Till Death

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  Coaches wear baseball caps. So did a lot of other people, like more than half the male and female population. It was a long stretch, but Tyron was questioning him.

  Biting down on my lip, I closed the door and turned around. I needed to see Coach Currie. It had been forever since I’d seen him and when I pictured him, I did so through sixteen-year-old eyes that weren’t very reliable, but maybe seeing him would jog a memory loose.

  Short of camping out at the high school to catch a glimpse of him, I wasn’t sure what to do. I hurried back into the kitchen. Mom was there, scratching out a grocery list at the kitchen island.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  I nodded absently as I sat at the table and took my laptop out of hibernation. Hitting up Google, I typed in the name of the high school and the city. The county website for the school was the first option. I clicked on it.

  “The workers are out in the cemetery.” Mom nibbled on the cap of her pen. “They’re trying to get the entryway to the tunnel sealed up before it starts snowing again.”

  “When is it calling for more snow?” I scanned the menu bar, finding the athletics tab. I clicked on it.

  “Late tonight.” She frowned at her list. “Going to the grocery store with Daphne in a couple of hours. If you need anything, add it to the list.”

  “’Kay,” I murmured, scanning the list of departments. What did Currie coach? Football.

  I clicked on football and was rewarded with a series of images of the varsity, JV, and freshman teams. Clicking on the one that showed the coaches standing behind the team as they posed on the bleachers, I expanded the photo but was unable to recognize their faces. Or anything.

  But they were wearing black baseball caps like the man in the stairwell.

  Since Currie taught gym, I went back to the teachers tab and searched him down. Excitement rose when I saw his name, clicking on it, hoping it brought up a picture.

  Nothing.

  There was absolutely nothing under his name.

  “Oh, come on,” I muttered.

  Mom drifted closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and then glanced up at her. “Actually, Miranda called and said the detective at the school today was questioning one of their coaches. The rumor is that it was about Angela.”

  “Really?” She sat across from me.

  “And I was thinking about the guy that was in here. He was wearing a baseball cap. I got online to see if I could look up a recent picture of the coach.” Leaning back, I crossed my arms. “But there’s nothing under his name and the football pictures aren’t much of a help.”

  Mom’s brows puckered. “Wait a minute. You said there was an emblem on the baseball cap and the shirt, right?” When I nodded, she said, “Was it a bulldog? I believe their logo or whatever you want to call it for their mascot is gray.”

  Stomach dropping, my gaze snapped back to the computer screen, and there it was, right at the top, on the right side. Jesus, if it was a snake it would’ve bitten me right in the boob.

  “And I think the coaches wear white-and-black shirts with the same emblem,” she continued.

  Holy crap, she was right. Now that I was looking at the head of the bulldog, I got why I originally thought it was familiar. Everything had happened so fast and it hadn’t been well lit in the stairwell, but now that I saw the mascot, I knew—I knew—that was what I’d seen.

  And Coach Currie was homegrown. There was a good chance he would’ve known about the tunnel. A hell of a good chance. What if he had been the person who came in here and took her key?

  But he couldn’t have anything to do with the vandalism or the . . . the finger. My life had absolutely nothing to do with his. So maybe these two things, whatever happened with Angela and what was happening with me, were completely unrelated. That had to be good news, I thought. Not sure that I believed that, but it felt that way to me.

  “Mom,” I said, looking up at her. “You’re a genius.”

  “I like to think that.” A faint smile appeared. “What did you find out over there?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I think the guy who was in the stairwell might’ve been Coach Currie.”

  Unsure if I should take my suspicions to Detective Conrad, I called Cole, figuring he’d be able to tell me if I was wasting the detective’s time or not, but his cell didn’t even ring. Went straight to voicemail.

  I tried to busy myself with the bookkeeping, but that lasted all of twenty minutes before I picked up my phone and went up to my apartment, finding the detective’s card on the coffee table. There was a good chance that my suspicions could be helpful to them, and there was also the probability that it meant nothing, but a girl was missing. Better safe than sorry.

  Typing in his number, I hit call and then waited. It rang several times and then also went to voicemail. I left a quick message and then headed back downstairs.

  The kitchen was silent, and I walked toward the front of the house, too restless to sit down at the computer. Exhaling roughly, I stood at the desk, staring at the reservation book, but not really seeing anything. I placed my phone on the top.

  My mind wandered to this morning, and as I splayed my hands on the smooth surface of the desk, a small smile tugged at my lips. That had been beyond amazing. Actually, Cole was—

  The inn doors opened, and my smile faded as I turned toward them. Two men walked in, both in matching dark trousers and black down jackets. They were middle-aged, their expressions serious, and I knew immediately they weren’t here to check in.

  “Sasha Keeton?” the light-haired man on the right asked.

  I crossed my arms, glancing between the two. “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Myers,” he replied, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the flashing badge with FBI written across it. “This is Special Agent Rodriquez. We need to speak with you about the murder of Angela Reidy.”

  Chapter 22

  “Angela’s dead?” I pressed my hand against my chest as I leaned into the desk, suddenly weak in the knees. Shock blasted through me, and I wanted to believe I hadn’t heard the agent correctly. “How?”

  The darker-haired Agent Rodriquez slid Agent Myers a sharp look. “I’m sorry. Typically we prefer to not announce such tragic news so bluntly.”

  Agent Myers simply raised a fair eyebrow.

  I stared at them, but I really wasn’t seeing them, because all I saw was pretty Angela standing in the kitchen, smiling as she nibbled on a cookie. All I heard was Angela chattering on about nothing and everything.

  She wasn’t going to smile anymore.

  She wasn’t going to ramble on ever again.

  Horror sucked the air out of my lungs. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry. You’ve caught me off guard. I hoped that she would be found alive. I . . .” Trailing off, I shook my head.

  “We all hoped that would be the case, but unfortunately that is not what has occurred,” Rodriquez responded. “It is of the utmost importance that we speak to you in private.”

  My stomach tumbled. “Of course. We can go into the—”

  “Not here,” Myers cut in. “We need you to come with us.”

  Unease blossomed at the base of my spine. “Go where?”

  Meyer slid his badge back in his jacket. “The station down the street has a room available that we can use.”

  “The police station?” My voice rose.

  The other agent tried to smile reassuringly but failed a little. “It’s just a formality and it’s a secure location.”

  That made sense. I guessed. “I’m the only person at the inn right now—”

  “It’s imperative that we speak with you now,” Myers interrupted. Again. “Is there anyone you could call in?”

  Pressing my lips together, I turned to where I’d left my phone on the desk. Mom was in the middle of grocery shopping with Daphne, and I knew there was a good chance she�
�d left her phone in her car. She always did that whenever she was out. I could text her and let her know what was happening, but she wouldn’t get it until she was done. Miranda was teaching.

  “Let me try our . . .” I didn’t finish that statement. Calling James seemed suitable, but our chef was so not a people person. I don’t even think he’d ever stepped foot out of the kitchen once since he worked here. That left Jason. “Let me call one of my friends.”

  The agents waited while I picked up my phone and hit his contact. I roamed away from the desk.

  Jason answered on the third ring. “Hey, Sasha, what’s up?”

  “Um. I have a huge favor to ask,” I said, voice sounding weird to my own ears.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Ask away.”

  “I hate to ask this, but can you come down to the inn and watch over things until Mom gets back?”

  “Sure.” Not a moment of hesitation. He was such a good friend despite how terrible of a friend I was. “Is everything okay?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, clearing my throat. I couldn’t tell him about Angela. Not right now with the agents standing right behind me. He would find out soon enough. “Yeah. There’s some agents here—federal. They need to talk to me.”

  “Shit. Is anyone there to go with you? Cole?”

  “No, but I’ll be fine.” My hand shook. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “Of course,” Jason replied. “Be there in ten minutes or less.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I owe you.”

  “It’s no biggie. Be there soon.”

  I faced the agents. “One of my friends will be here shortly.”

  Rodriquez nodded. “We apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “It’s okay.” Coldness seeped into my bones. “How can I be inconvenienced when someone . . . someone is dead?”

  The room in the police station down the street looked like the ones on TV. It was small, walls a plain white with fingerprint smudges at chest height. There was a small round table and four metal folding chairs that weren’t particularly comfortable.

  The ginormous SUV they’d driven me down the street in had extremely comfortable seating. Heated seats too. I didn’t even know why I was thinking about seats, but it seemed a safer thing to focus on.

  I really owed Jason. Right now he was sitting behind the desk at the inn, having no idea what he was doing, but he was sitting there until Mom returned. I’d texted her on the way to the police station. I also hadn’t told her about Angela, because there was no way one could break that kind of news over text.

  A shiver coursed over my skin.

  Did Cole know I was with these agents? He was a federal agent himself. Wouldn’t he know? Maybe that was a stupid thought. Not like the FBI had one giant hive mind.

  My hands were chilled despite the fact I had them shoved between my knees. I’d been escorted through the back entrance of the police station, down a narrow hall, and then deposited in this room with a small bottle of water.

  The door opened, causing me to jump. My chin jerked up. Both agents came in. They weren’t alone. I relaxed when I saw Detective Tyron Conrad’s familiar face.

  “Hey,” he said, taking the seat beside me. “Sorry about this. I didn’t know the agents were coming to get you.” His jaw hardened. “If I did, I would’ve been there to advise them that bringing you down here wasn’t necessary.”

  “It was completely necessary,” Myers retorted.

  Tyron huffed a laugh out as he leaned back in the chair, planting an ankle on his knee. “Landis is not going to like this.”

  My eyes widened.

  Myers stiffened. “This has nothing to do with Agent Landis.” Skin crinkled around his eyes as he sat at the table. “Miss Keeton, we’re going to be very blunt about what happened.”

  “I don’t expect anything less,” I replied, taking a deep breath. “Why am I being spoken to about . . . about Angela?”

  Tyron opened his mouth, but Myers answered. “You received a severed finger in the mail on Saturday. We’re pretty confident that finger belonged to Miss Reidy.”

  Acid churned in my stomach. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  Tyron placed his hand on my arm. “Angela’s body was found this morning. The ring finger on her left hand was missing.”

  Pressure clamped down on my chest, squeezing tight like a vise. When I spoke, it sounded like I did so inside a tunnel. “Where . . . where was her body found?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” Myers stated.

  My gaze shot to him.

  “Her body was found by the old water tower off Route 11,” Rodriquez spoke up, voice gentler.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, inhaling roughly.

  Rodriquez rested an arm on the table. “She was found in the same location the victims of the Groom were discovered and in the same location—”

  “The woman from Frederick was found there.” I pressed my palm against my forehead. Bitter panic mixed with sorrow, increasing the pressure in my throat and chest. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do,” Myers retorted.

  Tyron dropped his foot to the floor with a heavy thud and leaned forward. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean, Myers?”

  Lowering my hand, I looked at the agent. He was sitting back, arms crossed over a puffed-up chest. “What I’m saying is that Miss Keeton seems like a bright woman. She can put two and two together. We’ve got a copycat on our hands . . . or we got someone trying to make it look that way.”

  Anger spiked, pushing down the horror. “Yes, I can put two and two together, but that sure doesn’t tell me why you insisted on bringing me to the police station to tell me this.”

  “Because if it is a copycat, then you may be able to add some insight into our investigation,” Rodriquez explained, his gaze steady. “You were the only victim of the Groom to survive—”

  “I know that.” My hands were trembling so I shoved them back between my knees. “I know that I’m the only one.” The room felt like it had shrunk. I glanced at the door, wanting out of here so badly. I looked at Tyron. “What happened to Angela?”

  Voice low, he said, “Current evidence suggests she was strangled.”

  “Oh God,” I whispered, closing my eyes and immediately regretting it. I saw Angela but with horrible marks around her throat. The kinds of bruises that snuffed the life out of someone. “Was she . . . do you know if she was held captive?”

  “There was evidence suggesting she was held,” he explained, and I knew what he was referencing without him even elaborating. If she’d been restrained the way the Groom had held his victims, there’d be ligature marks on her ankles. Her wrists.

  “Was she . . . was she sexually assaulted?” I asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Tyron responded.

  The contents of my stomach shifted as I placed my elbow on the table and rested my forehead in my palm. “Does her . . . boyfriend know?”

  “He and her family have been notified,” Tyron told me.

  The burn in my eyes increased. What they must be experiencing right now was beyond imagination.

  “We have some questions we need to ask you,” Myers spoke, and this time, the edge of impatience was gone from his voice. “Do you think you can help us?”

  What I wanted to do was to get out of this room, go home, and have space, silence, and time to process what I was told. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t be that person anymore. It wasn’t just cowardly. It was also selfish, because if I could somehow help Angela in death, I would, so I nodded.

  “Good,” Rodriquez murmured, and I heard the rustling of paper. “We’re aware that there have been other instances outside of what happened on Saturday involving you since you returned. Can you please go over, in detail, what they were?”