by Mary Burton
The sound of the graveled voice took her by surprise. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to sound like, but hearing his voice stirred another jolt of panic. “I drew an age progression of your high-school mug shot and sent it to Rick Morgan, Billy. Rick’s going to figure this out.”
“I’m not really worried.” For the first time he stepped from the shadows and stood at the door’s threshold. He was a tall, lean man, dressed in khakis and a white shirt. His face was pleasant and the slight smile tweaking the edge of his lips was almost charming.
“Why not?”
“No one gets off this planet alive,” he said. “We all have to die sometime. And the way I see it, all the killing ends tonight.”
She jerked at the bindings holding her arms. “What’s that mean?”
“Madness has been chasing me for years. He’s the one who brought you here. He’s the one who’s been screaming for your death for days. But I’m in control now.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Reason, the part of us that has kept us employed and out of jail.”
“You’re Reason?”
“And he’s Madness. I’m Jekyll and he’s Hyde.”
Her heart slowed as she processed what he was saying. “Did Madness kill those other women?”
“Yes. I didn’t want him to, but Madness threatened to ruin me if I didn’t let him out to play. He threatened to destroy our sister.”
“Sister?”
“Susan Martinez. You’ve met her.”
“She’s your sister?” Puzzle pieces scrambled into place. “You met my sister because of her.”
“Rather, she met your father because of me. Their shared troubles of two unruly teens pulled them together.”
Fear threatened to overwhelm her. “How did you get control now?”
He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. “He wasn’t paying attention after he tied you to the bed so I took these. They keep Madness calm.”
She moistened dry lips. “If you’re in charge now, you can let me go. I can be gone before Madness knows.”
“I want to, but I can’t. Madness will never give me peace until he has you. He’s sworn he’ll go back to sleep if I give you to him.”
Panic thrummed in her head. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t.”
He dragged long fingers through his hair. “I’m tired of being held hostage. Madness is tired of being denied. If you die today then all the chaos will end.”
“How will you control Madness after I’m gone?”
“I have a foolproof way.”
“What?”
He leaned forward and whispered, “I’m going to kill us all.”
A killer who wanted to die was much harder to negotiate with. She had everything to lose and he had nothing to lose. “Why did you and Madness kill Sara and my parents?”
“Ours was an old story. Romeo and Juliet. Young lovers who wanted to be together but denied by controlling parents. For a long time, she didn’t listen to her father and then, one day, she broke up with me . . . just like that. She tossed me aside. Said she needed to get on with her life.”
“That’s why you killed her?”
“The urge to kill her was strong. But I was afraid. I was young and didn’t know much. And I didn’t have the courage to pull the trigger. Madness came up with an idea.”
“Ronnie.”
“Poor, dumb Ronnie. Was more than happy to help.”
“You’re Billy?”
“Yes. His only friend. He couldn’t set the fire correctly and he couldn’t kill you. He was supposed to shoot you in your bed but he couldn’t. And so he took you.”
“It was you I heard in his apartment when I was locked in the closet. It was you who gave him the overdose.”
“It was Madness.” He moved toward the bed and sat on the edge. The mattress sagged under his weight as he laid a gentle hand on her leg, absently stroking the soft fabric of her jeans.
“I remember you opened the closet door.”
“But Ronnie hid you well. Madness didn’t see you. Madness is bold, but scattered. He feared the cops would show any moment. It was a matter of time before they tracked down the hiding place. We left, never realizing you were there.”
“Did your sister know?”
“She never asked. But she suspected. After the Thompsons died, she forced us into the hospital. She got Madness under control.”
Downstairs, she heard the slam of one car door and then another. Her heart jumped but she kept her gaze on him, hoping he didn’t hear it.
He smiled. “Looks like Rick might have figured it out. I knew he would. He’s clever.” From his pocket he pulled the box of matches and quickly lit one. He stared at her over the flame and then dropped it to the fuel-soaked carpet.
Jenna screamed. “Rick, I’m up here! Rick! He’s burning the house.”
Flames licked on the floor around the bed teasing the edges of the four-poster frame and then slinking up the wood toward the mattress.
Jenna twisted the cuffs as Billy moved to a corner and pressed his back to a wall. He lit another match and dropped it to him feet. Fire immediately exploded around him.
White smoke rose from the flames, quickly darkening to an inky gray. The smoke would kill her before the flames. Rick might find her, but he’d never get her free of the bed in time.
Gun drawn, Rick raced up the stairs to the sound of screams and Bishop’s footsteps behind him. Halfway up the stairs ink-black smoke rolled down to greet them. This killer’s fires moved fast and Rick knew he had seconds to find Jenna.
He entered the back bedroom. The room was ablaze. Through the smoke and flames he saw Jenna handcuffed to the bed. She was screaming.
In the corner stood William, flames licking up his body as he raised a gun to his head. “You’re too late to save her. Now you get to see the flames eat at her before they drive you from the room.”
William pulled the trigger and the bullet cut through his skull, killing him instantly.
Rick coughed, pushed through the smoke and the heat of the flames. He saw that Jenna’s hands were handcuffed to the bed. Shit. He reached for the handcuff key on his belt and tried them in the lock. The lock was jammed.
She looked up at him and then to the flames slithering up the comforter. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Get him out of here!” she yelled to his partner.
“Fuck that.” Bishop grabbed a chair and hammered it against the post at the end of the bed. The post, weakened by fire, snapped. He wrestled free the wood, loosening it from the cuffs.
Now the hands.
In the black smoke taking a deep breath was impossible and only seconds remained before the fire took them all.
Rick got up on the bed and positioned himself by Jenna. As flames seared up the bed, he kicked his booted feet hard into the bedpost, missing her hand by inches. The wood bowed but didn’t give. He kicked hard, shoving all his anger and frustration behind the kick. The wood cracked. Another kick. And another. The bedpost broke.
Jenna coughed, rolling to her side as Rick kicked the second post. A dead-on strike splintered it. Rick and Bishop picked her up, one at the head and the other at the feet, and raced out of the room as the flames jumped onto the bed. Dark, billowing smoke rose up the walls, traveling to the ceiling, creating a dark hollow as it sucked the last of the oxygen out of the room.
Outside, the wail of sirens pierced her shock as she sucked in fresh air. She was aware of Rick removing the restraints from her ankles. His touch was gentle. Steady.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. In his eyes she saw a mixture of relief, love, and longing.
“Jenna,” he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke.
“I’m okay.” She managed a smile, tried to sit up, but when her head spun, she collapsed back against the cool grass.
“The medics will be here soon.”
“Okay.”
�
�You scared the hell out of me.” He brushed the hair from her eyes with calloused fingertips.
It wasn’t like her to lean on anyone or depend on anyone. But for this one moment, just this one moment, she allowed a smile as she squeezed his hand. He cupped both her hands in his. She couldn’t see beyond now, but she could admit she liked having this guy around.
Epilogue
Seven weeks later
Amazed that her entire life fit in the back of a fifteen-foot rental truck, Jenna followed the exit-ramp signs on I-40 toward the small farm north of Nashville. With her Jeep hitched to the back she’d made the seven-hundred-mile trip in thirteen hours, opting to stop only for gas and a sub sandwich she ate on the road.
And as the sun hung low on the horizon she took a series of now familiar exits until she wound off the main road up into the Tennessee rolling hillside.
The last six weeks had been a whirlwind. The fire. Her being treated in the hospital for burns on her legs and feet. Rick wanting to stay at her side but being forced away by doctors who treated the burns on his hands.
After she’d been discharged from the hospital, Rick had been waiting, taking her back to the Big House as if he’d been doing it for a lifetime. They’d spent the next three weeks together but in the end, the pull of Baltimore and unfinished business grew too strong. She’d kissed him and promised to return. He’d stood stone-faced. He’d kissed her but had not asked her to stay. He’d let her go.
She gripped the wheel of the rental truck, wondering if he wanted her now. They’d never talked about the future, which had been her choice. And they’d not spoken in the last month.
Jenna blew out a breath. “It’s been a month since you saw him. So much can change.”
It had taken time to resign from the Force and sublet her apartment. There had been a few parties in her honor and Mike had done his best to get her to stay. But through it all, her thoughts returned to the place of her birth. Yes, it was marred with violence and loss but it had something Baltimore never would have. Hope.
She pulled in the driveway. “I should have called. It’s not smart to surprise people.” She hated being surprised.
And still she drove down the graveled length until she saw the white house, backed by rolling hills.
There was a construction dumpster outside. Rick. He’d talked about more projects when they’d been here but hadn’t seemed the least bit motivated to tackle one.
She parked and got out of the truck. A dog barked in the distance. Tracker. If Tracker was running around barking, it meant Rick was close. She smoothed damp palms over her jeans.
As she moved up the front steps, her stomach knotted. Never in her life had she put herself out there like she was now. She rang the bell. And waited.
William Spires, Billy, had been Susan Martinez’s younger brother. The families had intersected when Billy and Sara had met at school. The judge and Susan had begun an affair and lost track of Billy’s growing mental instability.
Before she’d left town, she’d met with Susan Martinez and challenged her about William. Susan had denied all knowledge of her family’s murder. She’d known her brother was ill but had no idea that he could be linked to the killings. Susan had hospitalized her brother but had argued he’d been suffering with depression for years and she’d only been responding to his dark moods. As much as Jenna wanted to see Susan punished in some way, there was no proof, other than a madman’s ranting, that she’d known he was a killer. In the end, no charges had been filed and the reporter had gotten her blockbuster story, which she’d sold to Channel Five’s competition.
William had worked successfully in real estate for the last twenty years. He’d made a good fortune and was considered a success. What most didn’t realize was that he’d made large bets in the last year on a couple of properties that had gone sour. He’d lost a fortune. Had it been the pending anniversary of her family’s death that sent him on a downward spiral, the loss of his money, or both?
In a back bedroom of William’s small house, Rick had found scrapbook after scrapbook of old articles featuring little Jennifer Thompson, the kidnapping, and her vanishing from Nashville all those years ago. There’d also been many pictures of Sara. And Diane, Nancy, and Pamela, who looked much like Sara might have if she’d lived. Clearly, seeing them all had triggered something in William.
There were also files on Tuttle, Wheeler, Mitchell, and Dupree. He’d chosen disaffected men, who’d been easy to manipulate.
Jenna glanced at the closed door in front of her. She raised her fist and knocked hard. She’d made it this far. She’d at least see Rick face-to-face. At first, there was no answer. She knocked again.
Tense seconds passed. And when she thought she couldn’t wait another second before trying the door, she heard the thud of footsteps in the front hallway. The door snapped open.
Rick stood there, his face tight with annoyance, his T-shirt and jeans covered in a white powder. His gaze settled on her and, for a beat, he said nothing. Tracker’s bark echoed in the house and he appeared at Rick’s side. The dog barked at Jenna, wagged his tail, and moved toward her. She knelt down and scratched the dog between the ears.
Her stomach churned as she looked up at Rick. “Hoping you can help me find a place to live. I gave up my apartment in Baltimore.”
Rick stood silent.
So he was going to make her work for this. Fair enough. She stood. “I’m moving to Nashville. Going to put down some roots. Maybe I can even land a job as a sketch artist. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m pretty good.”
He arched a brow. He wanted more.
“I missed you.” God, she hated baring her soul. “This is the one place I’m whole. You’re the one person that seems to get to me.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It is. And it isn’t. But I know I don’t want to spend any more time without you.” She smoothed her hands on her jeans, her bravado waning. “That’s if you still want me.”
Finally, a slow smile curled the edges of his lips and he took a step toward her and pulled her into his embrace. For a long moment, they just stood there holding each other. “What the hell took you so long?” he breathed into her hair.
“I’m slow. But I do figure things out eventually.”
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Mary Burton’s next romantic-suspense thriller,
I’LL NEVER LET YOU GO,
coming in November 2015!
January 25, Midnight
Four Years Ago
Nashville, Tennessee
Leah never slept deeply. Her brain, always on alert, skimmed just below consciousness, waiting for him to return. Not a matter of if he’d strike. A matter of when.
When floorboards creaked and a cold wind whispered in the shifting shadows of her first-floor apartment, Leah bolted up in bed. Gripping the sheets, heart slamming, she reached for her phone on the nightstand and waited, her thumb poised over the emergency 9-1-1 speed dial. Seconds passed. Was this another false alarm? Another nightmare? Or had her estranged husband finally come to kill her as he’d promised?
Adrenaline surged and rushed through sinew and bone, pricking the underside of her skin as she listened and waited.
The temptation to call the cops pulled, beckoned, screamed. But she’d cried wolf too often. Too many false alarms had been sounded. The last annoyed officer, his voice rough with frustration, had told her to count to ten before she dialed again.
“One. Two. Three.” Her breathing quick and shallow, she listened, expecting footsteps, but hearing only silence and the thud, thud, thud of her heart.
God, she was so tired. She needed sleep. Freedom. Peace. She needed her life back.
During the day, Philip was always there, standing and watching. He sent her flowers. Called her cell at all hours. Left scrawled messages under her windshield wipers. You can’t escape. I own you. Months of his relentless pursuit had stretched frayed nerves to br
eaking. During the day she jumped at every creak, bump, and footfall and at night, terrors jerked her from sleep, leaving her fully awake, tension fisting in her chest and shallow breathing chasing a racing heart.
Holding her breath, she listened as she stared at her locked bedroom door. Again, she heard nothing save for the hum of the heater.
“Four. Five. Six.”
She scrambled for a logical reason to explain this latest scare. It was Tuesday. That meant her roommate, Greta, was working the late shift at the bar. Greta closed on Tuesdays. How many times had Leah awoken, screaming on a Tuesday night when Greta had returned home late? Poor normal Greta, grad student and bartender, now moved slowly and quietly on Tuesday nights, fearful that innocent moves would send her roommate into hysterics.
Leah glanced at the clock. Midnight. Too early for Greta. She listened, heartbeat still racing. No more sounds. Had this been another dream? Another false alarm? Yes. Maybe. “Seven. Eight. Nine.”
Slowly, she lowered back down to her pillow, clutching the phone to her chest, eyes wide open, staring at the swath of shadows slicing across the ceiling. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The day she’d finally fled her marriage had begun as it always did. Fights, a barrage of questions, her promising to come home as soon as she got off work. But that morning, she’d been at her desk when a coworker had asked her about the bruise on her arm. She’d lied, of course, but this time, the words hadn’t tumbled freely, but had soured on her tongue. Sickened, she’d asked for the afternoon off. No matter how much she’d hoped, his contrition always faded and his temper flared, quick and hot, scorching I’m sorry to ash.
She had no plan when she’d returned to their apartment and begun cramming clothes into three green trash bags. Take what you need. The basics. The words had hummed in her head as her hands trembled.
When she’d twisted off her wedding band and laid it on the kitchen counter, it was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon, just thirty minutes before his shift ended. She’d dragged the bags into the hallway and when the apartment door slammed behind her, she’d actually felt free. It’s over. It’s over.