“He should.” Trent got out of the car before she could say anything else. This was bad enough without her added commentary.
He pulled their overnight bags out of the trunk and headed up to the door. John had already got there ahead of him and was unlocking it.
“You really don’t need to put us up,” said Trent.
“Sure I do. It’s the safest place in town, and your lady friend looks like she’s about to fall over.”
Elise did look tired, but Trent could think of better places for her to catch some sleep than here.
Like anywhere.
John rolled inside and called out, “Carol, I’m home.”
The house was small but homey. Lace doilies and matching curtains gave the place a distinctly feminine look, but Trent figured John probably didn’t care what Carol did with the place as long as she didn’t get rid of the TV. Family pictures covered the walls, along with macaroni art and crooked crayon drawings.
The air smelled like cinnamon and bacon, with a hint of pine cleaner lurking beneath the stronger scents. A radio was on in another room, giving off the bouncy beat of an old Beach Boys song.
Carol came bustling out of the kitchen. She was younger than John, maybe fifty-five, and wore a floral apron around her pudgy middle. As soon as she saw Trent, her face broke into a smile and she rushed past John to reach up and hug him around the neck.
Her smooth cheek was cool against his, and she smelled like fresh cooked bacon. She said something, but Trent was too stunned to get his ears to function. He couldn’t believe that she was hugging him like he was her long-lost son, when she should have balled up her fist and slugged him in the gut.
He’d nearly killed her husband, and she was hugging him.
“I think you’ve embarrassed him enough, Carol,” said John. “Why don’t you come meet his friend, Elise.”
Carol pulled back enough to kiss Trent’s cheek, then wiped off the lipstick mark she’d left behind. “It’s so good to see you again.”
While John made introductions, Trent tried to figure out what the hell had just happened, and why he was wearing a smear of lipstick on his cheek instead of a bruise.
Carol’s voice drifted across the living room, hitting Trent but not really sinking in. “I’ve got some coffee on, and the cinnamon rolls are almost done. They’re just the kind out of the can, but they’re pretty good. I’ll scramble some eggs and we’ll have a nice breakfast. I bet you two are starved after your ordeal.”
Ordeal. That was one way of putting almost being killed by a hired hit man.
“You ladies go ahead,” said John. “Trent and I need a few minutes.”
Carol brushed her hands over her apron, her smile faltering for the first time. “Don’t be long. Business and breakfast don’t mix, and cold eggs are only good for dogs.”
“Just a minute, honey. I promise.”
Carol nodded and took Elise by the arm, leading her away.
“Have a seat,” said John. He was using his training-the-rookie voice, and Trent responded before he’d even realized what had happened.
“You’ve been avoiding me for more than a year. Care to tell me why?” asked John. “I thought we were friends.”
“Of course we were.” Were, not are. Trent winced at the slip.
If John noticed, he said nothing. “Then why?”
Trent wasn’t sure how to explain, so he just spat it out. “At first I didn’t want to interfere with your physical therapy. I knew you’d be mad as hell at me, so I stayed away.”
“Mad? Is that what you thought?”
“I shot you in the back. Of course you had a right to be mad.”
John let out a scorching, humorless laugh. “That kid was high as a kite, heavily armed, and scared out of his mind. He raised his weapon and aimed at you, and you did the only thing you could—the thing I taught you to do. You shot back.”
“And hit you.”
“Yeah, well, serves me right for jumping in the way.”
How could he be so flippant? How could he act like it was his fault?
Trent clutched the arm of the couch in frustration. “That’s not what happened. You jumped on him to keep him from shooting me.”
“And your bullet hit me instead of him. It was an accident. I always knew that, even before the investigation cleared you of any wrongdoing.”
“Knowing it was an accident didn’t make it any easier on you. I ruined your life!”
John spread his hands and motioned around the comfortable living room. “Does my life look ruined to you? I have a nice place, a wife who loves me, and time to play with my grandkids. What’s ruined about that?”
“You’ll never walk again. You’ll never be a cop again.”
John scoffed. “There’s more to life than being a cop, son. Apparently, two years hasn’t been long enough to teach you that.”
“You loved being a cop.”
“Sure I did. But I love my life more. I love my wife, my kids, and my grandkids a hell of a lot more. If it hadn’t been for leaving the CPD, Carol would have never come back to me. She left me because of the job—she couldn’t stand wondering if I’d come home after my shift every night. After the accident, after being separated for a year, she came back to me. We’re better than ever. Stronger.”
“You should have been able to leave on your own two feet.”
John shrugged. “Four wheels work just as well. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the accident, I never would have left. I’d never have had the guts to leave—it’s all I knew. I have you to thank for making me realize it was time for a change.”
“Thank? You’re psychotic.”
“The world has a way of changing shape when something like this happens. I choose to see it as an improvement. Besides, I still do good work. I go to schools and talk about gun safety, drugs, gangs, you name it. I’m still out there, fighting the good fight.” He moved his chair toward Trent. “What about you? Are you fighting the good fight, Trent?”
No. He was passing time, letting life slide by, wondering if it was worth the trouble. “I work for my brother now.”
“The family landscaping business? You always said you’d rather die than do that job.”
And he’d meant it. Doing the one thing he despised most seemed like a good punishment at the time. Still was.
Trent looked away, staring at the wall of photos behind John. Half a dozen different kids smiled out at him, hamming it up for the camera.
John put his hand on Trent’s knee. It was as far as he could reach from the wheelchair. “You’re the one whose life was ruined that day, not mine. If you want to keep beating yourself up over it, there’s not much I can do, especially when you won’t even give me your phone number.”
“You have it now,” said Trent.
“And I’m going to use it and keep using it until you stop being a bonehead. Eventually, you’ll give up and come back to work just to get me to shut the hell up.”
Not likely, but Trent said nothing. He didn’t want to dash John’s hopes on top of everything else he’d done to him. No matter how well his life was going now, it couldn’t excuse what Trent had done to his friend.
“Breakfast is ready,” called Carol.
“We’d better get in there. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Trent remembered all the nights they’d worked late. John had never once worried about making Carol wait, even before they separated.
“I imagine your girlfriend doesn’t like being kept waiting either. They never do.”
“She’s not really my girlfriend.”
“No?” John shook his head. “Then you really are a bonehead. It’s sad that even though I’m pushing sixty and stuck in a wheelchair, I’ve got a better life than you.”
Ashley knew she was next, she just didn’t know how long it would be until Gary came in and brought that manicure kit with him.
Over the past few days—or what she thought were days—she’d changed. Seeing Constance
suffer and die—killing her—had freed Ashley in some small way.
She was no longer afraid. She knew she was going to die in here; it was just a question of how much damage she did on her way out.
The one summer she’d spent at camp had bored her out of her mind. All she cared about was the hour every day they’d worked on art projects. They made stained glass out of colored marbles, and used a hammer and nails to texture copper sheets into raised images of flowers. She still had those projects in her garage somewhere.
But in all that boredom, listening to what kinds of plants she could eat and how to survive a rattlesnake bite, some of the information must have leaked in, because she realized that she had everything she needed to start a fire.
Burning this place down was a giant step up from having her hands chopped off with that bone saw.
She could still hear the grating noise beneath Constance’s screams of pain. For as long as she lived, she’d never forget that sound.
Luckily, that memory wasn’t going to be with her a long time.
The trick was going to be timing the fire so that Gary would go up right along with his prisoners.
That thought gave Ashley pause. She was going to have to kill another woman—the one she heard crying after Constance was dead. Her blood was going to be on Ashley’s hands when she met whatever judgment awaited her after this life. She’d already killed Constance. Now she was going to kill again.
She wondered if there was just one woman down here with her, or if there were more. How many lives would she end with this plan?
But what choice did she have? She could kill the women who were here now, or risk letting Gary hunt down more after he’d killed them himself. The women trapped here were dead one way or another, just like her. If she acted now, she might save countless others from the horror Constance had to face.
If she could take Gary out, it was worth a shot—worth the stain on her soul.
Ashley rounded up the things she’d need—a couple of pencils, some pencil shavings from the sharpener Gary’d given her, a narrow strip of fabric ripped from her sheet, a plastic hanger, and several pieces of sketch paper crumpled into balls.
Now all she had to do was wait until she knew he was home—until he walked down the hallway outside the door, bringing them food.
As soon as he was here, she’d start the fire and pray it spread fast enough to kill the devil himself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carol showed them to the guest room, which was clearly a place where the grandkids stayed, judging by the stuffed animals piled on top of the race-car bedspread.
“I hope the bed’s not too small,” said Carol as she gathered up the stuffed animals and stowed them in the closet.
Trent had been silent through breakfast and still seemed to be less than talkative. Elise gave Carol a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really. Thank you.”
Carol covered her mouth and her eyes were round with shock. “Oh, my. I forgot to ask if you even wanted to share a bed. I just assumed you were . . .” She waved her hands nervously.
“Sharing isn’t a problem,” said Elise.
“Okay, then. I’ll leave you in peace. The bathroom is down the hall, and I’ll set out towels for you to use. I’m headed to the market for a while, but John will be here if you need anything.” She slipped out the door, shutting it behind her.
Trent sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. His back was rigid and tight, and his usual fluid movements were jerky and sharp.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Elise.
“Sorry.”
“Something happened between you and John, didn’t it? Ever since you talked to him you’ve been silent.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing has you tied in knots, then.”
“I’m fine.” He pulled his shirt off over his head, baring the broad expanse of his back. Muscles she remembered feeling under her palms stood out in tense ridges. The urge to run her palms over him made her hands sweat.
She tried pretending she didn’t notice the way his body made her feel, but it was harder than it should have been. “No, you’re not. You’re strung so tight you’re about to snap.”
“It would be a really good idea for you to leave this alone.”
“How can I when you only have to deal with this because I dragged you up here?”
His words were clipped and angry. “I chose to come.”
“Because you wanted to help me. It hardly seems fair that you’re suffering because you were trying to be a nice guy.”
He skinned out of his jeans and sat back down on the bed, making it rock with his sudden weight. “I’m not suffering because I tried to be nice. I’ve made mistakes, and facing up to them sucks, but I’m a grown man, so that’s what I’ll do. I suggest you leave it alone and get some sleep.”
Elise left her T-shirt and panties on, but got rid of the bra. Even as tired as she was, she didn’t think she could sleep in it. “How can I sleep when you’re upset?”
“Be creative. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
She ignored his snippy statement and slid under the sheets. Trent hadn’t even so much as tried to see her undress, which was a bit disappointing. She’d certainly enjoyed watching him.
Finally, he lay down beside her on the double bed. His long body took up most of the room, but she didn’t mind the brief brushes of his rougher skin over hers. His leg grazed her shin, and his hair gave her a tickling caress. Everywhere their bodies met, his was hard and masculine, reminding her just how effective he’d been in that fight. Knowing he was there with her was nice. Comforting.
She’d almost drifted off to sleep when his voice rose up, vibrating with guilt. “The night I shot John, I killed a sixteen-year-old boy.”
Shock jolted through her. “What?”
“He’d stolen a car. He was high as a kite, didn’t know what he was doing. And he was armed. He shot at us.” He pulled in a deep, sucking breath. “I didn’t know how old he was until… after. His mother showed up and screamed at me, asking me how I could kill a child.”
“She should have been asking herself why her sixteen- year-old was running around doing drugs and carrying a weapon.”
“She was a single mom. Had four kids, worked three jobs.” He said it like it excused the outcome.
Maybe it did. Maybe this woman didn’t have the kind of support system Elise’s mother did. Maybe she didn’t have an apartment building full of neighbors ready, willing, and eager to report anytime they left the apartment for something other than school, or anytime they stepped out of line. If it hadn’t been for their mother’s protective streak, maybe she and Ashley would have gotten into a lot more trouble than they had. Maybe they would have been on the streets like that young man.
That was a lot of maybes, and Elise bet her bank account that the grieving mother had already punished herself by going over every one in detail.
“You did what you had to do,” said Elise.
Trent let out a humorless laugh. “Good thing I don’t have to make those kinds of decisions anymore. The world is a safer place now.”
“Hardly. Who knows what the kid would have done if you hadn’t stopped him.”
“That’s what everyone said. The kid had a record. He was headed for prison. A walking lost cause.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“And what do you say?”
“I say we’ll never know for sure now, will we?”
Elise found his hand and laced her fingers through his. “You’ll also never know how many people you might have saved from that teen’s violence. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live with something like that, but how long are you going to punish yourself?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Sure it is. You gave up the job you love. Did you do it because you’re afraid you’ll accidentally shoot the wrong person again, or afraid you’ll shoot the right one?”
“Everyone will be fine so
long as I never pick up a weapon again. You instinctively knew that when I had that hit man on the ground. You made the right call not handing me the gun.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. He could escape custody, or get out of jail and kill someone. Killing him might have saved lives. I guess we’ll never know for sure.” Throwing his words back at him made her feel petty now that they were out of her mouth.
His fingers tightened. “This conversation ends right here, Elise. It’s none of your business.”
His harsh comment didn’t faze her. She was used to dealing with difficult people, trying to get an interview. Trent wasn’t going to thwart her that easily. “Ashley’s disappearance was none of your business, but that hasn’t stopped you from getting involved. Why should it stop me?”
“That’s different. You need my help.”
“Maybe you need mine. Maybe you need someone to knock some sense into you.”
She felt his hand fist in the sheet, drawing it tight. “What I need is for everyone to leave me alone.”
“So you can wallow in misery?”
His voice rang with warning. “Leave it alone, Elise.”
Not likely. She never knew when to stop. It was one of the things that made her a good reporter. “Leave it alone, so you can drag your whole family down with you while you’re wallowing? Is that really fair?”
“Fair would have been that kid behind a desk at school instead of being stoned and behind the wheel of a stolen car. Fair would have been John walking again. Life isn’t fair.”
“Seems to me that would grate against a man like yourself—one who devoted his life to upholding the law.”
“My life is over.”
And that was the root of the problem. He’d given up. He’d stopped living. “It doesn’t have to be. You can choose to keep on doing good. In fact, helping me out means you already are.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not? Because I’m not paying you? Because you’re not wearing a badge?”
“You don’t understand. I don’t deserve another chance. Even ignoring the fact that I killed a child, I also nearly killed my partner. An error in judgment that big is not something I can overlook.”
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