by Tess Diamond
“39821 Beaverton Road,” Harry said.
“Got it, boss,” Zooey said in his ear. “Agent Walker is in that area, questioning the grandparents. I’m sending the coordinates to him now.”
“You’re doing great,” Paul told Harry, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. Harry still hadn’t lowered his gun—it wasn’t a good sign. “You’re doing what’s best for Brandon. Now it’s time to do what’s best for you.”
Harry’s hands went up and Paul tensed, the grip on his own gun tightening. But instead of pointing the gun at him, Harry clutched at his head with his free hand, tears coursing down his face as he placed the gun at his temple.
Grace’s instincts and his own gut were right. This guy wasn’t a murderer. He was suicidal.
Fuck. He felt horribly ill equipped for this. Usually when something like this happened, he had Grace at his side. As a psychologist, she had way better tools at handling a suicidal perp.
“No, Harry, don’t do that,” Paul said, his body going cold. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to your kid.”
“He’s better off without me,” Harry moaned.
“No, he’s not,” Paul said. “Don’t do that to him. Don’t make him grow up like that. You screwed up, Harry. You’ve made mistakes. But you’ve got a disease. And you can get help. You can recover.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Harry said, and Paul watched in horror as his finger shifted toward the trigger.
“I do, actually,” he said.
The man’s eyes, which had been unfocused and desperate, suddenly slid back to him. He had Harry’s attention. Good. He was going to need it.
“First ten years of my life, my dad was blackout drunk for half of it, the other half, he was still drunk, but a happy drunk. Jovial. The life of the party. He was a funny guy when he was drinking. Everybody loved him. My mama loved him too.” The gun was still on Harry’s temple, but Paul could see his finger twitch away from the trigger, so it was resting on the barrel instead. Progress. Good.
“She had five children with him,” he continued, taking a small step forward. “And the day he drove drunk and crashed his car? She kicked him to the curb that day and told him he wasn’t allowed back until he got sober and stayed sober. So I think I know a little bit about this from your boy’s perspective.” Another step. Harry was watching him, transfixed, like Paul’s voice was the only thing keeping him afloat.
“I know what it’s like to have a shitty addict dad,” Paul said, his confession quiet and somber. “But you know what, Harry? I also know what it’s like to have a sober dad. One who coached my Little League team without the aid of a flask of whiskey, and who built a car with me when I was sixteen . . . the man who decided he loved his family more than he loved getting drunk. He made a choice. He confronted his disease. And he put in the work to get sober and to get his family back. When he passed a few years ago, he passed knowing that he’d done that work. He died sober and loved, surrounded by his children and friends and grandkids. That’s the kind of life you want, Harry. That’s the kind of death you want. You want to die when you’re old, clean and sober and loved, and surrounded by people who care about you. You don’t want this. You don’t want Haley to have to explain to Brandon what happened to his dad. Don’t take yourself from him. Decide right now to do the work. You put that gun down, Harry, and I will get you the help you need. I swear on my dad’s grave.”
Harry’s large tormented eyes stared at him, the hope in them beautiful and terrible to behold.
“Just hand over the gun,” Paul said. “Be the man you need to be for your son.”
Harry’s hand shook and then, finally, he lowered the gun.
It clattered to the ground and Harry fell to his knees, sobbing.
“Okay, Harry,” Paul said, kicking the gun away and taking the cuffs out of his pocket. “I’m gonna do this gentle, okay?” He carefully restrained him, helping him to his feet once his hands were secure. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured him as Harry began to stumble down the alley next to him, still shaking with sobs.
“Boss, I just got word from Agent Walker that he has Brandon. He’s fine. No trauma or awareness of the situation. He thought they were on a camping trip and that his mom knew all about it,” Zooey said over the radio.
Paul felt a small sense of relief. Someday, Brandon would learn the truth. But at least for now, he could be unmarked by any trauma or worry. His mom would find a way to explain it to him when she thought it was appropriate.
“I’ve called Haley and she’s on her way here to meet them,” Grace added. “Good job, Paul. You defused the situation like a pro.”
“We’re heading in,” Paul said.
“It’s going to be okay,” he told Harry again, as he opened the back of his SUV and shut it once Harry was safely inside.
Paul drove to headquarters, where Harry would be placed in custody.
He’d meant what he’d said—he’d work the system to get Harry the help he needed. But he also knew that with kidnapping charges laid against him, it was likely going to be a very long time—if ever—before Harry and Brandon were reunited.
It was always harder when the bad guy wasn’t completely bad. When he was a victim of sorts as well. A victim of life, of abuse, of addiction. Paul had seen it all. It never got easier.
Never.
Chapter 3
“Ah, sweet Cass,” Howard said, a smile flitting across his thin lips.
A shiver went through Abby, a reaction to the smile on his face that she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t a malicious smile, or one of perverse pleasure.
No, this was a smile of fondness. Of affection. Like he was a normal man thinking of a grandchild.
Abby swallowed, her throat suddenly and terribly dry. She didn’t want to show weakness—a croaky throat or a cracked voice would delight him to no end.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re doing a story on Dr. X’s last victim. What’s your angle, Lois Lane? You’ve got to have something fresh.”
“Let’s start with August of 2000,” Abby said, flipping through her notebook to where her time line was scrawled.
“Why in the world would we start there?” he asked. “That’s a full three years before I found sweet little Cassandra and made her mine.”
You cannot try to stab this guy with a pen, no matter how much you want to, she thought as her grip slipped on the pen in question. It was a miracle the guards had even let her in with one—she’d been prepared to bring her tablet to take notes—but she guessed that with Howard in a straitjacket, they felt it wasn’t as much of a security risk.
“I want to start in August of 2000,” Abby repeated, like a preschool teacher would say to a toddler. Annoyance flared in his eyes, and she felt a small burst of pleasure. Good. She was getting to him.
“What about August of 2000?” he demanded, his shoulders tensing underneath the rough canvas of the jacket.
“You were in Medford, Oregon, during that time, working as a coroner, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And five years before that, in 1995, you retired as chief of surgery from a hospital in Los Angeles?” Abby asked.
“Clearly you have the information that confirms that in front of you, Ms. Winthrop,” he said.
“I always like to check my facts with the original source,” she said, and even though it killed her, she let a corner of her mouth quirk up a bit, a fleeting hint of a smile that would fuel him. “You know, there’s a theory that you left surgery and became a coroner because you were trying to resist your urge to kill.”
He chuckled, a grating sound that was all egotistical pleasure. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever resisted an urge in your life,” Abby said. “I think you like power, in any form. I think you really like cutting people up, but you prefer they’re sweet little brunettes and you prefer them dead by your hands. I think there’s probably dozens of cardio patient
s you treated who fit that type who never got off your operating table and at least a half a dozen dead girls’ names and locations you’ve never turned over to the FBI.”
“I see we’re finally expressing ourselves,” he said. “I like this side of you, Abigail. This isn’t just a story for you, is it? You’re not just a journalist chasing down a lead. You’re dogged. Unhealthily obsessed, some might say. I was right before: This is personal. You knew Cassandra Martin.” His head tilted as he took her in for a second time, armed with this information. “That means you must be from around Castella Rock,” he said. “I thought I smelled the barn on you. Oh, farm girls.” He shook his head. “So stubborn. They need to be broken like horses. I never saw the point of exerting that much effort. I like my girls sweet and easy. That’s why I chose Cassie.”
Abby gritted her teeth against the retort she wanted to throw at him. She hated that he called her Cassie—God, no one ever called her that—and talked about her like he knew her. Like he was entitled to a nickname. Screw him. He wasn’t entitled to any part of her.
“Do you want to know what did it for me?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Those curls. Ringlets like a porcelain doll. The second I saw them, I just knew I had to get my hands wrapped around them.”
And there it was. Triumph soared through her as that horrible, gnawing gut feeling she’d had since she started this was finally confirmed.
Cass hadn’t worn her hair in curls since their freshman year of high school. She started straightening it every morning, a rebellious move against her mother, who had used to put her in those child beauty pageants and had loved her curls. And her hair certainly hadn’t been curly that night she was taken. Abby knew that personally.
No, the only time her hair had been curly that year was for her yearbook photos. She’d done it on the condition that her mother would pay for a professional photographer. Sometimes I’ve got to throw her a bone, Abby, she remembered Cass telling her.
“What are you doing?” Howard demanded, his eyes fixed on the now-closed notebook.
“We’re done here,” Abby said.
His gray eyebrows drew together. “You spent all this time trying to see me, and you’re leaving after two questions.”
“I don’t need you to answer any more questions,” Abby said. “You’ve told me everything I need to know.”
His frown deepened, his lips curling in distaste. This wasn’t going how he pictured it. He wasn’t in control anymore.
He didn’t understand he’d just made the mistake she’d been waiting for.
“You asked me what my angle was,” Abby said, staring him down, her eyes hard and piercing. “You really want to know?” She got to her feet, stepping forward, until she was just inches from the Plexiglas. She was so close she could see his quick, excited intake of breath at her proximity and the flutter of his nostrils as he breathed her in.
“You didn’t kill her,” Abby said. “You weren’t even there that night. I don’t think you even knew Cassandra Martin’s name until the sheriff busted down the door of your RV and brought you in for questioning.”
Howard Wells was a lot of things—a sociopath, a sadist, an unrepentant, gleeful murderer—but even he couldn’t control his body’s reactions. Abby watched with satisfaction as the blood drained out of the man’s face.
“I figured it out, Howard,” she said, her voice lowering. “You were playing a game. But you can’t play a game with just one person. You had a friend. Or as close to a friend as someone like you two can get. Someone who was like you. A kindred twisted spirit. What happened? Did you think you had a teammate when he was really an opponent?”
“Quiet,” he ground out. Sweat popped along his forehead, a bead trickling down his temple.
“He got the better of you,” Abby said. “Your little friend set you up. He was smarter than you and you were stupid enough to walk into his trap. Is that why you claimed Cass? Because he humiliated you by being more clever than you?”
He lunged for her, slamming his shoulder against the window.
Instead of flinching or shrinking away, Abby slapped her palm on the glass herself, standing tall and strong, lip curling. He didn’t startle, but his eyes widened at her reaction.
“I’m coming for your playmate, Wells,” she snarled. “Both of you are just predators, circling the flock. And you know what farm girls like me have been taught to do to predators?” She tilted her chin up, ever her father’s stubborn, solid girl, facing down a man who’d killed more people than she had fingers. “We shoot ’em dead.”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head at her words and he slammed his torso against the window, screaming, spittle and blood flying from his mouth, babbling threat after threat as the guard came racing inside.
“Ms. Winthrop!” he said, tugging at her arm. “You need to get out of here.”
But Abby stood where she was, just for one more moment, standing tall.
She had been right. Her knees felt shaky with relief as she let Stan steer her away.
This was far from over.
She was just getting started.
Chapter 4
By the time Harry was processed and in police custody, it was late. Paul loosened his tie, tugging it off as he sat down in his leather chair. His office was quiet—most of the floor had gone home by this time. A relatively silent night—if there really ever was one when you worked for the FBI.
His eyes felt gritty—he couldn’t remember the last time he slept. They’d gotten the call about Brandon two . . . was it three days ago? Haley Ellis was a senator’s chief of staff, and their team had been called in as a special favor.
He was just glad it had worked out as seamlessly as it did. Usually kidnapping cases—even in the cases of one parent kidnapping the child—ended badly. Especially after a certain amount of time had passed.
There was a light knock on the door, and a woman with long, dark hair peeked her head in.
He waved her in. “Hey, Grace.”
She set a cup of espresso on his desk with a smile.
He shot her a look. “I’m still not clearing you without a doctor’s note,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m trying to be nice. You did a really good job out there today.”
He took a gulp of the bracing drink, feeling better with each swallow. “I’m really relieved it worked out the way it did.”
“It worked out that way because of you,” Grace said. “I couldn’t have done any better.”
This time, he was rolling his eyes. He had the privilege of working with some incredibly gifted and strong women—something his childhood growing up with four sisters had certainly prepared him for.
Grace was the definition of brilliant: an accomplished psychologist and profiler—and a bestselling author on top of that. Her insight and intellect were extraordinary.
He wasn’t egotistical enough—or delusional enough—to think he was even close to her level when it came to brains. He was a damn good FBI agent—and he hoped an even better team leader. He strived to be a good man—in his life and his work. But he was straightforward; someone who looked at situations from as many angles as he could before making his decisions. He liked rules and the methodology of solving crimes, finding each piece and examining it with careful precision and putting each piece together to see the greater picture. It was often the slower way of catching criminals, but it served him—and the country he loved—well.
“Are you going home before your flight?” Grace asked.
Paul shook his head. He was flying back to California tomorrow—or, technically, it was today, he thought as he glanced at the clock on his desk. “I need to be at the airport in three hours. I’ll just finish up my paperwork here and then go. I’ve got my luggage in the car.”
“Are you excited to see your family?” she asked.
“It’s always good to go back home,” he said, and he knew she heard the noncommittal tone in his voice becaus
e even he could hear it.
He winced mentally. He tried hard not to be on edge around Grace. She was a truly loyal friend, an amazing FBI agent, and a vital addition to his team. But what made her so important to the team also gave her the ability to see through people like they were glass. She had an agreement with the team that she wouldn’t profile them . . . at least to their faces. But sometimes that extraordinary brain of hers just couldn’t stop turning and ferreting out truths.
He waited for her to say something about his confession to Harry. He wondered briefly if she had figured this out about him already—that he had an alcoholic father. It was likely, he thought with resigned humor. She’d probably respected his privacy too much to mention it.
Sometimes, he let himself wonder if she’d figured out the real truth. The one that had shaped him. That had put him on this path.
He didn’t share that with anyone. Not even Maggie, the woman he’d planned on marrying before her own past had torn them apart. He had loved Maggie, but he hadn’t been able to share the dark piece of his past that had formed his whole future—his whole self.
As his trip back home loomed closer, he had been thinking about it a lot lately. He’d been thinking about her. Cass. It was still hard to even think her name, let alone speak it, even though it had been fifteen years now.
“. . . need another?”
“What?” Paul jerked out of his reverie to find Grace’s eyebrows knit together as she stared at him with concern.
“An espresso. Do you need another?” she repeated. “Seems like you do. Are you sure you’re okay to drive to the airport? I can call you a car. Or drive you myself.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “I don’t need more coffee. I’m just thinking about going home. It’s been a few years.”
Grace’s face shifted from concern to sympathy. “Of course,” she said. “I understand. I’m sure your father’s memorial brings up a lot of stuff.”
He nodded. It was a half-truth. His father had been gone for five years now, and every year, the Harrison clan gathered on his birthday at the orchard house that had been in their family for generations, to pay tribute. He had missed the last two years because of cases—something his family understood—but he had heard the hopeful note in his mother’s voice when she’d called about this year. And he’d been determined to go, for her.