Her Last Day (Jessie Cole Book 1)

by T. R. Ragan

  It wasn’t easy trying to think logically at a moment when her world felt as if it were spinning off its axis, but he was right.

  “I’m going to find a forensic artist,” Ben told her. “If Leanne agrees, we could have composite drawings of two men, both possible suspects, by the end of the week.”

  A sense of calm swept over Jessie. What if they could locate even one of the men Leanne had seen that night? If so, he might be able to shed some light on what happened. For the first time in forever, she felt hopeful.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I’m going to kill him.

  You’re not going to kill him because when I’m done with him, he’s going to be blood and guts, splattered to bits like a bug on a windshield.

  “Shut up,” Zee told the voices in her head as she looked around. She was inside an ugly, straw-covered, stench-filled cell, and through a shared wall of metal bars, she saw a naked woman curled into a ball, lying on the ground in the cell next to her.

  “Hey, you!” Zee shouted.

  No response.

  “Are you dead?”

  Who cares? You’re going to be dead if you don’t find a way out of here!

  I told you not to try to find that weirdo, but you wouldn’t listen. You never listen.

  Zee rubbed the knot on the back of her head. It hurt like hell.

  The voices weren’t the only ones who wanted blood.

  A minute later she heard footsteps coming down the narrow wooden stairs at the far end of what looked to her like a shitty basement.

  When she’d first met the socially awkward man at Rainbow Park six months ago, he’d told her his name was Scar, which she’d figured he’d picked up from the movie The Lion King. At the time she’d thought it was cool, but not any longer.

  Dealing with schizophrenia wasn’t easy. She had good days and bad days. More often than not, she heard voices. Sometimes Francis, a deep, gravelly, and convincing voice inside her head, would remind her how well she was doing and suggest she stop taking her medication. When that happened, she often wandered from the house.

  This last time she’d wandered too far.

  Her dad was probably worried. The thought of him worrying made her feel sick to her stomach. She and Dad had their differences, but he loved her for who she was, and she was lucky to have him in her life.

  “You never should have followed me here,” Scar said in a cheerful voice as if nothing had changed between them.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Zee spat back. “My head still hurts.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, seemingly determined to get on her good side.

  “Fuck you.”

  He made a sad face. “I’ve never heard you curse before. It’s unbecoming.”

  She shot to her feet, wrapped her fingers around the metal bars between her and him, and rattled the cage. “I no longer care what you think. I want out!”

  “You should have minded your own business,” he told her.

  “You’ve never met any of my friends,” she said. “But you’re going to be meeting a lot of new people if you don’t let me out right this minute.”

  He answered with a creepy smile.

  “He’s not going to let either of us go,” the woman in the cell next to her said.

  The woman had lifted her head. Her eyes were wide-open.

  “Who is that?” Zee asked Scar.

  “Natalie Bailey,” he said.

  “Why is she naked?”

  “Because he wants to humiliate me,” Natalie answered.

  “Is that true?”

  His answer was half shrug, half nod, which Zee took as a yes. Zee narrowed her eyes at him. “What is this all about? Why are we here?”

  “You’re here because you’re one messed-up crazy chick,” Scar said. “And she’s here because of her mother.”

  Natalie Bailey sat up, her spine stiff, straw sticking out of her hair, making her look a bit deranged. Zee blinked a couple of times to make sure the woman wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  “He’s a liar,” Natalie said. “He never met my mother.”

  “Sue Sterling,” Scar stated, his tone clipped. “A social worker born September 16, 1953, to Myriam and Rafael Potts. I met her for the first and last time on Friday, May 14, 1999.”

  Natalie’s lips flattened. If looks could kill, Zee was pretty sure Scar would be dead.

  “Her job on that particular day,” he said through gritted teeth, “was to investigate a report of child abuse. It was Sue Sterling’s responsibility to examine the home, this home, and talk to neighbors, teachers, friends—anyone who might have come into contact with said child.”

  Zee knew he was different, quirky, and quick to anger, but she’d never seen him quite like this. At the moment his face was red and blotchy, his body shook, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. His narrow chest still rose and fell from all that emotion.

  “Did she follow you here, too?” Zee asked him.

  “No,” he said. “Not exactly.”

  “No. Not exactly,” Zee mimicked, irritated by his nonanswer.

  “You know I don’t like that.”

  “You know I don’t like that,” Zee repeated, imitating him, mocking him.

  “If you do it again,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “you’re going to be punished.”

  “If you do it again,” she said, “you’re going to be punished.”

  He snarled.

  Zee held tight to the bars, leaned close, and spit at him, missing his boots by a few inches. He wasn’t the only one who was angry. She was livid, and he had no idea whom he was dealing with.

  “You’re going to regret that.”

  “My dad is looking for me. He’s rich, and he’s smart, too, and I know he’ll find me soon!”

  He turned, marched across the room, and disappeared up the stairs.

  “They’re watching you!” she shouted after him. “They’re coming!”

  When he got to the top of the stairs, he slammed the wooden hatch shut, then made his way to the living room and turned on the TV, switching from one news channel to another, his heart racing the entire time.

  If Zee Gatley had somehow managed to mess things up for him, he would hang her by her toes and gouge her eyes out.

  But there was nothing being reported on the news about a missing girl.

  Calmer now, he went to his bedroom and crossed the room to where his desk sat in the corner, and turned on the computer. As he waited for it to boot up, he spotted the picture of him and his mom that was tacked to the wall. It was the only picture he had of the two of them. He’d been a baby at the time, and she was looking down at him with so much love.

  He closed his eyes, imagining the feel of her arms wrapped around him, holding him so close he could hear the rhythmic beat of her heart.

  If only she were here with him now.

  A beep sounded, and it took him a few seconds to return to reality.

  He typed “Missing girl in Yolo County” into the search bar. Dozens of headers with links popped up:

  Missing Woman Chained, Battered When Found

  FBI Offers Reward for Missing Girl

  Missing Northern California Woman Found

  The Heartless Killer Strikes Again? Erin Hayes Missing

  He clicked on the link having to do with the Heartless Killer, which took him to online news reported by the Sacramento Tribune. On the right-hand side was a list of recent news stories. The name Arlo Gatley caught his eye. He clicked on that particular link and then felt a tingling in his limbs as he read every word.

  Zee was right. Her father had hired a private investigator in Sacramento named Jessie Cole.

  His stomach churned as he did a little research on the private investigator. Apparently she had a decent track record when it came to locating people.

  He found a bunch of images of Jessie Cole, including one from the time she’d appeared on Cold Case TV. Leaning back in his chair, he wrung his hands together as he thought abou
t what he should do with her.

  Doing nothing was out of the question. It took him less than a minute to make up his mind. Swallowing hard, he stared into her eyes.

  Jessie Cole was as good as dead.

  “Hey there,” Ben said when he walked into his house and found Melony sitting on the bottom step waiting for him. Her blonde hair was pinned at the top of her head, accentuating her long, pale neck. The top buttons of her silk blouse revealed enough cleavage to catch his attention. When he shut the door and stepped closer, he got a whiff of perfume. He realized then that the house was abnormally quiet.

  Ben looked around. “Where are the kids?”

  “Across the street. They were invited for a sleepover.” She stood, brushed her fingers across his neck and then slowly downward over his collarbone, where she began unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.

  It wasn’t often they were able to get time alone, just the two of them.

  He brushed his lips across hers.

  That was all it took.

  They were all fumbling hands after that, leaving a trail of clothes from the front entry to their bed upstairs. Melony covered his chest with feathered kisses, giving as much attention to his left side as his right, making sure he never felt insecure about his disfigurement. For their entire married life, she’d worried as much about his emotional scars as his physical ones. It didn’t matter how many times he told her he was fine with the way he looked, wasn’t bothered by people who ogled; she couldn’t stop herself. It was who she was. And who could fault the one they loved for caring too much?

  He grew hard beneath her caresses, flipped her over so the length of her was beneath him, her leg moving between his, brushing against him, driving him crazy. His breathing grew ragged; his eyes closed as he nibbled on her ear, every part of her ready and wanting as they lost themselves in the moment.

  A whimper, as if from a distant dream, brought him back to the moment. He opened his eyes, confused by what he was seeing. Golden-brown hair framed a creamy oval face and exotic brown eyes. She pulled him closer.

  He didn’t understand. Who was she?

  He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead he drove deeper into her. The more she squirmed beneath him, the faster his pulse raced. Her hips grinded against him, her tongue hot inside his mouth.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  She tasted like a sweet honeycomb. Her hair was smooth and silky within his grasp, his movements bordering on frantic. He was on the edge of release when she screamed out for him to stop, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

  He opened his eyes and saw Melony, her blonde hair clutched tightly within his grasp, her eyes fearful and wet with tears.

  “I’m sorry.” He released his hold on her hair and backed off, unsure of what had just happened. It was as if someone else had taken over his body and soul. Confused, he wanted to give her an explanation, but he had none. He’d completely lost control and didn’t know why or how that could have happened.

  Sobbing, she slid off the bed and ran to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her.

  He climbed off the bed and looked around, everything hazy, especially his thoughts. He’d hurt his wife, the woman he loved more than anything. Disgusted with himself, he paced the room. Was he losing his mind?

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again through the door when she still hadn’t exited moments later.

  The door came open. Melony tightened the sash around her robe as she headed past him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes met his. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Ben, but you need to get help.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair. She was right. The gruesome bloody images he’d been seeing, and now this. It wasn’t normal. He needed to do something right away. He went to her and kneeled on the floor in front of her, his eyes watering. “I will. I promise.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was late that same night when Jessie heard a knock at the door. She crept down the stairs and peeked through the peephole. It was Colin. She opened the door. He looked like hell. “What’s going on?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” She’d been reading through old files on her sister’s case. “Come inside.” She led the way up the stairs and then followed him around the house as he checked the locks on windows and doors. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  “It’s happening again,” he said. “The Heartless Killer has struck again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He turned to face her. Dark shadows appeared as half-moons beneath his eyes. “The mayor isn’t convinced. He doesn’t want to panic the public, but we’re seeing the same pattern as last time. A group of people goes missing, and dead bodies from his last hunt begin to emerge. Last year it was a married couple, Garrett and Robin Ramsey, taken while picnicking in a wooded area. Two days later, a teenage boy disappeared after leaving a party—”

  “And then the twin girls abducted on their way to the bus stop,” Jessie finished. “So what happened?”

  “An abandoned car with a flat tire was found on a road just off Highway 99. No sign of the driver, Erin Hayes, eighteen. This followed by Natalie Bailey, a psychotherapist taken from her bed while her husband lay sleeping. Test results haven’t come back yet, but we believe he was drugged.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah, and a few hours ago, Garrett Ramsey’s elderly father found his dead son sitting in the back seat of a vintage car propped on blocks in the side yard. The missing twin girls were also inside the car. Their decomposing bodies had been set up, one on each side of Garrett.”

  Jessie had no words.

  He looked around. “I needed to know you were safe. Where’s Higgins?”

  “He’s been sleeping with Olivia.”

  “I’m sending someone over tomorrow to put a dead bolt on both doors.”

  Before she could answer, he said, “Natalie Bailey lives a block away. Humor me.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He kissed her forehead. “Thanks.”

  She frowned when he turned and headed for the stairs. Ever since he’d come back into her life she’d been holding back, afraid to get too close too fast. Not having him around for the past six weeks, though, had made her realize that not only did she need him; she wanted him to be a part of her life. “Leaving already?”

  “My night is only just beginning. Talk to Olivia in the morning—will you?”

  “I will.”

  “Lock up behind me.”

  She followed him down the stairs. “Stay safe,” she told him before shutting and locking the door.

  Erin woke up shivering again. It was dark. She could hear the sprinklers and droplets of water hitting the outside of the box.

  Hot during the day. Cold at night. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

  She was always thirsty. She couldn’t remember if she’d gone twenty-four hours without water or forty-eight. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She’d read somewhere that a person could live three days without water.

  The smell inside her confined space was becoming unbearable. But that was the least of her worries. She dragged the coin against the decaying wood, back and forth, back and forth.

  Scraping, scraping, scraping.

  Crack.

  Had that really happened?

  Did the wood just crack?

  It did. It did. It did. Be careful. Do not drop the coin.

  Despite losing a few pounds since being thrown in the box, moving her arm from her side to the top of her stomach was still a tight squeeze. But she did it. Very carefully she placed the coin snugly atop her belly button, then moved her arm back to her side and used the tips of her fingers to push against the wood where she’d been working. One of her fingers poked through decayed wood.

  She stifled a giggle.

  Stop it.

  She couldn’t allow herself to get overly excited. Not yet. Too early.

&n
bsp; She pulled and dug at the wood until two of her fingers slid through the hole. The tips of dewy grass brushed against her fingertips as a lone tear slid down her cheek.

  Early the next morning, Jessie sat at the kitchen table across from Olivia and looked through Zee’s Polaroid pictures, examining each one closely while Olivia read Zee’s journal.

  “It’s says here,” Olivia said, “that Zee hears voices in her head. The voices even have names. Lucy is the most outspoken and is easily angered. Marion is the clever one, the one who knows how to make potions and put spells on people. And Francis is the troublemaker.”

  “She has schizophrenia,” Jessie said without looking up. “You should be working on your report.”

  “I am. This is research. If I can help you solve the case, then I’ll be able to relate with Sherlock Holmes, which will make it so much easier to write my paper. And since I’ll be helping you for the next few days, you can think of me as a consulting detective.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes.

  “Sherlock was known for his keen observation,” Olivia said. “We have to be sure to look at every detail. We must look at every word she wrote and every item in that box as a clue.”

  Jessie ignored her as she examined the picture in her hand closely and then set it aside after failing to see anything unusual. She was careful with the dried flower petals as she sifted through the box. She put all the photos with scribbled, hard-to-decipher words in the margins to the side. At the bottom of the box were two pictures that were stuck together, image to image. Zee must have piled them together before giving the ink a chance to dry. She peeled them slowly apart, careful not to ruin the photos.

  Olivia left the table to grab a snack and a glass of milk. When she returned she stood looking over Jessie’s shoulder and pointed at one of the pictures Jessie had put to the side. “Those are supercool sunglasses she’s wearing in the photo.”

  Jessie looked closer. The cat-eye sunglasses were lined with tortoise shell. Zee definitely appeared to have a unique fashion style.

  Olivia picked up the picture. “Look at that! You can see a reflection of a guy in her sunglasses. Do you think that’s Zee’s boyfriend?”