Till Death

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  and it would be all over this goddamn town. I knew she left a key here in case she locked herself out. I thought I could grab it and get out without being seen. That’s why I used the tunnel—”

  “You need to let go of me.” I tried pulling free, but his hands tightened. A hundred different scenarios flashed before me, nearly all of them involving me kicking him between the legs. “You need to let go of me.”

  “But I had nothing to do with what happened to her or—” Coach Currie’s body jolted forward as his hands let go. I jumped to the side, bumping into Mom’s truck as Currie’s eyes rolled back. He fell forward, smacking into the floor.

  My head jerked up, and I saw Jason standing there between my car and Mom’s. He was holding a wrench. Wide eyed, he stared down at Currie. “I just remembered I left my gloves here yesterday, behind the desk. I was coming back to get them when I saw the doors open.”

  I almost laughed out of relief. “Oh my God.”

  “It was him? He was the one responsible for all of this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, stepping around the prone body of the coach. “I heard you telling him to let you go, and I—I just reacted. I picked up the wrench that was on a shelf and I didn’t think.”

  “I’m okay.” I reached out, placing my hand on his arm as I stared down at the coach. “I think we need to call the police.”

  Jason lifted the wrench and swallowed hard. “And maybe an ambulance.”

  “You did the right thing.” Derek stood next to Tyron, inside the lounge area. Luckily our guests were out, and I hoped the police would be gone before they returned.

  Jason had his glasses in his hands and was fiddling with the arms as he sat in one of the chairs. “Is he . . . going to be okay?”

  “The paramedic said he should be fine.” Tyron folded his arms. “You’re not in any trouble.”

  That was a relief to hear.

  “I’m going to head to the hospital.” Derek turned to the detective. “You coming?”

  “In a few.”

  Derek said his goodbyes and left, probably getting tired of showing up here. I turned my attention to the detective. I’d already given my statement, and the ambulance had carted off Coach Currie.

  “Do any of you have any questions before I head to the hospital?” Tyron asked.

  Mom stood behind the chair I sat in, her hand resting on my shoulder. “Was he responsible for what has been happening?”

  “We don’t know that yet, Mrs. Keeton,” he replied. “But hopefully we’ll find something out once he awakens.”

  I watched the flames ripple behind the glass. A huge part of me didn’t believe that he was the one who killed Angela and sent her severed finger to me, unless what he’d been saying outside had been a complete lie. I guessed that was plausible, but why lie about that?

  “It has to have been him,” Jason said. “He was grabbing Sasha and he admitted to messing around with Angela. Maybe he did the whole finger thing to throw people off.”

  That was also a decent theory.

  Mom murmured under her breath as she pushed away from my chair and sat in the one closest to the fireplace. “Do you think that’s possible, Detective Conrad?”

  “Anything is possible.” His phone rang from inside his jacket pocket and he pulled it out, glancing down at it. “I’ve got to go. Anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  “You better call Cole before he finds out,” he said as he walked away.

  I sighed. “Was planning to!”

  Jason scooted forward in the chair. “Well . . . today has not gone as planned.”

  “I don’t think any day recently has gone as planned,” Mom said.

  I laughed dryly as I slid down in the chair. “That is the truest thing spoken.”

  He smiled wryly. “I better get going.”

  Pushing myself up, I stood. “Thank you again for everything.”

  “Stop thanking me. I’ll get a complex.” He let me hug him even though he was as awkward as ever when he patted my back. “Stay out of trouble, okay? For like the rest of the day.”

  “I’ll try,” I promised, then said goodbye. He waved at Mom and then made his way out.

  “Angela was sleeping with Donnie Currie?” Mom shook her head as she stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe it. She was so in love with Ethan.”

  I remembered the first time I talked to Angela, all she talked about was Ethan. “I guess you really don’t know someone.”

  Mom sighed. “People only show you what they want to be seen, but something about what that man was telling you is fishy. Anyway, you better call Cole,” Mom said, and I looked over at her. She placed her hand to her sternum. “You don’t want him to get worried.”

  “Mom?” Concern blossomed and not for Cole. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “What? Oh,” she said, glancing down at herself. She dropped her hand. “Yes. Just indigestion. I forgot to take my heartburn pill this morning.”

  I came to her side and knelt down. “Are you sure that’s it? Maybe you should call your doctor. I’m sure—”

  “Honey,” she laughed. “It’s just heartburn. I’m okay. You do not need to worry about me right now.”

  “But I do,” I said. “There has been a lot of crazy stuff going on in a short period of time. It’s been stressful.”

  “I’m okay, honey.”

  I stared at her, wondering if the skin had been creased between her brows before, and I just hadn’t noticed it. “I . . . I don’t know what I would do if something . . .” I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the sentence.

  Smiling at me, she leaned forward and patted my knee. “I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time. You’re stuck with me.”

  I hoped—no, I prayed—that was the case.

  “You better call Cole,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair. I stood, giving her room as she rose. “And let’s hope that what happened today is . . . the end. I feel terrible for saying that, but if it was him, then it’s over.”

  Mom kissed my cheek as she passed me, and I turned at the waist, watching her head toward the kitchen. Was it over? Had it been Coach Currie, the man Miranda and I drooled all over when we were in high school? The man who apparently had been sleeping with Angela, who we all believed was madly in love with her boyfriend Ethan, hoping for an engagement? Mom was right. Something didn’t add up, I didn’t think we had the whole story, and I didn’t think it was over.

  Updating Cole via phone had not gone exactly well. He’d been pissed that he hadn’t been here, as if he was my personal bodyguard and had failed somehow. Then he was relieved to know that Jason had been there, and the call ended with him saying that once he could get out of the office, he was coming straight here.

  After that, I took care of a minor housekeeping issue. More towels were needed in one of the suites, and once that was done, I was planning to spend the rest of the afternoon finishing off the bookkeeping. It was possibly the only thing that required my 100 percent focus, and I really needed that right now.

  I came back down the main staircase, and when I reached the main landing, I cursed under my breath. Today just . . . it sucked.

  Leaning against the desk was the reporter named Striker. His brown hair was messy, but he wore the same neatly pressed clothes I’d seen him in before. He lifted his gaze and smiled faintly when he saw me.

  I clenched the railing. “I so do not have the patience for this today. You need to leave.”

  Pushing off the desk, he lifted his hands. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to.”

  “The very last,” I agreed, coming down the steps. “And I will call the cops to have you removed. And I will also file a restraining—”

  “I know that Donnie Currie was over here and he got taken to the hospital due to a little blunt-force trauma.”

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I resisted the urge to pick
up the vase and swing it over his head. “Are you even supposed to know these things?”

  He ignored my comment. “Donnie Currie is a cheater with an eye for younger women and then some, but he’s not the type of man to cut off a finger and mail it to the only known survivor of a serial killer.”

  My mouth opened, but there were no words.

  “Yes, I know all about that too.”

  “And you haven’t plastered that all over the front page?” I challenged.

  A wry smile formed. “Only because I just heard about that.”

  Irritation prickled my skin. “But I guess I know what’s going to be the headline tomorrow, then?”

  “Even I have my limits,” he replied. “That’s not particularly something I’m willing to put into print.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed that or not.

  “The mayor is convinced that Donnie Currie is the very bad man who killed poor young Angela Reidy, and the people need to realize there is absolutely no evidence supporting that.”

  “If there’s no evidence then it doesn’t matter what the mayor thinks or says.”

  “That would be true if the power of public opinion didn’t outweigh the power of common sense, but if the people knew that we most likely have a copycat serial killer on our hands, they’ll be prepared and therefore safe.”

  I almost laughed. “Oh, so your motives are altruistic then?”

  “Not really,” he admitted with another smile.

  “This—all of this—makes you happy, doesn’t it?” Disgust rose.

  He rolled his eyes. “Not happy. Eager? Yes. It’s my job. I love digging things up and pulling back the veil. My job is to report the truth and sometimes expose it.”

  “You know I’m not going to give you information about the Groom. So why are you here?” I asked.

  Striker was quiet for a moment. “Aren’t you frightened?” he asked quietly. “You know what kind of horror a person is capable of, and you received a severed finger in the mail. Whoever is behind this knows you’re here. That finger is a message of some sort.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Yes. I am frightened. Who wouldn’t be? But again, that has nothing to do with you.”

  “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not here to do a story on what happened to you. That’s not why I came here in the first place. I’m hoping you can answer one question for me.”

  I said nothing, partly because I didn’t believe him and I was also curious what his one question could be.

  “Can we sit?” He gestured at the chairs in the lounge area.

  My eyes narrowed but I nodded. Walking over to them, I sat and he did the same. He shifted to the side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny recorder. I stiffened.

  “It’s not on. I wanted to show you that.” He also pulled out his cellphone and showed the home screen. “I don’t have this recording either. This conversation is off the record.”

  I smirked. “Am I really supposed to believe that?”

  “I can’t make you believe that, and while I do think people want to hear your story of survival, I’m not here to report on it.” Striker bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was just out of journalism school when the Groom hit this town. I didn’t cover the story. It went to one of the more veteran reporters, but I followed it closely. Even after you escaped and he was dead, I read everything I could on it. You can say I became a couch expert on him and other serial killers.”

  My upper lip curled. “That must be something to be proud of.”

  He smiled. “There’s something . . . fascinating about a person who understands right and wrong, but does not operate on any social norm and has their own moral compass.”

  “More like terrifying,” I corrected.

  “That too.” His head tilted to the left. “Anyway, I’ve read everything there is on Vernon Joan. I know what he did to the other victims. I know what he was planning to do to you when he led you out of the house. I know everything except one thing. That’s why I’m here.”

  I took a deep, even breath as an idea formed. “I’ll consider answering your question if you answer one of mine.”

  Striker tensed. “What do you want to know?”

  “You seem to know a little bit about everyone,” I said, choosing my words wisely. “How well do you know the mayor?”

  Interest piqued in his eyes. “Probably more than the average citizen. Why?”

  This could be a huge mistake. Tomorrow morning he could write up a story where I pin suspicion on the mayor, but I was willing to take that risk. “The mayor has been really worried about me . . . talking to someone like you and dragging up everything that has happened.”

  “And you’re wondering why he would be so adverse to something like that?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Obviously, he’s not the kind of person who believes any press is good press.”

  “Oh, he is that kind of person. Except when the bad press might have to do with him.”

  My brows snapped together. “What does that mean exactly?”

  He studied me a moment. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Huh. Well, I guess a lot of people didn’t hear about it. After all, people with money have a way of making sure things aren’t widely known.”

  “I’m going to need a little more detail,” I said.

  One side of his lips tipped up. “Mayor Mark Hughes is the grandson of Bobby Hughes, who sold a whole lot of acreages to developers back in the eighties. Made their family very, very wealthy. Now, Bobby’s boy, Robert Jr., is Mark’s father. Junior owned a lot of the businesses downtown. The rest of the businesses were sold off before Junior passed away. Mark took over ownership of one of them—a hardware shop.”

  “I know about the hardware shop.”

  “But I bet you didn’t know that Bobby had a sister named Cora, who had a baby out of wedlock. That was a big no-no in the day. Cora had a daughter who married a man who used to work at the corning plant. His name was Victor Joan.”

  I stilled.

  “And I can tell by the look on your face you just connected the dots. Victor Joan was the father of only one son. Vernon Joan.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. “The mayor was related to the Groom.”

  “Yep.” He laughed under his breath. “That’s the family’s dirty little secret. It got out briefly in the aftermath of the Groom, but was virtually swept under the rug.”

  “Holy crap.” Stunned, I shook my head. “How has that not been all over the place?”

  “Like I said, people with money have a lot of pull. Mayor Hughes is probably worried that someone who values their job a little less than me will dig that up if you started giving interviews on the Groom.” A wicked sort of amusement filled his eyes. “You sure you don’t want to give an interview?”

  Staring at him, I shook my head.

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  I wasn’t sure I could focus on whatever he was about to say after a bomb like that was dropped, but I nodded.

  “There was always something that didn’t make sense—something that the profilers with the FBI never really addressed.” He pressed his hands together. “It’s actually something you said to them.”

  I gripped the arms of the chair. “What?”

  “In the reports, you said at times that the Groom was almost kind and at other times he was extremely violent. That he had severe mood shifts and swings.”

  My stomach churned as thoughts of the mayor slipped away. “Do I even want to know how you read any of that?”

  Striker said nothing.

  “The Groom was a sociopath. Of course he had mood swings.”

  He scooted forward. “But the way the report read, you said to the agents that it was like you were dealing with two people. The Groom who was sick and twisted, but almost gentle, and the other side of him that was beyond cruel and violent.”