Fourteen.
Fourteen years, fourteen victims, Justin appearing on the fourteenth day of Parrish’s disappearance.
My pulse quickens, and I suck in a sharp breath, drawing both boys’ attention over to me.
“Look at the ward number,” I whisper. “There’s no way that’s a coincidence.”
Maxx points the flashlight right at the placard and then sighs heavily.
“We need bolt cutters,” he muses, and I feel this hot, angry surge of frustration.
Haven’t we waited long enough for this moment? Haven’t we suffered enough?
“Let’s get this done quick,” Chasm agrees, and even though it kills me to leave that place, I follow the boys back up the stairs and into the car. A quick stop at a farm supply store gives us exactly what we need—even if the cashier offers up a suspiciously raised eyebrow at three teenagers purchasing a pair of bolt cutters with a debit card.
“We’re doing work on my grandmother’s garden,” X lies, and even though he’s the king of honest discussions, he does it easily and believably. The cashier doesn’t look convinced, but what can he do?
On the drive back to the hospital, Chasm tightens his hands on the wheel as he mulls something over.
“Do you think we could get a gun somewhere?’ he asks, and Maxx makes a scoffing sound in the backseat.
“Doesn’t your dad have, like, a massive gun collection? Why are you asking us that? Go steal one from him.”
“He keeps that shit locked up and under a completely off-grid alarm system. There’s no way I’m getting in there. What about you? Your parents go hunting a lot, right?” Chas glances up in the rearview mirror just in time to see Maxx shrug.
“I guess I could drive down to Portland and steal a shotgun, but it’s not easy to hide or cart around. We need a handgun.”
“A handgun,” I murmur, feeling fidgety. I don’t want to shoot anyone—not even Justin. But if that’s my only way out then …
“Do you have friends from like, Prescott High or something?” Chasm asks, and Maxx snorts.
“Just because I attend college in the same town where a high school shooting took place doesn’t mean I know anyone there nor do I have access to illegal firearms obtained by teenagers. Nice try though.” I watch as Maxx settles his head back against the window, long legs tucked up on the seat again.
Maybe they’re right? I mean, we’re quite literally tangled up in a life-or-death game with a serial killer. But dear god, this is escalating fast. From smashing a car window with a typewriter to searching for guns.
I shake the conversation off for now, sitting in tense silence as we head back to the hospital and hop out of the car. I’m trembling with adrenaline as we head back inside and then down the stairs. Maxx hefts the bolt cutters up and slices through the chain with a grunt and a flexing of his arm muscles.
The coiled length of chain slithers to the floor with a clank as Maxx grabs one of the door handles with his right hand and pulls it open, holding it aside so that Chasm and I can pass by. The hall down here is nearly pitch-black, and I shiver in the cold, damp air as Maxx uses a stone we grabbed from outside to prop the door open.
“Parrish?” I call out, voice echoing in the darkness.
As soon as Maxx shines his flashlight along the wall opposite us, I see them.
Old, rusted metal bars. More specifically, doors. Like jail cell doors. He drops the light to the lock and my heartbeat gets so loud that it deafens me to everything else, even my own breathing.
I stumble forward, shoving the key into the lock. It slides right in, but it’s so rusted that it takes some force to turn it, ancient tumblers sliding free. I don’t wait even half a second before I throw the door wide and stumble in.
There’s … nothing.
I mean, like, literally nothing except for some leaves on the floor.
“Huh,” Chasm remarks, looking around at the cell with its cement floors, peeling paint, and barred window that rests near the roofline. I think at one point, it must’ve let some decent light in, but over time, dirt has filled in the lower part of the egress window. It’s just dark and dirty now. “This must be just one of many cells, yeah?”
The room gets almost impossibly dark as Maxx redirects the flashlight for a brief moment.
“Yep,” he agrees, turning the light back on us. “Dozens of them.”
“The key fits,” I say, hefting it in my palm. “Clearly, Parrish isn’t here, but we’re on the right track. Let’s search every room. Anything you find is a clue. Pay special attention to room fourteen—if there even is a room fourteen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” X declares, but with all due seriousness. Chas and I follow the beam of his flashlight, searching the rooms one by one. The skeleton key, of course, is able to unlock every cell door without a problem. Where did Justin get this key? Why did he send it to me? What’s the significance of this place anyway?
I decide that I’m going to ask him tonight at dinner. Maybe he’ll tell me, maybe not, but it’s worth a shot.
Not all of the rooms are empty. Some have mattresses in them. Some have the metal frames of beds without mattresses. No room has both of those things in tandem. There are quite a few shoes, a jacket, a pair of rolled up socks, and quite a few books.
“To Kill A Mockingbird,” Chasm says, reading the title of one of them. Considering that Tess is a writer, and I found the diner clue in one of her books, this feels promising to me. Although, to be fair, it looks like most of the books have been down here forever. The pages are yellowed and curling, some of them are thick and puffy with moisture and tinged with mold, and all of them are covered with a fine layer of dust and debris. “Animal Farm. 1984. Moby Dick.” He starts making a stack in the hall, and I join him while Maxx keeps the flashlight moving for us.
“The Catcher in the Rye. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” I sit back on my heels and take a deep breath. It’s a veritable library in here.
“Sounds like a high school reading list just”—Maxx slides his hand through the air for emphasis—“threw up all over this place.”
“There could be so many clues here,” I murmur, chewing on my thumbnail again. Guess that’s my thinking tic. “In the titles. In the stories themselves. In the publication years. In the authors’ lives.”
“Don’t do that to yourself just yet,” Chasm warns me grabbing my wrist before I rub my hands all over my face. They’re pretty gross, actually, and probably covered in mildew. Not a good idea. “Don’t get overwhelmed. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all.”
I nod, but I’m not convinced.
Considering Tess’ chosen profession, the significance of the typewriter, the story of her grandmother, and the clues in Fleeing Under a Summer Rain, I’m just not buying it. But goddamn it, this is a lot. There are almost too many possibilities here.
“Looks like this is the last room on this side of the hall,” Maxx comments, the beam of the flashlight gliding across the partially tiled wall that marks the end of this particular hallway. “So twelve rooms on the left, twelve more on the right.”
“Damn,” I murmur, staring through the endless darkness behind us, in the direction of the book stacks. Most of them were found inside three different rooms, so we’ve kept them separate so we can remember which. Room three, room five, and room nine. Is there significance to those numbers?
“Let’s keep going; this place gives me the creeps,” Chasm murmurs, his pretty voice echoing in the empty hallway. Theoretically, someone could lock us down here, but why bother? It isn’t like the Slayer doesn’t already have us all by the short and curlies.
We continue cleaning out the other cells, but this side is even more decrepit than the last. The sheetrock in one of the rooms has collapsed completely, obscuring whatever was once in there.
“This could have asbestos or lead in it,” I comment, staring down at the messy pile. The
soft drip-drip-drip of water is the only companion sound to our labored breathing and murmured conversation. “Don’t touch it. At least not yet. If we feel we’re missing something, we can get gloves and dig through it.”
“I like when you’re assertive, you know that?” Chasm remarks, and Maxx heaves an annoyed sigh.
I ignore them both, unlocking the door to the next room. Same, same in here. A mattress on the floor, another book. Chasm grabs it before I do, glancing at the title.
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles,” he remarks, and my entire body lights up with excitement.
“Agatha Christie,” I breathe, snatching it out of his hand. He gives me an odd look as I flip the book open, searching for any writing inside the cover. Any highlights in the pages. Anything at all.
“Agatha Christie?” Chasm repeats, glancing in Maxx’s direction. Not sure if he can even see him in this gloom, but clearly, they’re both confused. I examine the book, but it’s free from debris and mildew like the rest of them.
“This is the clue,” I whisper, in awe at finally having something solid in my hand. Hopefully something solid that will lead me right to Parrish. “This is it.”
“How do you know that?” X asks, his voice patient and even and so incredibly calming in the dark.
“Tess told me a story about her grandmother, about how she wanted to be a murder mystery writer like Agatha Christie. The grandmother with the typewriter, by the way. And then, in the car with Justin yesterday, he quoted this exact book.” I snap the cover closed and shake it for emphasis. “Something like, ‘Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend. You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.’”
“And that isn’t creepy at all,” Chas murmurs, staring down at the book with so much hope in his amber eyes that it nearly breaks my heart. I know I’m right here; this isn’t even an assumption. This is fact. The thing is, are the other books part of the clue? Or is it just this? And if it is just this, then what? How do I glean what Justin expects me to glean from this book?
I’ll tell you how: I read it.
“I need to dive into this right now. Read it cover to cover. Maybe twice. Maybe more.” I tap the book with my knuckles. “But I don’t want to leave the other books here. Bring everything. And let’s hit the last two rooms and make sure we haven’t missed anything else.”
“Got it,” Maxx says, guiding us into the next room with the light.
We finish up quickly, haul the load up to Chasm’s car, and dump all the mildewy books in his trunk.
“Better than a dead maid’s corpse,” he remarks absently, and somehow, the statement just sounds normal now. The shock factor has worn off, and that’s a pretty sad fucking deal.
“Better than JJ’s body,” I agree, giving the girl as much respect as I can. Her family will never know what happened to her or where her body is if I don’t figure out a way to stop the Slayer. I get that he didn’t kill her, but one of his associates did, and that makes him guilty in a way.
This time, I climb into the backseat before Maxx can make the sacrifice, and he gives me a narrow-eyed look that reminds me of Parrish in a way. With a grunt of displeasure, he pushes the front seat back into place and climbs in.
I take a minute to check my messages—nothing of note there.
And then I crack that cover and get ready to dig in.
Whoever knew I’d have to read in order to save my stepbrother/boyfriend?
I won’t complain about this particular task, that’s for sure.
The beginning of the book is so reminiscent of the way Tess begins her novels that my heart aches, both for her and the great-grandmother I never met. Clearly, my bio mom was inspired by her grandmother’s hero.
‘The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as “The Styles Case” has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story …’
One day, if I happen to survive this nightmare that’s become my life, I may very well write it down.
Tess Vanguard, eat your heart out.
The boys take me straight to my dinner date with Justin. By the time we arrive, I’m about a third of the way through the book. I’ll admit, it’s damn good. If I weren’t frantically reading it in an attempt to save the life of someone I love, I’d be obsessed. As things stand, this is an assignment and nothing more.
“The Secret Cache, huh? How subtle,” Chasm remarks as we pull up in front of the winery. It’s just outside the city limits, this charming stone building covered in vines and already lit up with gas lanterns on the exterior, despite the fact that the sun is still out. “This is the winery on our list. Saves us some trouble, eh?”
“That could be the clue, you know,” Maxx remarks, staring out the window at the large building and all the finely dressed people coming and going from the restaurant portion. “The wine in the room with Parrish. Maybe it’s a wine cellar, maybe not. But I bet you it’s all wine from this place.” He points out the window and then glances over at Chasm. “Did we delete all the video calls, or do we have any saved that we could look at?”
“We deleted them all,” I murmur, tearing my eyes away from the page and blinking myself out of one world and into another. There’s a certain magic to books that can’t be found anywhere else; it’s the only way to accurately see into someone else’s head. Essentially, books are empathy keys. Read enough and you’ll start to figure out that you aren’t always the main character in every story. “But that’s a good thought. I’ll ask Justin to see Parrish again tonight and see if I can’t pick out any details.”
Maxx and Chasm climb out with me, and the three of us stand there together for a minute, staring up at the building.
“Guess we’ll search the place while you eat?” Maxx offers, glancing over at me, and I nod.
“Justin’s taking me home afterward, so feel free to leave whenever.” I stare off toward the front entrance when Maxx’s hand darts out, his fingers curling around my wrist. I pause, my book bag slung over one shoulder, the Agatha Christie book tucked under that same arm, and glance back.
“Be careful, Kota,” he warns me, his voice both tender and dark at the same time. Our eyes meet, and a shiver travels through me. I give a sharp nod, my gaze drifting to Chasm as he slides his left hand into his pocket and lets out a tired sigh.
“You’re not allowed to die before we solve this love triangle,” he says, swirling a single finger around to indicate the three of us. “Or … love quad. Whatever. Just don’t die, Little Sister.” His face simultaneously softens and gets more serious all at once. “We’ll make sure there’s nowhere that Parrish could be hiding here although with the number of people, I doubt it.”
“Thank you,” I reply honestly, because I can’t begin to imagine how hard this would be if I were on my own. Maxx holds my wrist for a heartbeat longer before reluctantly releasing me. I can feel their eyes on my back as I make quick work of the stairs and enter a swanky waiting area with lush carpets over the stone floors, and crystal chandeliers high over head.
I weave through the finely dressed crowd toward the restaurant’s entrance, slipping past the host stand and spotting Justin Prior right away on the far side of the room. He’s already looking right at me, as if he’s anticipated my entrance, lifting up a glass of wine in greeting.
I make my way over to him, pausing as an employee rushes over to pull out my chair for me.
“Thank you, Benjamin,” Justin tells him cheerily, nodding toward me. “Bring my sweet princess a Shirley Temple—with extra cherries.” He winks at the man before turning back to me. “How are the boys? I take it they’re doing well?”
“I found your book,” I tell him, lifting it up and then setting it on the table. I drop my book bag to the floor and push it underneath the white tablecloth with my foot. There’s clearly a dress code for this restaurant however I see plenty of ot
her Whitehall kids in their uniforms, just like it is at the country club. This whole town is like a closed circuit, one big wheel of who’s who, and everyone is friends with each other.
That is, except for Justin.
Just as it is for me at school, it feels like every fucking person in that room is staring at us. At Justin, actually. He’s really made a big splash, hopping into a pond where he was ousted from a decade and a half prior. I have to give credit where credit’s due: the man is brave, stubborn, and determined.
“You did, didn’t you?” he says, reaching out to pet the cover with a single finger. The image shows a painting that I’m guessing might be a watercolor; it features a man holding a candle and two women looking on suspiciously from behind him. “You’re so very clever.” Justin flicks the cover open and smiles at the first lines in the story. “This is a first edition you know, circa 1920. It’s in the public domain now which is fortunate.” He lifts his startlingly blue eyes up to my face. “Tess would very much enjoy seeing this, I imagine.”
“You want to tell me what the meaning of this is?” I query, and Justin smiles mysteriously.
“I’m happy to be forthright with nearly everything, princess.” His smile fades slightly. “But not this. Not in regard to you know what. Like I said, find the right clues, follow the right trail …” He trails off, but the rest of that sentence is burned into my brain like a brand. Or someone I love gets hurt. Got it.
With a sigh, I drag the book back toward me, closing the cover and resting my arm atop it.
I haven’t yet glanced at the menu when our waiter comes back with my drink—one that I didn’t select mind you.
“Are you ready to order?” he asks, and I start to open my mouth to ask for a few more minutes when Justin cuts in.
“We are,” he replies breezily, waving the hand that isn’t holding his wineglass in a dismissive manner. Justin rattles off a series of dishes that are far too fancy for me to recognize, but I get the idea that he’s just ordered me meat and vegetables. Maybe. I’m not sure. “Thank you, again, Ben. Such great service as always.”
Payback Princess (Lost Daughter of a Serial Killer Book 2) Page 42