Her Last Day (Jessie Cole Book 1)

by T. R. Ragan

  THIRTY-SEVEN Zee felt dazed and out of sorts. Her stomach rumbled and growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in days. Her face and part of her neck was swollen from spider bites. It had taken hours to rid herself of them all. She’d begun to sweat and vomit. When it became hard to breathe, she’d thought she was dying. But Natalie had talked to her in a calming voice. The more upset Zee got, the calmer Natalie became. Zee felt pain in her joints when she stood for too long. Worse than that was the hunger. She’d chewed on the dirty straw littering the ground, but it wasn’t helping. “Are we dying?” she asked Natalie. Natalie was in her usual spot, facing Zee, her back against the cement wall. “I don’t know.” “What if he starves us to death?” “We’ll be okay. I read once that dying of starvation is a peaceful way to go.” “I don’t see how.” “Do you really want to know what happens?” “Yes, I do.” “Simply put,” Natalie told her, “once the organs fail to work, the body will slip into a com

  THIRTY-EIGHT Not long after Colin had left, Jessie grabbed her purse. “Come on,” she said to Olivia. “Let’s go.” “Where are we going?” “To Woodland. I want to look Arlo Gatley in the eyes when they take him away.” “Why?” “It’s something I need to do.” “What if he’s dangerous?” “If the police haven’t arrived, I won’t get out of the car until he’s in handcuffs.” Jessie didn’t want to freak Olivia out, but there was no way she was going to leave Olivia home alone. “I always carry pepper spray,” Jessie told her, “and we can bring Higgins along for the ride, too.” Olivia jumped up from the couch and grabbed the leash and a couple of treats for Higgins. They had been on the highway for at least five minutes when Olivia turned to Jessie and said, “Are you all right?” “Why do you ask?” “You don’t look well, for one thing. I’m worried about you. The cut on the side of your face looks kind of puffy and swollen.” “Don’t worry. I’m taking antibiotics. I feel fine.” “I overheard some of your conver

  THIRTY-NINE First thing Tuesday morning, after his wife and kids pulled out of the driveway, Ben Morrison finished dressing, grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter, and jumped into his van parked in front of the house. The engine sputtered for a few seconds longer than usual before roaring to life. The first time Ben had seen Sophie Cole on TV, he’d never thought his investigation into her disappearance would become so entangled with his own accident. Last night he’d focused on the stolen vehicle. At the time of Ben’s accident, investigators had referred to it as an open-and-shut case. Vernon Doherty had stolen the car and was driving drunk when he plowed head-on into a tree in Auburn. The morning after the crash, it was confirmed that the stolen vehicle belonged to Caleb Montana, who’d reported it missing. The police had brought Mr. Montana in for questioning, and, of course, Ben had done his own thorough investigation, but everything had pointed to Vernon Dohe

  FORTY After calling Marcus Hubbard in Woodland and leaving a message asking him to call her, Jessie drove to the police station where they were holding Arlo Gatley. He’d waived his right to be booked into the station in Yolo County. She signed in at the front desk, asked to speak with Colin Grayson, and then took a seat and waited. A few minutes later Colin appeared. “What are you doing here?” “I want to speak to my client Arlo Gatley about his missing daughter.” “Jessie, that’s not a good idea.” “I need to see him, Colin. I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. She suffers from schizophrenia. Without her father to look for her, she has no one.” She sighed. “This is important to me.” He shifted his weight. “Did you find something in Arlo’s house? Is that why he was arrested?” “We found the necklace. The father of the twins came to the station last night and confirmed that it belonged to their daughter.” Jessie anchored her hair behind her ear. She felt strangely betrayed by Arl

  FORTY-ONE Ben sat at the top of the metal bleachers overlooking the soccer field where Abigail was practicing with her team. He looked at his watch. Practice should have ended ten minutes ago. He had an appointment with the coroner, and he didn’t want to be late. The coroner who had signed off on Vernon Doherty’s autopsy report had since passed away. But Melissa Erickson had been trained by her predecessor and was willing to go over the report with him. The coach called the players into a huddle, one arm around the goalie, the other around his daughter’s shoulder. Eyes narrowed, Ben stood, his gaze locked on the coach as he made his way to solid ground and walked by the other parents waiting for their children to come off the field. The coach’s thumb brushed against his daughter’s neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to notice. The coach flashed a wide smile at Abigail before the team straightened and said in unison, “Go, Pink Panthers!” The coach was giving the girls high fives by the

  FORTY-TWO Ben and his wife were in their bedroom. The door was locked. Melony was pacing the floor in front of the bed while Ben changed out of his work clothes. “What were you thinking?” Melony asked him. “Bringing our daughter to the morgue? Did you know she caught a glimpse of a corpse as it was wheeled through the hallway?” He shook his head. “She didn’t mention it.” “What’s going on, Ben? You promised me twice that you would get help.” He sighed. “I talked to Lori Mitchell today, and she said she called and left you a message to come see her and that you never showed up.” “Melony,” he said after he pulled a T-shirt over his head, “I’ve got a lot going on right now. I really don’t need to be lectured. I’ll make another appointment. I promise.” She stopped pacing and instead crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Abigail said that you embarrassed her in front of her friends and the new coach.” “Have you met the guy?” “Of course I have. He’s a good man, a decent husband and father

  FORTY-THREE Jessie woke to the smell of urine and rotten eggs. Her head throbbed. Her vision was blurry. When she tried to move, she realized her hands were fastened behind her back, tied to a wobbly wooden chair. Her gaze darted around the room, but it was dark, and all she could see were shadows. Her heart raced as she took in her surroundings. Two crudely made cells and another room with a door that was secured with a thick chain and a padlock. A movement in one of the cells caught her attention. What was that? “Who’s there?” Jessie asked. “My name is Zee Gatley. Who are you?” “Zee?” “Do you know me?” Jessie’s heart raced. “Your father hired me to find you.” Another shadow caught her attention. In the cage next to Zee’s, a pale-skinned human on his or her hands and knees crawled to the middle of the cell, looking out as if to see what was going on. It was a woman. She looked as if she’d been starved. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks sunken. “That’s Natalie,” Zee said. “And there’s a m

  FORTY-FOUR The moment Ben caught sight of the weather vane jutting out from the top of the barn, he pulled over to the side of the gravel road and shut off the engine. Without hesitating, he climbed out and stayed low as he crept along one edge of the road until he could see the front entrance to the farmhouse. Parked in front of the house was Jessie’s car. His heart sank. Who the hell was Forrest Bloom, and what was Jessie doing in there? The fact that she had told Olivia she would be home soon and now wasn’t answering her phone didn’t bode well. He pulled out his cell and called the police, gave them the address, telling them that an armed and dangerous man was inside, holed up with a gun and plenty of ammunition. People were hurt and they needed an ambulance. Disconnecting the call, he then slid his phone into his back pocket and continued onward. If he ended up being wrong, then so be it. He’d learned from experience that he’d rather be wrong than sorry. He made his way to the fron

  FORTY-FIVE The sun had begun to rise the next morning when Jessie shot up in bed, her arms waving about as if to ward off whatever might be coming at her. Somebody grabbed her arm, stopping her from flailing around. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe.” It took her a second to realize she was home in bed. “Colin?” “It’s me. I’m here.” The dizziness passed, and she saw him clearly. She caught her breath and said, “It’s good to see you.” “I’m always glad to see you.” She smiled. “I wanted t
o make sure you were okay,” he told her. “I’ve got to get back to work soon, but if it’s okay with you, I thought I’d stop by later with some Chinese food for you and Olivia.” “Yeah, I’d like that.” “It’ll be crazy busy for the next few weeks.” “Understandable.” She inhaled. “Is Olivia home?” “No. Andriana took her to school. She’s doing good, though. She was with you at the hospital last night before we brought you home.” She put a hand to her temple. “I hardly remember.” “The doctor gave you something

  FORTY-SIX Two weeks after Jessie escaped the bowels of hell, she found herself sitting in front of the TV, drawn in by a news reporter’s account of what they knew about the Heartless Killer up to this point. The reporter started off by saying that psychiatrists across the country were still discussing the case, theorizing and seeking rationalizations for his actions. For the most part they agreed that Forrest Bloom wasn’t merely a bad seed. After interviewing teachers, neighbors, and people who’d known him growing up, he didn’t appear to have held any deep-seated hatred for his mother. The autopsy report showed no signs of brain damage. Although most psychiatrists agreed that not all abused children grow up to be killers, they were quick to point out that every psychopathic killer known to mankind had been mistreated early in life. From what detectives had gathered so far, Forrest Bloom had been severely abused by his father since the time he could walk, prompting one female groupie to

  FORTY-SEVEN Two days later, after a long day of courtroom drama, rousing revelations, and celebrations, Jessie returned home to Olivia and Higgins, who had stayed up to say good night. As she watched her niece head off to bed, Higgins on her heels, Jessie found it hard to believe he was the same dog from only weeks ago. His cast had been removed, and he’d become more playful and less fearful of people. He’d also become dependent on Jessie whenever Olivia wasn’t around, following her like a second shadow. She wondered how they’d ever gotten along without him. Jessie plopped down on the couch, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. For the second time in the past three weeks, she was the main story. On the screen, a reporter on Channel Ten news looked into the camera lens and talked about what went down in the courtroom behind closed doors. “Parker Koontz, a well-known attorney in Midtown, awoke from a coma yesterday,” the reporter said, “and was well enough to tell investigators th

  FORTY-EIGHT For two hours Ben had been sitting at his desk, looking over the accident report from his crash. Years ago he’d had every photo taken of the Ford Pinto—before and after the accident—blown up to eight-by-tens. After the wreck was towed up the hill, it was placed on a flatbed. The windshield was broken—a large, gaping hole. If Sophie had been driving, and if she had not been wearing a seat belt, she could have easily been propelled forward into the night, before the car burned and rolled. He thought of his last trip to the place where the accident occurred. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ravine made up of a mixed species of woodland, dead trees, shrubs, and an uninterrupted patch of thorny blackberry bush that would be difficult if not impossible to traverse. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Because he’d never once thought anyone else was in the car with him. His heart quickened as he looked at the time. Moving quietly through his bedroom, he made his way into the walk-in closet,

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS It’s good to have Amy Tannenbaum in my corner. Thank you, Amy, for sharing your wealth of knowledge and for offering to help me at every turn. Thank you, Charlotte Herscher, for continuing to challenge me as a storyteller while also helping to bring clarity and emotion to every book. Brian McDougle is the first real-life detective extraordinaire I’ve had the good fortune to meet online. He’s funny, smart, and always willing to share his expertise. Thanks for your help, Brian. Robin O’Dell. Copyeditor and fine-tuning miracle worker. Thank you so much for such a thorough read. My fictional heroines, Lizzy Gardner, Faith McMann, and now Jessie Cole, aren’t the only ones who need a team of people to get things done. Many thanks to Liz Pearsons, Sarah Shaw, and the entire Amazon Publishing team for your ongoing enthusiasm and support.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2014 Morgan Ragan T.R. Ragan has sold more than two million books since her debut novel appeared in 2011. A former legal secretary for a large corporation, she is now a New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author. T.R. is author of the Faith McMann Trilogy and six Lizzy Gardner novels (Abducted, Dead Weight, A Dark Mind, Obsessed, Almost Dead, and Evil Never Dies). In addition to thrillers, she writes medieval time-travel tales, contemporary romance, and romantic suspense as Theresa Ragan. An avid traveler, her wanderings have led her to China, Thailand, and Nepal. Theresa and her husband, Joe, have four children and live in Sacramento, California. To learn more, visit her website at www.theresaragan.com.

  OTHER TITLES BY T.R. RAGAN

  FAITH MCMANN TRILOGY

  Wrath

  Furious

  Outrage

  LIZZY GARDNER SERIES

  Abducted

  Dead Weight

  A Dark Mind

  Obsessed

  Almost Dead

  Evil Never Dies

  WRITING AS THERESA RAGAN

  Return of the Rose

  A Knight in Central Park

  Taming Mad Max

  Finding Kate Huntley

  Having My Baby

  An Offer He Can’t Refuse

  Here Comes the Bride

  I Will Wait for You: A Novella

  Dead Man Running

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 Theresa Ragan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046060

  ISBN-10: 1542046068

  Cover design by Damon Freeman

  To all the nurturing, hardworking, tolerant, creative, and courageous women in the world who know the value of listening but who aren’t afraid to speak up when their voices need to be heard. When things get tough, you get tougher.

  This is for you.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Years Ago

  He awoke to the smell of burned flesh. The acrid fumes filled h
is lungs. The crackling roar of fire was deafening, the smoke thick.

  He was trapped within the passenger seat of a car, hanging upside down, a mangled piece of plastic and metal pressed against his stomach. He couldn’t see the bottom part of his legs, but he felt a fiery heat around his feet and ankles.

  The car teetered back and forth, precariously, as if at any moment it might roll into the black abyss he saw through the broken windshield. Every muscle tensed. He had no idea how steep the fall would be if the vehicle lost its bearings.

  His lungs burned.

  He coughed, tried to breathe, then jerked backward when an arm fell limply through the flames and landed on the middle console. Charred fingers, skin melting from bone.

  The driver was engulfed in flames.

  They were both going to die if he didn’t find a way out.

  Trying to move his legs felt like wasted effort. They were pinned tight and wouldn’t budge. He reached for the buckle, touched searing-hot metal, and let out a shattering scream. Excruciating pain ripped through his body, sending jolts of electricity pulsing through his veins. Yanking his hand back, he watched blisters immediately form on his fingertips as flames licked at his pants from beneath the crushed console.

  He held his breath and began desperately banging his elbow against the glass, again and again. The window finally cracked, then shattered.

  Throat and lungs parched, he leaned that way, gasping for breath.