by Mia Sheridan
What if it was him? She would not be shackled again. She would not. She picked up a shard of glass and clutched it in her hand as she pulled herself to her feet, slipping, stumbling, limping, shaking from fear and cold. Run! Run! Josie ran. Her feet were bare, she was only wearing a tank top and the torn remnants of the shorts she’d put on a lifetime ago. She glanced behind her and saw that she was leaving a trail of blood in the light dusting of snow.
Red breadcrumbs that he could follow if he arrived before she made it to safety.
She slipped on a patch of ice, pitched forward but caught herself before she fell, stumbling on. And on. It was deserted everywhere she turned, a vast area of abandoned buildings. No wonder no one had heard her screams. She wavered in and out, gasping, keeping herself moving by sheer will alone.
She saw movement up ahead. Headlights. A car. Josie sobbed, wondering if it was him. But no, it was a taxi. A taxi! Josie stumbled forward, mustering a yell, sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath, waving her arms.
The taxi turned, heading in the other direction and Josie yelled again. A pulsing wave of red overtook her and for a moment the world blinked out. She fell to her knees, raising her hand toward the taxi that was moving slowly away. Come back! Come back! She tried to pull herself up, but couldn’t, crawling in the snowy dirt toward the retreating vehicle, one arm reaching toward it.
She saw the red brake lights come on suddenly and then it began backing up. Josie wavered, her head bobbing as she tried desperately to remain conscious, reaching forward as if she could grab the approaching light in her outstretched hand.
A door opening. Footsteps. A man’s voice. He was yelling something. At her? No, he was on his phone. She crumpled to the ground. She could smell asphalt, dirty ice, the tang of her own body.
“911? A girl in the road . . . bloody . . . half-naked . . . I don’t know.”
Josie rolled partially to her back. Where were the stars? There was only concrete above her. A bridge maybe or an overpass. The man’s voice faded in and out. He was still talking fast. Panicked. “. . . looks half dead. Send help!”
Josie closed her eyes and slept.
Lights faded in and out, sounds, rushing. She was somewhere bright, moving, people running along beside her. Pain. Everywhere. She moaned. “She’s hemorrhaging!” someone said.
She opened her eyes groggily, turning her head away from all the moving people. Her gaze hooked on a man in uniform—a police officer—standing against a wall, staring back at her. His expression was filled with shock and such deep sadness. His gaze met hers. His eyes. Indigo like the nighttime sky. She let go. She’d made it to that faraway star, and it bathed her in its blinding light.
Free.
Free.
Free.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Marshall Landish’s sister lived in a single-family brick home with a wide wraparound porch in the Mount Lookout area of Cincinnati. The small lawn had recently been mowed and window boxes of bright red and yellow flowers adorned the upper windows. A red tricycle was parked at the base of the wide stone steps.
Why this surprised Zach, he wasn’t sure. He supposed it was because the name Landish conjured up such dark thoughts, and this picture-perfect symbol of American family bliss went completely against those murky notions.
Of course, Marshall’s sister Linda was no longer a Landish. Her married name was Winston.
He glanced at Josie and she gave him a small smile, though her eyes told him she was nervous, as did the way her hands opened and closed at her sides as though unconsciously seeking something to hold on to. He reached over and squeezed her hand, unable to resist offering her a small reassurance with his touch, if only very briefly.
Before Zach even knocked, he could hear the boisterous sounds of children playing inside. He used the knocker to rap on the door and the noise inside grew louder for a moment as if every member of the household was moving toward the door. When it was pulled open, a dark-haired woman stood there, holding an exuberant poodle by its collar, as two young kids met her where she stood.
“Mrs. Winston? I’m Detective Copeland. We spoke on the phone.”
She bobbed her head, shooting a quick, nervous glance at Josie and then back to Zach. “Yes,” she said, moving aside, and using her arm to gesture that the kids move aside as well. “Please come in.” She turned her head toward the stairs and yelled, “Carl?”
Zach and Josie entered and a second later, a tall man with a blond beard and a receding hairline came down the stairs. “The detective is here,” she said to him. He nodded to her and shuffled the kids and the dog off in a noisy parade of footsteps, clicking dog nails, and loud requests for cookies and juice.
Linda Winston showed them into a living room and they all took a seat. When they both declined the beverage she offered, she took a deep breath, lacing her hands in her lap. She peeked at Josie, then looked back at Zach. “I have to say, I was extremely surprised to get your call earlier. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I know you wanted to meet with me eight years ago,” Josie said, and Linda turned her attention to her. “I wasn’t ready then and I’m sorry I denied your requests.” She glanced at Zach and he gave her a small nod.
“I understand why you did,” Linda said quietly.
Josie nodded, looking at her hands for a moment. My God, she’s brave. How she was doing this was beyond Zach. So lionhearted, his Josie. “Earlier when Zach . . . Detective Copeland talked to you, you said you’d heard about the so-called copycat that was mimicking your brother’s crime.”
Linda nodded, sadness passing over her expression. “Yes. I’ve been following the story. It’s . . . awful.”
“Yes,” Josie agreed. She cleared her throat. “In the course of the investigation, some questions have come up, and I’ve been trying to recall specific things about your brother in order to help catch the copycat.”
Linda frowned. “What sorts of things?”
Zach had told Josie not to indicate there was any question about Marshall Landish’s involvement in the original crime. There was no evidence to that yet, only questions, and it would be cruel to give this woman false hope on that front. Josie cleared her throat. “Nothing specific at this point. The truth is, I don’t know what memories might help.”
“So you’ve been going over that . . . time.”
Josie nodded.
Linda regarded her for a moment. “That must be difficult.”
“Yes. I was hoping . . . well, I was hoping you might be willing to talk to me about Marshall in sort of . . . general terms. I know that might be difficult for you too.”
Linda stared at Josie for a moment and then sighed, sitting back in her chair. “No, actually, I don’t mind talking about Marshall.” She offered Josie a gentle smile. “I’m glad someone wants to hear about him.” She gave her head a small shake. “I don’t believe he did it.” She looked up at Josie, their gazes holding for a few moments, these two women who came from such opposite sides of the case against the man they were discussing. Yet it was clear to Zach that Landish’s sister was a decent person. She wasn’t necessarily correct about her brother’s innocence, but she obviously believed what she said. And she obviously understood the predicament Josie was in enough to offer sympathy.
“I know,” Josie said softly. “Will you tell me why?”
“It simply wasn’t in him to carry out the crime committed against you. Marshall was . . . awkward, shy. He even came across as simple sometimes, because of his stutter. But he wasn’t. He was intelligent. But mostly, he was empathetic.” She shook her head. “I knew him better than anyone because I practically raised him. He brought home every stray he came across when he was a little boy.” She smiled, a small lifting of her lips. “He couldn’t even kill a spider. He’d scoop it up with a cup and put it outside. He was a gentle boy, and a gentle man.”
“His stutter . . . did it ever come and go? When he got overwrought or angry, did it disappear?”
Linda shook her head. “Honestly, I can’t recall Marshall getting angry, but . . . no. If he became frustrated or anxious, his stutter actually got worse, not better. But it was always present. He was self-conscious of it.” She looked down at her hands. “He tried different techniques to lessen it, but nothing ever worked.” She met Josie’s eyes. “Marshall was very aware of his stutter, Ms. Stratton. He’d have never thought you wouldn’t notice it, or that he could hide his identity if he uttered one sentence.” She paused. “The man who abducted you kept that mask on for a different reason.”
Josie blinked, swallowed. “When I was with Marshall, he said some things that gave me the impression that he’d gone hungry.” She was obviously changing the subject. What Linda had just said rattled her.
Linda frowned, looked down, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Our parents struggled. Occasionally the cupboards were bare." Clearly she didn’t want to confirm the things Josie was saying, but she was being truthful anyway.
“What do you mean by struggled?” Josie asked, her expression guarded as though she thought Linda would shut down her question.
But Linda didn’t pause, didn’t look at Josie as though her inquiry was too personal. She’d been waiting a long time to talk about her brother—to mount a small defense of him, however unofficial. “Our father had PTSD. He would go through bouts of depression. It was hard on my brother. He was sensitive, and my father’s drawing away hurt him. Anyway, there were lots of times my dad was out of work. Our mother tried her best to make ends meet but times were often tight.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Zach wondered whether Linda knew her brother as well as she thought she did. A person couldn’t always know the things inside another, the things other people hide, the parts they play. The information about a depressed, unstable father set off warning bells. Had Landish repressed his rage at his father—his own violent tendencies—all his life until it finally erupted in a sadistic crime?
“What about his color blindness?” Josie asked. “The police acquired his Army records and said it was listed there.”
Linda shrugged. “Yes. It didn’t seem to hold him back in any way. We found out he had red/green color blindness when he was a kid, but the topic rarely came up after that. Kids adjust, I guess, and it wasn’t a big deal. I never even thought about it. Our father had it too. It runs almost exclusively in the male side of the family. His son would have likely had it too.” Her eyes widened suddenly, obviously realizing what she just said. She grasped her hands in her lap. “Anyway, it . . . it was his stutter that distressed him, because it was the stutter other people judged him on.”
Josie bit at her lip, her forehead creased, as she stared behind Linda, obviously recalling something. “He couldn’t see red . . .” she murmured.
Linda shook her head. “No. He couldn’t tell red from gray. Why? Did the man who abducted you remark on something red?” She looked at Josie hopefully.
Josie didn’t answer her question, still pensive. “If he couldn’t see red or green, but if something or another was likely green, say a leaf, or grass, would he guess? Would he call it green even if it looked gray to him because he’d figure it was his color blindness giving him the wrong information?”
Linda frowned. “I . . . guess. Maybe. I don’t really know how to answer that.”
Josie looked mildly relieved as though she’d just supplied a plausible answer to a question. The question of how Landish had known the color of her underwear, or guessed. Zach’s skin prickled. He supposed he understood her reasoning. If Landish had looked at her undergarments and they’d appeared gray to him, it was more likely they were red and not green. He’d have made the same guess, he supposed. Sort of a leap maybe but . . . it worked as an explanation.
“Thank you, Linda. I appreciate you answering my questions so honestly. For your time.” Josie paused, her eyes moving to the mantel where there were several photos. She stood and Linda did too, following her to the place where there was an eight by ten headshot of a boy in a cap and gown. Josie picked it up, brought it closer. Only her profile was to him, but Zach saw her neck move as she swallowed. She replaced the photo on the mantel, her hand trembling slightly.
She turned toward Zach. “We should go.”
Zach waited until they were back in the car, pulling away from the curb. “What is it?” he asked quietly. There was something haunted in her eyes, and it’d been there since she’d looked closely at that photo.
“His eyes.” She shook her head. “They weren’t right. The color was . . . similar. But, not exact.”
Zach frowned, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Josie, it’s been a long time—”
“No.” Her voice burst forth and she took a deep breath. “No. His eyes were all I could see of his face. I . . . I can’t forget them. I’ve never looked at Marshall’s photo up close like that. And . . . no. They’re not right. Something was off. Zach”—she looked at him, shock and fear in her expression—“those weren’t Marshall’s eyes staring out of that mask.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The farmhouse wavered in the afternoon sun, the trees surrounding it swaying softly in the breeze. At the sight of it, something in Josie clicked into place causing peace to spread through her body. At first she didn’t recognize the feeling. But then she realized what it was—homecoming. She was home. She wondered if she’d ever had the feeling before and couldn’t recall if she had. It felt good, necessary, a balm to her soul. This was her home. And whatever it meant she had to do, she was going to fight for it.
Jimmy was waiting on the porch for them, and he raised his hand when they pulled into the driveway. Zach had called his boss the night before, and he had approved Josie leaving the safehouse. Zach had completed his interviews in Tennessee and would keep in touch with the police there now investigating the case of the missing girl. There hadn’t been a peep from the suspect, the campus had gotten budgetary approval to add some of their own security, which meant the police could patrol more areas, and whatever flu had taken out surrounding forces had passed.
Plus, Jimmy had supervised while her house was set up with something they’d called the RAP alarm, a temporary security system that the city had paid for.
As they stepped from the car, Josie noticed that the railing was no longer leaning. It had been fixed and the whole thing painted a bright, crisp white. Tears sprang to her eyes, though she put her hands on her hips as she approached Jimmy. Sweet, sweet man. “Extra porch railing from your boat?” she asked, not able to hide the wobble of her lips.
He squinted at her, his jowls shaking as he nodded. “Didn’t need it. It was just taking up space.”
“Right,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his pockmarked cheek. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?”
“You deserve the world,” he said, his expression going serious. Zach approached and she caught the look Jimmy shot him. Zach’s expression morphed into concern, and Josie looked back and forth between the two of them.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Jimmy looked at her, seeming to come to some decision. “Reagan Hutchison has gone missing.”
Josie’s heart plummeted to her feet. “What?” she whispered.
“When?” Zach asked. “She had a tail.”
“Yeah. This morning. She went to an exercise class. Entered the building and never came out.”
Zach swore softly. “Cameras?”
“No video surveillance in the gym. There’s one across the street, but so far, nothing unusual on it.”
Josie’s mouth felt dry, her heart pounding with dread. This could not be happening. She leaned back against the pillar behind her. She pictured the warehouse room, waking up shackled to the wall. Was Reagan in a room like that now? She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. How did he know? Why now? “What else?” she asked, her eyes flying to Jimmy’s face. “What else is being done?”
“We just don’t have any leads righ
t now. Her husband is being questioned. He’s cooperating. Claims everything was fine between them.”
“Merrick?” Zach asked.
“He has an alibi. He was in a meeting with his lawyer this morning when Reagan went missing.”
“And now?”
“Home. He’s being watched. If he goes anywhere, we’ll know about it.”
“His ex-wife too?” Zach asked, and Jimmy nodded.
“The boss wants us at the station,” Jimmy said. “Oxford is sending a couple officers. They should be here shortly.”
Josie shook her head. “No way.” She turned to Zach. “Let me come with you. Don’t make me sit here uselessly. Whatever comes up, I might be able to help. I might . . . recognize something you wouldn’t or . . .” She threw her hands up, frustrated, desperate. “I don’t know, but I can’t sit here. Please.”
Zach only paused for a moment. “All right, listen. We need to start calling all her friends, anyone she might have spoken to recently. We’ll get a list from her husband. Let’s go.”
**********
The station buzzed with activity. Josie sat at Zach’s desk waiting for him to return with the list Evan made of the names and numbers of people Reagan might have spoken to recently. She’d called Cooper’s phone, but it had gone straight to voicemail. It was the middle of the afternoon, though. He was probably at work.
She stared around the open room, watching the other detectives work at their desks, some on their phones, others talking among themselves. The noise around her faded out for a minute, the moment feeling surreal, as though she were in some strange dream. Is this how it looked, for a time, when they were looking for me? And yet, they’d never found her. She’d had to escape on her own. Please let them find Reagan.
Zach emerged from the office where he’d been talking to Jimmy and his boss and headed her way. “Did you get a hold of him?”