by Cynthia Eden
“Something made those alarm bells of yours ring, and I don’t think it was because my voice went soft when I said Ca—when I said his name.” She didn’t want to say his name right then. It hurt too much. “So spill.”
“Before I joined the Navy, I did more checking on Louis and his twisted bastard friend Wayne. Call it sick curiosity, call it unfinished business, call it whatever the hell you want . . . I needed to know more about them.”
She waited.
“I found out that Louis had a mom who was still alive. A mom who—at the time—had just divorced some deadbeat named Curtis Knox. Don’t know why it took her so long to divorce him. Court papers said he’d abandoned her and their kid long ago.”
Knox.
“The name stuck with me. So when you mentioned your Agent Knox—”
“He isn’t mine.”
Asher nodded. “No, of course not.” His voice was gentle, but then he cleared his throat and said, “When I heard Cash’s last name, the bells rang, and I had to dig deeper, just in case. And sure enough, I learned that Cash was the only son of one Curtis Knox. Cash’s mother, Sonya, had three husbands before she passed away of cancer at the age of sixty-two. Her current husband—well, the husband when she died—was Jason Gates, and from all accounts, he was a decent sort. Ex–school teacher, church member. You know, all the regular ‘decent’ indicators.”
The coffee wasn’t working. Maybe she needed something stronger. Whiskey?
“Husband number two . . . that would have been Curtis Knox. The guy who abandoned her. Cash’s dad.”
Ana exhaled. “So that brings us to husband number one.” Louis’s father.
Asher nodded. “Gerald Griggs.”
She flinched and a few drops of coffee spilled onto her fingers. She barely felt the burn. Her knuckles were lightly bruised, courtesy of her punches against the wood in her motel room.
“Seems Gerald got killed in a drug deal gone wrong. Louis was five at the time. Sonya remarried pretty fast, but then Sonya found herself saddled with two kids and—”
“And as time went by,” Ana said, feeling incredibly sad for the other woman, “her son Louis decided to turn her into a punching bag.” Because he’d gotten on drugs . . . the same drugs that had hooked his father?
“When I checked them out,” Asher continued quietly, “I found out that Louis left the house when Cash was thirteen.”
Because that was when he fought back. Cash had told her . . .
“Any idea why?” Asher asked, tilting his head.
“Yes, I know exactly why.” She turned away from him. “Because Cash said he’d kill him if the guy ever lifted a hand to their mother again.”
Silence. The kind of rough, raw silence that seemed to flay open her skin. “What else do you have?” Ana asked. “If you’ve got more secrets, spill them now.”
“Cash joined the military and served four years in the army so Uncle Sam would pay for his school. He studied criminal justice, then was recruited straight away by the FBI.”
“Then he shot up through the ranks and decided to what? Play some sick-ass mind game with me?” She put down the coffee and paced toward her window. She stared outside and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Why? Why did he do it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s as twisted inside as his brother.”
She shook her head, an instinctive denial because . . .
He’s not.
“Ana, you can’t trust this guy, okay? I know you have a soft heart.”
Her spine stiffened. “Since when?” She schooled her expression as she looked back at him. “I’m the big, bad bounty hunter, remember? I can track anyone down, anywhere, anytime. I’ve brought in the worst of the worst and I never hesitated.” Hell, no, she hadn’t. “I’ve—”
He shook his head. “This is me, Ana.”
And he could always see through her lies.
“You went after those criminals because you didn’t want them to hurt anyone else. You saw the victims, the broken families that were left in their wake, and you wanted to help them. That’s why you tracked down those bastards. That’s the same reason you joined LOST. You care—you care so much about the victims. About helping people.” He walked to her side. “That’s just one of the many things that makes you so special. Your big heart. No matter what happens, you try to keep finding good out there in the world.” But his lips pulled down. “Don’t try to find good in Agent Knox. There’s only going to be pain for you with him. Your pasts—they’re too messed up. There will always be pain between the two of you.”
Because there was no escaping the past.
“He lied to you. You can’t trust him.”
Her phone rang, vibrating on her kitchen counter. Exhaling, she brushed past Asher and went to pick up the phone. Then she saw Cash’s name on the screen. She’d programmed it—well, before everything had gone to shit between them.
Ana stilled. I knew he’d call. After all, I ran. I’m supposed to be in D.C., not in Atlanta. I ran and—
Screw it. She picked up the phone. “What?”
“Ana, are you safe?” There was a frantic edge to his voice.
“Yes, I’m safe.” She looked back over at Asher. His eyes had turned to angry slits. Oh, yes, he suspected the identity of her caller.
“Thank Christ.”
“Don’t call me again—”
“Don’t hang up! Dammit, don’t!”
She wanted to, but the ragged intensity in his voice stopped her.
“Dr. Ellen Summers is missing, Ana. I’m at her place now, and from the look of things, Dr. Summers was attacked. There’s blood at the scene, her bag and her keys were abandoned—”
“You think our perp took her?” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see that motion. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, look at the people he’s been targeting. Bernie Tate killed three people. Forrest Hutchins murdered five. Dr. Summers has never been convicted of anything—she was the head of the psychiatric facility!” Hardly fitting the victim profile that seemed to have emerged.
“All I know right now is that she’s gone. We’re going to check to see if this blood belongs to her or to someone else. The FBI is still monitoring your phone—”
He thinks the killer will be contacting me again.
“And you are still needed in D.C., Ana.”
The breath she sucked in felt cold as ice.
“I get that you’re pissed at me.” His voice had dropped.
“Pissed doesn’t even come close.” It wasn’t so much the fury that was fueling her. It was the pain. I didn’t realize he could hurt me this much. Because she hadn’t realized how vulnerable to him she’d become.
“But I have a job to do,” he continued doggedly. “And you are a material witness in this case. I’ll be coming for you, Ana.”
“Cash—”
“I should have told you sooner. I’m sorry. But I am not my brother. I would never hurt you.”
“You already have, Cash.” Pain slipped into her voice. The very fact that he had been able to hurt her, well, that told Ana just how far and how fast she’d let herself fall for the special agent.
“I’m coming for you, Ana,” Cash said once more. His words almost sounded like a warning.
She hung up the phone. Ana glanced back at her brother.
“What happened?” Asher demanded.
“Someone else may have been taken.” Someone who didn’t fit the profile. She rubbed the back of her neck. “I want to go into the office.” Because she could use LOST’s resources to dig into the life of Ellen Summers. The woman shouldn’t have fit the victim profile, so maybe something else was at work. Maybe she’d staged the scene to make it appear that she’d been taken—or maybe the woman had known too much.
These abductions have been so big. Maybe it’s not just one person we’re looking at. Two people could have been involved.
Dr. Summers and . . . someone else? And that someone had turned on the doctor?
Chapter Twelve
A light knock sounded on Ana’s office door. It took a moment for that sound to penetrate because Ana was focused so intently on the material before her.
The knock came again, and she blinked, a bit blearily, and straightened in her chair. “Come in!”
The door opened, revealing Dr. Sarah Jacobs. Sarah’s long, dark hair was pulled back, secured at her nape, accenting her features. “Ana, can we talk?”
Ana blinked again. She liked Sarah—the woman was smart, savvy beyond belief when it came to killers, and she had survived her own hell. She and Sarah even favored each other a bit, dark hair and eyes, though Sarah had a classy vibe about her that Ana had never been able to emulate.
Sarah looked like she belonged in a ball room, high society, and Ana . . .
Give me my jeans and battered coat, put me on a motorcycle, and let me ride away.
“Ana?” Sarah said again.
Ana cleared her throat and waved toward the empty chair that sat on the other side of her desk. “Of course, come in.”
Sarah flashed her a relieved smile and stepped inside. She shut the door and then hurried forward.
Some people at LOST were intimidated by Sarah—Ana got that. They worried that Sarah would profile them. And since everyone there was hiding their own pain and secrets, most folks didn’t want to be put under Sarah’s microscope.
I don’t care. I almost want to know . . . will the darkness inside of me ever stop growing?
Sarah eased into the chair across from Ana.
“I thought you were working on a case in Colorado,” Ana said.
“I was.” And another smile spread across Sarah’s face. This time, the smile lit her eyes, too. “We found her, Ana. We found Ginger Day. Missing for three years . . . three years. And we found her.”
Ana’s heart jerked in her chest. “That’s wonderful!”
Sarah nodded. “Yes . . . she’s . . . she’s going to need a lot of counseling.” Her smile dimmed. “A lot,” she said, softer. “She’d been held in a cabin that whole time, a chain around her ankle keeping her prisoner.”
Ginger Day. The name clicked for Ana because she’d been looking at Ginger’s file recently. An eighteen-year-old girl who’d vanished during a cross-country trip. She’d made it as far as Denver, but then never been seen again.
“Our team went in, with the local cops,” Sarah said. “The man holding her—he didn’t survive the confrontation. He made it clear he would rather die than surrender. And dying . . .” Sarah exhaled. “That’s what he did. But he didn’t take Ginger with him.”
Ana’s heart raced a little faster. This was the work that mattered—helping victims like Ginger. Finding them, ending their hell. Giving them a new chance. No, the road ahead for Ginger Day would not be easy, but she was alive. She was free.
You have to take things one step at a time, Ginger. Go slowly. Don’t rush. Don’t—
“I was just wrapping things up,” Sarah murmured, “when I got the call from Gabe about your case.” Sarah seemed hesitant now, and that was odd. Sarah wasn’t usually hesitant about anything. “Gabe thought I might be able to help create a profile for the perp.”
Ana leaned back in her chair. “Yes, well, I wish.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But the FBI is closing ranks. They want to use their own profiler.” And she also didn’t want to talk too much about the FBI. Because when she did . . .
It hurts. I think of Cash.
She was trying to shove him into the deepest, darkest part of her mind.
“Just because they’re using their own resources,” Sarah said smoothly, “it doesn’t mean we can’t still go forward. Sometimes, it’s best if two profilers work a case. You can look for similarities in the profiles. Differences.”
Ana’s hand lowered. “Don’t you want time to decompress after your case?” Something was off. Now that she looked closer at Sarah, she could see that the woman’s hands were clenched, her posture too tight. Sarah was sitting on the edge of her seat, and a fine tension seemed to grip her. “Sarah?” Now Ana was worried. “Is something wrong?”
Sarah glanced back toward the shut door, and then her stare returned to Ana. “Gabe sent me everything he had on your case so far. I—I studied the material during the flight home.”
Sarah had just stuttered. Sarah never stuttered.
“I think there could be more victims out there.”
Ana felt shock rush through her body. “What?”
“The killer . . . he’s so brazen. Taking these high-profile victims. That isn’t the way it works. That’s not the way it starts. You don’t go right for the top of the food chain, not if you don’t know how to kill. You start small. You build your confidence. You learn how to kill. How to not leave mistakes. Forensic evidence.”
Ana forced herself to take a slow breath. Everything that Sarah was saying made sense. “How long do you think our killer has been honing his craft?”
“A very, very long time.” Sarah’s voice roughened. “Killers always accelerate, it’s what they do. Start small, gain confidence, learn from their mistakes.”
“This guy isn’t making mistakes.” That scared Ana. “He’s not leaving evidence, he’s getting victims from maximum security prisons and psych hospitals and—”
“That tells me that he’s been doing this a long time. And since he’s perfected his craft, you can bet he has plenty of other victims out there.”
Her stomach twisted. “But he only started calling me when Bernie Tate was killed. If there are other victims, why not contact me about them? Why now?”
“I don’t think he knew about you, not until Bernie.” Sarah leaned forward a bit more in her chair. “I think we are looking at a very skilled predator, one who makes a point of learning everything that he can about his victims. When he selected Bernie as prey, the perp learned about you. Something he learned piqued his curiosity. No . . .” She shook her head. “Something he learned made him think that you would understand him. That you were a kindred spirit.”
Ana jumped to her feet. “He’s a murderer. I’m nothing like him.”
And for an instant, she saw Cash’s tortured face in front of her. I’m nothing like my brother.
Her eyes squeezed shut. Did he think she didn’t know that? Cash isn’t a killer. Cash wasn’t a sick freak who took pleasure in carving up his prey. He was . . .
I think of him, and I hurt.
He was the man who got to me. Who made me realize how vulnerable I truly was.
“He thinks you are like him. He thinks you understand,” Sarah said again.
“Payback,” Ana whispered. “He told me they would all get payback.” Her eyes opened. “Is it because I was a victim? He thinks that I’d understand the need for vengeance?”
“Perhaps.” But Sarah seemed to be hesitating. “I also think . . . it may be due to your previous job.”
“Bounty hunting?”
“You tracked down criminals. You made them pay. Isn’t that what this guy is doing?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Ana snapped. There was a big difference between being a bounty hunter and a murderer.
“No. And perhaps he thinks that you should have. Perhaps he thinks these people that he’s stopping—the only punishment that is fitting is death.”
Ana started to pace. Sarah’s profiles—jeez, she’d been right when she told Cash that no one could get into the mind of a killer like Sarah.
Don’t think about Cash now. Don’t. The problem was that she always seemed to be thinking about him. She’d hightailed it back to Atlanta because she’d thought some distance would help her. But was there any distance when he was always in her thoughts?
“If he had other victims,” Ana began, “wouldn’t we know? I mean, we should—”
“You know how many missing cases we get each year,” Sarah cut in, her voice sad. “People vanish every day.
Could be that he just made them vanish.”
“But now he’s calling attention to his work.”
“He’s perfected his art,” Sarah said simply. “I think he wants the world to know what he’s doing. After a while, most serial killers feel the urge for recognition. Fame. They’ve gotten away with their crimes. Proved they’re smarter than everyone else. Real apex predators.”
Ana’s mind was spinning. “If there are other victims, we can find them. I mean, he has a type, right? Killers. People who’ve—”
“Did I ever tell you how my father picked his victims?”
Murphy the Monster.
Sarah didn’t normally talk about her father, not with anyone at LOST. When your father was an infamous serial killer—one who’d escaped federal custody and was currently MIA—well, that wasn’t a general topic for conversation.
Especially since our whole job is to find the missing. And no one here has turned up Murphy. Ana knew that Gabe had been searching for the killer, diligently, quietly. Did Sarah know about that hunt?
“Murphy thought . . . he believed he was taking out individuals who’d committed offenses. Offenses in his mind, anyway.” Sadness flashed on her face. “One of his victims—Ryan Klein—he was just a high school boy. A normal kid. He’d never broken any laws. He just—he made a joke in PE about me. Just some stupid joke. He laughed at me and gave me this dumb nickname.” Sarah licked her lips. “That was the only thing he did. Just that. And I found him in my basement. My father had killed him.”
Ana wasn’t pacing any longer. She’d frozen.
“My father researched his prey, you see. Much like this killer. And he’d found out that Ryan picked on kids a lot. Those who were weaker. He said that Ryan would become trouble, so he’d stopped him before that could happen. Murphy judged Ryan, found him wanting, and he killed him.”
“Sarah, I’m so sorry.”
Sarah stiffened, as if the words of sympathy had hurt her in some way. “My father had a victim type. People he found wanting. This killer—he’s judging people, too. So maybe his judgements started small. Maybe he wasn’t judging murderers, maybe he was judging everyday, average people. They did things that he saw as wrong and he punished them. Gradually, he worked up to where he is now.”