell number so she could call him if she had any reason to. Assured her he’d be at her service within a few minutes.
It was comforting, she had to admit. And surreal. Her mind was still reeling from Detective Copeland’s visit and as she stood there, going over what he’d told her once again, she wondered what the likelihood was that the case of the girl they’d found dead had anything to do with her. More likely it had to do with the man who’d abducted her, right? Someone was mimicking him for reasons unknown. Finding new victims and using Marshall Landish’s MO. She dropped the curtain, turning away and walking to her desk. She sat, opening one of the file folders in front of her. Marshall Landish’s photo greeted her as she knew it would, his grainy, black and white features staring at her from the employee photo of the grocery store where he’d once worked. She picked it up, her stomach tightening with anxiety. She made herself look at it, her eyes moving over the features of the man who’d caused her so much trauma. The father of her baby boy. A deranged and evil man, who’d believed his actions were some sort of twisted right.
Just as always, though, she had trouble meshing the face of the man in the photo with the man under the ski mask who’d raped, terrorized, and starved her. She couldn’t stop picturing him in her mind as that faceless monster who’d first attacked her in her bed in the middle of the night. Her counselor had printed out the picture in the file for her after Josie had asked. Josie had wanted to . . . picture him as he was, not as he’d chosen to appear to her. Faceless. She’d sought to humanize him so her panic abated. He wasn’t some supernatural devil she had to fear. He was just a man. And he was dead. Gone forever.
Plus, if—no, when—she found her boy, she had to know he might look like his father. His heart and soul would be his own, but his face might be that of her tormenter. She had to make peace with that. She could never cause her child to think she saw evil in him because of the features he could not change.
She’d visited schools a few times, sat in her car as she’d watched the kids in the grade he’d be in head out to recess. Once she’d spotted a little boy with black hair like Marshall’s about the same age her child would be. He’d been sitting alone, head bowed. No friends. Her heart had lurched, stomach clenching as she stared at the lonely little boy. Are you mine? she’d wondered. But then another little boy had sat next to him. They’d looked so much alike, Josie had known it had to be a twin or a brother. Her heart had sunk, and she’d driven away.
Josie stared at Marshall’s picture for another minute, annoyed with herself. Because try as she might, she couldn’t merge the two—the man in the photo, and the man in the ski mask. Her mind simply wouldn’t allow it, was branded with Marshall not as he was, but the way he’d appeared to her during the most horrific months of her life. She had to keep working on that. Apparently eight years hadn’t been enough.
It will happen when you find him, she thought. And in a way she hoped she would see at least a glimmer of his father in the way her son looked. It would serve to humanize Marshall Landish further. It would serve as a daily reminder of the light that had come from the darkness. Her baby boy. The reason she’d kept fighting, day after day, in her hellish dungeon. Her hope. She closed her eyes, picturing his face as she remembered it, the small cherubic features, the way he’d looked at her with so much trust. Pain blossomed in her chest, rising so suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. It hurt. Still. But she let it, almost relished the pain. In some ways, he was the pain, twisted in the longing she carried inside her. It was all she had of him, and she couldn’t let it go without also allowing him to drift away.
After a moment, she took a deep breath, closing the folder and choosing another. It held the lists of hospitals she’d called over the years, both in Cincinnati and the surrounding cities. She’d looked into Marshall Landish’s background and found he had some family in Texas, and so she’d called the hospitals and agencies there as well. He’d been in the Army in South Carolina for a time, so there was a list from there too. It was a long shot, but there was no avenue she wasn’t willing to travel to find him.
At one point, years before, she’d saved enough money to hire a private investigator, but his leads had all run dry, the same as the CPD’s had.
She’d visited adoption agencies in town, a few social workers who worked within the social services system, the people Marshall worked with, the few friends he had. She’d known the police were doing the same, but it couldn’t hurt, she’d told herself. And she hadn’t stopped after coming up blank. She’d revisited the names on her lists again and again over the years, praying they’d heard something, or a small memory had come back. Something. All long shots, impossible maybe, but she’d refused to give up. She’d promised him, and she would not break that promise. She was his mother.
But those calls . . . she’d let them go this last year, one at a time. The first one was the easiest—Detective Cedric Murphy—because she trusted that if anything came up, he’d get in touch with her. The others were harder. Ceasing her yearly check-ins had been difficult, but like she’d told Detective Copeland, it was time. At this point, they were only succeeding in hurting her—the inevitable negative response, the pity she heard in the voice of the contact when once again, they told her they had nothing to give to her. Plus, she reasoned, perhaps those calls were keeping her focused on dead ends. Perhaps she needed to let those go so she could brainstorm other avenues she hadn’t considered before
. Those calls made her feel like she was still doing something, and she’d needed that. But in reality, maybe stopping them would fuel her to turn elsewhere, somewhere new. Somewhere that would lead to a small break.
With a tired sigh, she pushed the folders away. She’d revisit them the next day when her mind was fresh. She needed to get up early. She’d planned a yard sale where she could purge a portion of the stuff she’d cleared from the attic and basement and make some cash at the same time. She’d already printed off flyers, hung them around town. She wondered if it was too late to put up an ad on Craigslist too . . . get as many people as possible out to the property to cart off some of her aunt’s old possessions for profit.
She hated crowds . . . but, in the effort to bring in some money in order to cross a few things off her list, she’d do what she had to do.
Josie unlocked her bedroom door and went down the hall to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth and washed her face. She yawned as she emerged. God, she was tired. It’d been a long, draining day. Emotional. But as she started for her room, a small noise from downstairs met her ears. A squeak. She paused, holding still as she listened, her heart rate spiking. Another squeak as though someone was stepping slowly over the hardwood floor downstairs, pausing when he met one of the noisy floorboards. And there was a faint . . . dripping in the background.
Josie’s breath caught in her throat as she pressed herself firmly against the hallway wall, waiting. Listening. It’s an old house, she told herself. It’s just settling. As though to confirm her thoughts, the pipe from the bathroom rattled in the wall the way it did a few minutes after the sink had been run. Normal. Usual. Nothing to fear.
Still, she waited, listening for another minute, her ears perked. The squeaking stopped, though that faint dripping continued. Had she left the kitchen faucet just slightly on? She must have. When no further squeaks drifted upstairs, she gathered her courage and walked quietly to the top of the stairs, flicking on the light to the foyer below and looking over the railing. Nothing. Her breath came easier as she descended, holding the rail firmly in her grip.
She was just feeling unsettled because of Detective Copeland’s visit, what he’d imparted to her about the recent crime. The dead girl. The memories his visit had evoked.
Outside the front window, headlights moved slowly by on the road in front of her home. Not the officer—he was only going to drive by every hour or so, and she’d watched him from her upstairs window fifteen minutes before.
She turned, walking into the kitchen where she stopped dead in her tracks, a scream rising to her throat at the sight on her kitchen table.
A dead rat. A knife stuck in its stomach, pinning it to the wood, its blood pooling on the surface and running over the edge where it dripped into a puddle on the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
**********
Zach jumped from his truck and ran toward the well-lit house, pounding his fist at the door. Craig Horton pulled it open, stepping aside to let him enter.
“Horton,” Zach said.
“Cope.”
“Where is she?” he asked as Horton pushed the door closed behind him.
“In the living room to the right.”
Zach patted Horton on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
“We were just down the road when she called. We’d driven by fifteen minutes before. Nothing seemed out of place. Quiet night.”
Zach nodded, turning into the room Horton pointed toward. Josie was curled up on the sofa, a blanket over her knees, golden brown hair curling around her fresh-scrubbed face. She looked younger. Vulnerable. He felt a punch to his gut. She started to stand but he motioned her down. Walking to where she sat, he took a seat on the same sofa and angled his body toward hers.
“You all right?” he asked, his eyes doing a sweep of her face. She appeared slightly shell-shocked, though her hands, lying in her lap, were steady.
She nodded. “I am now. That . . . that thing scared the hell out of me. Someone was in my house, Detective.”
Zach’s skin prickled the way it had when Horton had called him a half hour before. He hadn’t even bothered to shower, even though he’d just finished a workout, had pulled on a pair of track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and jumped in his truck. He looked back at the officer he also considered a friend. Not a close one, but they’d worked together before and the guy was solid. “Vogel still doing a sweep?”
Horton nodded. “Yeah. We did a sweep of the rooms on the lower floor when we arrived. I stayed with Ms. Stratton while Vogel checked out the upstairs. He’s in the basement now.” As if to confirm his statement, Zach heard a thud from below.
“You all right, Vogel?” Horton called into the hallway where Vogel must have left the door to the basement open.
“Yeah,” they heard muffled from below, followed by footsteps on the stairs. A second later Dwayne Vogel appeared. “All clear.” He looked at Josie. “Sorry, ma’am. I knocked over a pile of boxes near the stairs.”
Josie shook her head. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a mess down there. I’m working on getting it cleaned up.”
“Any idea how the suspect entered?” Zach asked.
“The front door was unlocked when we arrived,” Horton said. “Ms. Stratton says she’s almost positive she locked it but can’t be a hundred percent.”
Josie grimaced slightly. “I’m usually very diligent about locking up.” She ran a hand over her forehead, the top of her hair. “But I was distracted today.” Her eyes met his. “By your visit, the shock of hearing about that girl. You’d think I’d have been extra careful about locking up, and I thought I was.” Her brow wrinkled. “But after Officer Horton came here to introduce himself, I just can’t specifically remember locking the door.” She blew out a breath. “It’s possible I didn’t.” Despite her words, there was something in her expression that made Zach think she was unconvinced. He imagined that for a woman who’d experienced what she had, locking doors was second nature. Still, she was human. Everyone got distracted.
“It’s understandable. I’m sure this whole day has thrown you for a loop.” He looked at Horton. “You said the evidence is in the kitchen?”
“Yeah. I’ll let you check that out on your own. Once was enough for me.” Horton gave him a wry smile, but then shot an apologetic glance at Josie. But she obviously hadn’t minded him making light of the situation for a moment and breathed out a small smile, even if it faded quickly.
“A criminalist is on his way to process the evidence. We’ll see if there are any fingerprints on that knife.” He looked at Horton and Vogel. “Will you stay with Ms. Stratton for a minute while I take a look?”
“Sure thing,” Horton said. “Kitchen is across the hall.”
Zach stood, walking through the foyer and across the hall where the rat lay on the table just as Horton had described it on the phone. It was a big sucker, its beady eyes open, tail pink and slinky. Nasty. Dirty fuckers. He hated rats. He was reminded of the rats that had fed on the DOA’s body from the basement crime scene and a chill went down his spine.
The knife that stuck from the rat’s stomach looked to be a standard carving knife. His eyes moved to the knife storage block on Josie’s counter but all the implements there seemed to be accounted for, no empty slots. Whoever had done this had either killed it right beforehand and transferred it inside, or had killed it right there on Josie Stratton’s table with a knife he or she had brought along for the job. Wouldn’t Josie have heard it though if that were the case? Zach couldn’t imagine a rat would die quietly. Again, nasty. He ran his hand over his short hair. It’d been damp when he’d left, but it was dry now.
He returned to the living room. “You guys can get back to your shift,” he said to Horton and Vogel. “The criminalist should be here any minute. And thank you again. I mean it.”
Both officers nodded, and he shook their hands. Josie stood, walking them to the door where she thank
ed them, closing the door quietly and engaging the lock. She didn’t turn her head in the direction of the kitchen, and Zach didn’t blame her. She stood against the door for a moment before wrapping her arms around herself and walking slowly toward where he stood in the doorway of the living room. Their eyes snagged and she looked away. The air in the room suddenly felt different, a strange awkwardness falling over the moment.
“Can I, ah, get you something?” he asked. “Water? Tea?” It felt sort of odd to offer her something from her own house, but he couldn’t imagine she was eager to go back in the kitchen at the moment.
“I’d love some tea,” she murmured. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Thank you. The tea is in the upper cabinet to the right of the sink, and the mugs are to the left of the refrigerator. Join me in a cup if you’d like.”
He nodded and went into the kitchen where he studiously kept his gaze on the task at hand, heating water in the microwave, locating the tea bags in the cabinet, and opening a couple of drawers until he found the spoons. “Do you take anything in your tea?” he called.
“A splash of milk,” she called back.
He added milk and then carried both steaming mugs back to the living room, along with a box of cookies held under his arm that he’d found in her pantry. She was back in the same spot she’d been sitting in when he’d arrived, and he sat next to her as he’d done before, putting the mugs and the box of cookies on the coffee table in front of them. He picked up her mug and handed it to her. “I hope I made it right.”
She smiled. “I don’t think you can mess up tea.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s a running joke in my family that I can’t boil water.”
Josie laughed softly and his stomach did a little flip. Damn odd time to feel a shot of physical attraction but there it was. Uncomfortable with his reaction to this woman under the circumstances, he took a drink of the hot liquid. It burned his mouth and he struggled to swallow it down rather than spit it out. She was watching him with obvious amusement as she took a tentative sip.