by Lisa Jackson
“You,” she’d finally said, nearly spitting as her roommate’s television blared from behind a striped curtain that rattled on metal hooks whenever an attendant whipped into the room and pushed the drapery aside to check on the residents. “You’re the bad one.”
“No, Mother.” He had shaken his head as he looked down at her, shriveled into half the woman he remembered. “I’m good. Your boy. Remember? I only do what’s right.”
Her eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “Are you my husband?” she’d asked.
“No, I’m not him.”
“Well, that’s what he said, too. That he did what was right. Oh, sure. Lyin’, cheatin’ son of a bitch.”
“I’m not my father. I’m your son.”
Her laugh had been a brittle, cold wind escaping in a hack from her lungs. “Son?” Her thin nostrils had flared, her pale face infusing with the color of the ribbon tying her hair. “I have no son.” With that, she’d turned away, closing her eyes and refusing to speak or look at him again. The ribbon had loosened over her wisp of graying hair, resembling a twisting rivulet of blood upon the institutional beige of her pillow.
He’d left her then. Never returned. Didn’t attend her damned funeral. For if she had no son, then he had no mother.
Now, in this basement with its bluish light, the girl looking nearly catatonic, her hands clutched together as if in prayer, he opened the can of Ensure, slid in a straw, and carried it to her. Eyes round and staring straight ahead, she shivered against the cracked cement wall, huddled close to the corner.
“Drink,” he ordered when she turned her big eyes up to him. They shined in the half-light, shimmering with tears.
She was scared shitless.
Excellent.
When she didn’t reach for the can, he placed it on the floor close enough that she could grab it, and he noticed something else about her, a kind of zombie-like expression. Shit, she was a basket case.
“Suit yourself.” He turned back to his table, carefully returning his tools, the ribbon, and the folded clothes, relegating each to its assigned spots.
Once he’d restored some order, he felt a little less tense.
He thought about Zoe, how he intended to track her down at dawn’s first light. The dog hadn’t had any luck on this side of the river, so he would canoe over to the far bank and start over again. His bloodhound was a tracker. Old Red would find Zoe if she was anywhere in the area, and he’d wager that if she was still alive, she hadn’t gotten far.
He would find her. Come the morning. That was what would happen, and he wouldn’t even consider that he might not catch her. If the day lengthened into darkness, he’d use his night goggles. She wouldn’t get away.
Hadn’t he promised Myra that he would fix things?
He couldn’t fail.
CHAPTER 16
Why not trust Jase? Brianna asked herself as she showered in her bathroom.
He was a reporter, and that could work in their favor. Let him write his story, spread the word, maybe get coverage on television and radio as well, get people looking for Selma’s daughters. Why wait for the damned police to take her seriously?
Her thoughts played out as she scrubbed, washing her hair and body, rinsing off the long hours, sweat, and frustration of the day in her claw-footed tub that had been retrofitted with a shower kit.
After all, Jase Bridges had resources. What did it matter if she’d had a stupid schoolgirl crush on him half a lifetime ago? And just because as a kid he’d been only half a step out of juvie way back when didn’t mean he couldn’t be trusted now. In fact, it might help that he had some street smarts. He’d already started gathering facts on the story. She realized he might be trying to get close to her only to get a leg up on the case. And maybe he was motivated more by the lust for a story to boost his career rather than any real empathy for Selma and her daughters. So what?
And hadn’t Brianna witnessed flashes of compassion in his eyes when they’d discussed the situation? She rotated under the spray, letting the lather and warm water slide off her body. She wondered what it would be like to have Jase here in the shower with her, his hands sliding over her slick skin, his lips trailing along the length of her neck, his legs pressed against hers....
“Oh, for the love of God!” Angrily she twisted off the spray, reached past the curtain, and pulled her towel from a decorative hook. What the hell was she doing, thinking about a steamy sexual encounter, a fantasy? Now? With all that was going on? But wasn’t that always the way it was in times of stress, she thought, drying first her body, then her hair. People sought physical and emotional release, whether it be running the city streets, swimming miles, maniacally cleaning house, or, yes, having wild, passionate, stress-relieving sex.
Not that she would know personally.
Lately her love life had been nil.
Angry with herself, she threw back the curtain to find St. Ives seated on the small counter next to the sink. His tail was flicking dangerously close to her can of hair spray and her toothbrush holder. “Pervert,” she accused as he stared at her, and she wrapped the towel around her torso. “What’re you looking at?”
He stared at her with unblinking eyes.
“Down!”
Ignoring her, he set about washing himself.
“Fine. Suit yourself,” she said, but petted his head.
He paid no attention.
Using a washcloth, she tried to wipe away the condensation that had collected on her mirror. When that didn’t work, she opened the window over the tub. As she did, she peered outside to the darkness and told herself there was no one lurking outside. She forced herself to remain calm, just as she had earlier on her drive home when she’d thought for a few anxious minutes that someone was following her.
Of course the delivery truck had turned off.
“Silly,” she said as she padded to the bedroom. Discovering her robe at the foot of her unmade bed, she let the towel fall to the floor and shrugged into the soft terry wrap. Back in the bathroom she stood in front of the mirror and tried to untangle her wet hair. As usual, her curls fought her, but when the mirror slowly defogged, she was able to drag her comb through her wet hair.
Again, she thought of Jase. Of course. Despite all her worries about the Denning girls, his image had chased her home. She’d replayed their conversation and tried to convince herself that her only interest in him was as a partner, someone who would help her find Selma’s daughters. She wouldn’t even go as far as saying she thought of him as a “friend,” because she didn’t really know him. She hadn’t befriended him when she was in her teens, and now she knew little about him aside from what he’d divulged.
Who knew how much of that information was true and how much was, if not fiction, an edited version of his life, a whitewashed story molded to gain her trust?
And that was a big part of the problem.
Her inability to trust.
Although she hated to blame every bad emotion that slipped through her on the loss of her twin, losing Arianna had helped erode her ability to have faith in others. But it was time she stopped using her sister’s death as a crutch. She had to own up to her wariness and deal with her feelings and problems. “It’s simple as that,” she said to St. Ives. She flipped on the hair dryer and he took off like a shot, jumping off the counter and streaking into the bedroom.
“Chicken!” she called over the roar of the dryer. God, she loved that cat. Sometimes she thought she should adopt a dog, one that would bark wildly if anyone came near the house and stay by her side when she went out for a run, but St. Ives would never stand for it.
Once her hair was dry and semi-manageable again, she turned off the dryer and put it away only to find the cat back in the doorway. “Yeah, a whole lot of protection you are,” she said, and scooped him up, holding him close, listening to him purr. She’d adopted him as a kitten after the loss of the tuxedo tom she’d had since high school, a pet she’d shared with Arianna. When Jeeves had died at twe
nty, Brianna had doubted any animal would ever fill the void in her heart. But months later, she’d visited the local animal shelter and found the love of her life in a saucy little orange kitten. “Must’ve been the way you bit my hand when I picked you up,” she said, reflecting on the day she’d brought him home.
Funny how she could commit to a fluffy little animal when she’d failed at every serious relationship with a man, even Max Strahan, the one man she’d thought she might marry. Max, too, had lost a twin. She’d met him at a meeting; they’d hit it off and since he wasn’t her client, she’d agreed to date him. After a few months, when he’d proposed, she’d been surprised and flattered. Although she’d had a few doubts, she’d thrown caution to the wind and accepted. A mistake. After wearing the diamond for a week, she realized that the engagement didn’t feel right; she sensed that their relationship was based on mutual needs and mutual losses, and they were trying to fill a void with each other, rather than truly being in love.
When she’d explained as much to Max, he’d not been heartbroken as she’d expected, but furious. He’d accused her of “leading him on” and “playing with his heart.” Worse yet, red-faced, the veins throbbing in his neck, he’d taken the ring she’d returned and sworn he was going to throw it in the river.
Whether he did or not, she never knew.
From that day forward Max had not attended any of the group meetings—a relief—though for a few months after the breakup she had felt her insides churn before each session. Just the thought that he might appear had made her suffer from a cold sweat. What would she say to him? How awkward would it be? But thankfully, he’d never shown his face again. If he’d contacted any of the other members of the group, they’d kept it to themselves, though, of course, Tanisha wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret.
It seemed as if he’d moved on.
“You’re my guy now,” she said to the cat, and buried her nose in his soft fur. His head was lolling beside the base of her neck, his purring vibrating against her skin. She smiled to herself just as she felt him stiffen, his gentle little motor stopping suddenly.
“What?”
Agilely flipping in her arms, his claws digging into her robe, he stared over her shoulder.
“Hey, what’s the—”
“Sssss!” he hissed, showing his teeth, his eyes focused behind her on the bathroom window. She glanced in the mirror. In the reflection she saw her own worried face and the cat’s tense body. And something else. Movement? Oh, God. A face in the window beyond the screen?
For a second she froze, her eyes meeting another’s in the glass. Then she whirled around. St. Ives’s claws dug deeper. He launched himself to the floor and scrambled into the hallway.
She hit the light switch.
The bathroom went dark, the only slice of illumination through the open doorway from a lamp in the living area.
Pulse pounding in her throat, Brianna stared at the window.
She saw nothing in the shifting darkness.
The window was a black box.
Empty.
No menacing face appeared.
No eyes reflected the tiniest gleam of incandescence.
All your imagination.
Then what about the cat?
What had caused his reaction?
Even now, from the safety and shadows of the hallway, he was growling low in his throat, a warning.
Yet she saw no one. Nothing.
Just your imagination, brought on by St. Ives’s paranoia. He’s a cat. He might have sensed a raccoon scouring the garbage cans. Or a bat flying close to the window. Or nothing.
She let out her breath, half-convinced she was imagining things. It wasn’t as if the cat wasn’t skittish.
Her nerves still on edge, she closed the window and snapped the blinds shut. Then she walked through each room in the house, double-checking that every window was latched, every blind or curtain closed, every door locked and dead-bolted.
You’re acting like a crazy person.
“Too bad,” she said to herself, and quickly donned pajamas. After drinking a glass of water, she made a pot of herbal tea, then settled into bed with a cup of chamomile and her laptop.
Her jangled nerves finally calmed and she convinced herself that she had not met the gaze of some pervert in her open bathroom window.
Logging into her e-mail, Brianna found that Selma had sent her the information she’d requested. There was a list of people Selma had called or contacted, along with their responses. There were profiles of the girls that included cell phone and credit card numbers, previous addresses, places of employment, volunteer history, and social media accounts. She’d included some contacts she hadn’t reached, as well as past boyfriends and a handful of people either girl hadn’t gotten along with. Extended family members were included. The information was much more complete than the sketchy data she’d left with the police departments earlier.
It was a start.
And, from the looks of it, Selma had e-mailed the police departments directly, which was good. She was starting to be more proactive.
Brianna thought about sending the info to Jase, but stopped herself. She’d have to weed through it first, and she still wasn’t sure about Jase. But with time running out, she knew she had to do something, and soon. She caught sight of the most recent photo of Zoe and Chloe, both girls all dressed up, their smiles huge, each with an arm around the other, the lights of Bourbon Street visible behind them. Their last picture. So far, she corrected herself. There would be future photo ops. There had to be.
But her mind wandered to morbid images of those who had died at the hands of the 21 Killer.
Her throat grew thick. “Where are you?” she wondered aloud and bit her lip. Two beautiful girls out on the town, feeling safe with each other, their lives stretching out in front of them.
Were they alive? Just unable to communicate for some reason?
Or had they come to some horrid fate, possibly at the hands of the 21 Killer?
She glanced at the clock and felt a chill run through her.
With each passing hour, she knew the chances of finding them alive slowly dwindled.
Chloe could barely breathe.
Wincing against the smell of dirt and foul water, she watched as he went through the musty basement, straightening, sweeping, and then neatly refolding their clothes, as if he were in the military and getting ready for an inspection. Dresses were first, then underpants, her red thong and Zoe’s black one, which he held up to the light, then actually brought to his nose and sniffed.
Ick! She shivered, watching him.
He wasn’t as calm as he had been before Zoe attacked him. No, he was more agitated and antsy; whatever was left of his serenity was forced. A tic had developed under his eye, and a muscle clenched and relaxed in his jaw. She hoped his agitation meant that he hadn’t found Zoe.
He was naked again except for his apron, and she didn’t want to think about what the undressing was all about. But from the way he had barely acknowledged her, she knew he wouldn’t let her survive. No way. Not after she’d seen his face. The same went for Zoe. They would be able to give the police a very detailed description of him, from the nose that appeared to have been broken at least once, to his tall, muscular build, and the weird tattoo of a mountain and a bleeding heart on one shoulder. He also had a mole on the cheek of his right buttock. She had memorized these features, vowing to remember every detail of the dickwad’s face and body, just in case she ever got the chance to identify him for the police.
Oh, God, would that ever happen?
Much as she hated to admit it, he was an okay-looking dude. Although she considered him repulsive as hell, some might find him attractive. Fit and strong and cold as ice.
It was his eyes that really changed his appearance. Deep-set beneath heavy brows, they were flat and nearly colorless. Like a reptile’s eyes.
Now, of course, he had some scratches on his throat, compliments of Zoe.
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nbsp; He wasn’t quiet, but at least he no longer sang the birthday song, a tune she used to love and now would hate for the rest of her life—however long that was going to be. He kept rambling about someone named Myra. His wife? Girlfriend? Who would be involved with such an effin’ freak? Whoever this Myra person was, she really pissed him off. His muttering was so disjointed that Chloe suspected he didn’t even know he was talking.
The lunatic was just weird, weird, weird.
Even more so, as he snapped up the phone and said, “Yeah?” as if he’d heard it ring when she hadn’t heard anything, not even the telltale rattle of a phone on mute humming across the table. What the hell? God, maybe the guy was psychic as well as psychotic or maybe he was just plain nuts. “I know,” he said, sounding almost disgusted. “I just need a little more time . . . I already told you. I’ll get her.”
Chloe strained to hear, but the other end of the conversation was muted as the phone was pressed tightly to his ear. She couldn’t catch even the tiniest sound to indicate what the person on the other end of the phone sounded like.
“Myra, give it a rest. Will you? Have a little faith.”
Myra. The only one who ever communicated with him.
Again he paused and this time when he hung up, he tossed the phone aside and muttered, “Bitch!” Geez, the guy was off the rails, worse than she’d first thought.
She swallowed back her fear. She was certain she had to be doubly careful because, now that his sick twin birthday was off, there wasn’t anything preventing him from killing her on the spot. Right? With their birthdays over, would he wait for Zoe? Who knew? He was such a freak, anything might set him off. She decided not to provoke him. Not to utter a single word that might make him go ballistic. Better to lull him into thinking she was a complete rag doll and wimp.
Then, she would attack.
With her pathetic shard of glass.