The thought passed as soon as Parker started telling her about the teenager, Corey Staples. The boy had sneaked out of his grandparents’ house in the middle of the night to meet a friend. He had cut across a public park and was climbing a fence when he heard a gunshot. Not the resounding report of a weapon fired in the open, but a muffled pop.
Corey hopped off the fence and jogged to the corner, looked up the street, and saw a car sitting about fifty yards away. There was movement inside. Corey ducked down behind a bush, knowing that something bad had happened. A moment later, a man got out of the passenger side. A large man. He wiped his face with his shirt and looked around. Then he turned and ran to another car parked further up the street, got in, and took off.
“Corey was scared,” Parker said. “He ran back home and spent the night worrying that someone might have seen him. The next morning, his grandparents were talking about the murder, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell them what he’d seen. He said he had nightmares every night after that. Kept seeing the man coming after him. Breaking into the house in the middle of the night and making Corey watch while he killed his grandparents.”
“Poor kid,” Rachel said, but she couldn’t stop herself from feeling resentful. If only the boy could have found the courage to tell his story at the time. She tried to imagine how different her life would be. How different everything would be. And she heard Lauren Bailey’s son screaming. The piercing cries, seared into her brain as she carried him away from his dying mother. “How did you find him?”
“A tip,” Parker said, “from one of the Wake County detectives who worked with you on the case. I originally interviewed him for the story back in March. He called me a couple of weeks ago and said he’d just been to Siler City. Apparently, when Corey got back from visiting his grandparents, he told a friend what he saw. That friend told his older brother, and he called it in. But when the detective showed up to investigate, Corey stonewalled him. He wanted to keep trying, but Corey’s mom wouldn’t have it.”
“And he thought you could get around that little roadblock?”
“Parental consent is more of a guideline in my business.”
“Lucky for you,” Ramirez said.
“And for me,” Rachel said.
Finally, there was an eyewitness. Someone to confirm her belief—her certainty—that Lauren Bailey had not killed Tyler Larson. She felt vindicated, but that feeling evaporated when she thought about Parker.
He was a victim now. Based on Parker’s description, the man who had kidnapped him was likely the same man who had killed Larson. The heroin overdose had been an attempt to make the story go away. A creative solution, perhaps less obvious, if not a lot cleaner, than another body with a gunshot wound to the head.
“So?” Parker asked. “What do you think?”
Rachel was staring at the floor. She looked up and said, “I think I should talk to Corey.”
“Shouldn’t we go see Detective Hughes first?”
“No. Not yet.” Rachel tried to think of a justification for not getting the locals involved, but the truth was that she wanted to talk to Corey herself. Hughes would try to shut her out, and there was no way she was going to let that happen. “This was my case. I know it better than anyone. I don’t think we should get him involved until I’m sure the kid’s being straight with us.”
“You think he could be making it up?” Ramirez asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.” She pointed at Parker. “If the boy’s lying, then he’s got to be lying about being kidnapped. Is that what you think?”
“Did I say that?” Rachel glared at her. “I don’t think for a second that Bryce would make any of this up. On the other hand, I would like to know if the kid is hiding anything. Maybe he saw more than he’s willing to admit. Or maybe he wasn’t alone. He was sneaking out to meet a friend, right? Maybe he’s not the only witness. Have you ever worked a homicide investigation, Officer Ramirez? Ever questioned a teenager who was an eyewitness to a murder?”
Parker said, “Okay, Rachel. We get it.”
Ramirez was red.
Rachel softened her tone and said, “All I’m trying to say is that teenagers lie. Even when they’re telling the truth. And I think I’m in the best position to get the whole story out of this kid before we hand him over to Hughes.”
“Makes sense to me,” Parker said. “Ashley, are you okay with that?”
“Fine,” Ramirez said. “But you’re not going alone. You may be the expert here, but this is my town.”
“I agree,” Rachel said. “It’ll be good for you to be there.”
Parker slid toward the edge of the sofa. “Perfect. It’s settled, then.”
“Not quite.” Rachel stood and walked to the door. “You’re staying put.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“She’s right,” Ramirez said, following her. “Stay here and rest. Watch TV. Make yourself something to eat. Whatever you want, except the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. That belongs to my girl.”
Parker looked wounded by the command but didn’t protest. He leaned back and said, “Corey’s ready to talk, but you’ve got to go through his dad first. His mom won’t let you anywhere near him.”
Rachel put her hand on the knob and turned it, then paused, looked back, and said, “Oh, and by the way, at some point we’re going to need to talk about Adam Hubbard.”
“Shit,” he said, looking like he might try to stand up. “I forgot to tell you about him.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Just rest up, and we’ll be back before you know it.”
She saw him nod and smile. She smiled back, and then the door slammed into her side, knocking her into Ramirez. She caught her balance and turned to see the motion of an arm swinging toward her head. There was a brief sensation … something resembling pain … and everything turned black.
* * *
Confusion. Commotion. Yelling.
Rachel tried to focus. Caught sight of Ramirez standing sideways with her hand at her hip. She was pulling at something. Then there was a deafening burst, followed by ringing.
Ramirez fell, the way a high rise falls during a controlled demolition, the whole thing dropping on top of itself, as if everything that had been holding it up was taken away in an instant. Knees, then hips, then limp arms crashing down. Her bloody face smacked the floor, and she lay perfectly still, like someone had simply turned her off by flipping a switch.
Rachel suddenly realized that she too was lying on the floor. She tried to sit up, her eyes searching wildly. She put her hand out to prop herself, but it slipped. She was back on her side, trying to hold her head up when she saw a pair of legs floating by her.
No, they were stepping over her.
She shook her head, desperate for clarity, searched again and found the legs moving away. They belonged to a man, or some exaggerated version of a man. Impossibly tall and powerfully built. The more of him that came into view, the more he seemed to smear at the edges. The hazy image of some monstrous figure.
A distressed voice called in the distance. Rachel tried to answer it, but her words were mush in her own ears. The ringing was slowly dying, and the voice started to sound more and more like Bryce Parker’s.
“Wait,” it yelled. “Just wait!”
A crack in her ear, and the ringing was back. Dizzy and disorienting. Her senses were useless. She tried to sit up again, knowing that she should be doing something. Fighting or fleeing or calling for help.
Survive.
It was her first clear thought, but it left her as soon as she saw the monster turn around. He was coming back for her.
FIFTEEN
Rachel moved, just an inch or two, and felt agony. It was her neck, twisted and kinked. She was sitting with her torso leaning forward, her head lying against something hard. She reached up to brace against it, pushed away, and slowly straightened herself.
It was a dashboard.
<
br /> Her dashboard.
She was in the passenger seat of her Camry, she realized.
She looked outside. The sky beyond the windshield was purple with a band of black clouds hiding the setting sun. Beneath, a line of trees marked the border of a dense forest that seemed to swallow the light from above.
She turned to look around and felt pain shoot through her neck. She rubbed it, and when it died down a dull throbbing above her ear took its place. She reached up and found a bump. A tender spot, crusted with dried blood that matted a lock of her hair.
Trying to spare her neck, she turned slowly in her seat to look behind her and felt something hard shift in her lap. It started to slide off her leg, and she reached down reflexively to catch it.
It was a pistol—a Glock 19.
She turned it in her hand to examine it and recognized a tiny scratch by the rear sight.
Her Glock 19.
There was the distinct smell of burnt powder. Her finger touched the indicator tab by the port and found that it was raised. That told her there was a round in the chamber. She ejected the magazine and checked the tiny holes on the back.
She counted twelve more rounds.
That meant two were missing. Two had been fired.
Memories flooded. A torrent of blurred images and indistinct sounds. She could hear Parker’s voice above it all, screaming.
Pleading.
Rachel stared at the gun, shaking in her hand, and started to understand what had happened. She dropped it in the driver seat and threw the door open and jumped out. Standing on a grassy rise, she looked around and found herself at the end of a dirt road. It curved into the distance, leaving her no hint of what lay beyond.
She started walking, just to get away. Just to get clear and think straight. Her hands rose to her head, shaking even more now and clenching fistfuls of her hair. Her eyes welled, and her breathing became convulsive. She was on the verge of sobbing.
Parker was dead.
Ramirez was dead.
And she had watched it all happen. She had been powerless to stop it. Made worthless by a single hit. All of her training … all of her experience … had counted for nothing.
The killer, whoever he was, had shot two people with Rachel’s gun. Then he’d dropped her off in the middle of nowhere, leaving the murder weapon in her lap. For any cop trying to solve the case, she would be the prime suspect.
Tears fell in streams. Her entire body trembled. She felt like she was losing control of herself. Fear and frustration and rage and sorrow … it was too much to contain. She could have exploded with the raw power of it all.
But there was no use in that. No utility in breaking down. Rachel had a choice to make—she could give up or she could fight. And she had always thought of herself as a fighter.
Useless phrases of encouragement sprouted in her mind. Things she had seen on TV or heard people say. Social media memes with motivational messages meant to coax someone through a difficult work week.
You got this.
Stay strong.
You can make excuses, or you can make it happen.
She could have laughed at how absurd they all sounded now, but she needed something to cling to. Just some thought or image to inspire a little strength.
Suddenly, she remembered her friend, Diane. A jiu-jitsu classmate who was always posting those inspirational memes on Facebook. She thought about how Diane had helped her in the early days of her training, when she’d had no idea what she was doing. There was this rotund white belt named Chauncey who would get on top of her. He’d smother her with his overwhelming mass, not letting her move. No matter how hard she fought, there was nothing she could do to defend herself. He was just too big and too heavy. Rachel would panic, start hyperventilating, and quickly tap out.
“You have to calm down,” Diane had said. “You’re flailing because you’re frustrated. You feel trapped. Claustrophobic. Nothing you try will work when your mind is all messed up like that. You have to accept that you’re in a bad spot, and that it’s going to suck. Slow down and work one thing at a time. And always start with your breathing.”
Eventually, Rachel had learned how to get away from Chauncey. Then she had learned to keep him from getting on top of her in the first place. The day she finally beat him was the last class he ever attended.
Start with your breathing.
Rachel closed her eyes and pulled in a long, slow breath, fighting the sobs that made her spasm. Another breath, and she saw herself on the mats, sliding and rolling and changing position, always searching for better leverage, ways to beat opponents who were superior in size and strength. Defying the odds.
You’re in a bad spot, and it sucks. Work one thing at a time.
Rachel reached for her back pocket and felt her phone there. Her first bit of good luck. She took it out and unlocked it, opened the Maps app, and tapped the location finder. Once the blue dot appeared, she pinched the screen to zoom out, then scrolled around until she found a landmark she recognized. She was just off a two-lane county road, about four miles from Ramirez’s house.
Thinking about the house brought back images of being inside, talking about the case. Getting up to leave and seeing Parker’s smile. Then the violence that followed.
She forced it away and thought for a moment, figured the smart thing would be to tell Dunn. She called him, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Mr. Dunn, this is Rachel. Something bad has happened … I think I need a lawyer. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
She hung up and stood quietly for a moment. A shock of fear ran through her. She was alone, facing an opponent that was too many steps ahead of her. She’d gone up against killers before—smart ones, devious and cunning and ruthless—but none of them had ever targeted her like this.
She needed to get away from here. To find someplace safe where she could think, get her head straight, and come up with a plan. And she needed someone she could trust.
Only one name came to her. Her thumb seemed to find his number and touch it on its own.
“Hey, Rachel. How’s it going?”
“Not good,” she said, relieved to hear his voice. “I know this is short notice, but I’m coming to see you.”
“You’re … wow. Okay. What’s going on?”
“I just…” Her voice cracked. She sniffed hard and took a beat to keep her breathing steady. “I need your help, Danny. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in four hours.”
SIXTEEN
There were cops all over the crime scene. Some stood in the yard, blank-faced from shock. Others kept circling near the front door, sticking their heads inside every so often to steal a quick look. A young hothead had punched the garage door and now paced the driveway, refusing to let anyone inspect his hand, which was puffy and red and most likely broken.
Hughes got out of his car and chased them off with a tirade of curses. He had to physically escort a couple of stragglers. Ramirez was their colleague. Their friend. A sister in their hallowed order. It was understandable that they had lost some of their professionalism. But Hughes had a duty to protect the scene. To preserve it for the tech, who was on the way.
If ever there was a time to take that duty seriously, it was now.
He stopped at the doorway and stared at Ramirez’s body. A short movie overtook his mind, playing without his permission. Ramirez was in a pair of shorts and a football jersey, her little girl standing on the tops of her feet, hugging her tan legs. Their faces were alight with joy. A young mother and her daughter. In that moment, they were all that existed in their world.
It took him a moment to place that memory—a barbecue fund raiser put on by the department. Two years ago. It might as well have been yesterday.
He took out his phone, opened the camera app, and took several photos. Then he crossed the threshold, scanning the floor to make sure he didn’t step on anything important. A shell casing, a drop of blood, a hair … all of it mattered in a homicide investigatio
n.
He approached Ramirez, knelt down beside her, and studied her face. Blood trailed from a small entry wound in her forehead, much of it already dry. Her eyes were half-open and her mouth was contorted, pulled tight by her cheek pressing against the hardwood floor.
It didn’t look like her, and he was grateful for that.
He took a couple of close-ups and then stood and turned away. He walked over to the reporter’s body and stared at it for a minute. Parker was on the floor on his back next to the sofa. He had a bloody bullet wound of his own beside his nose, just below the tear duct. Hughes captured it all on his phone.
“Oh, Jesus,” came a voice from the doorway.
Hughes turned to see the tech standing there, holding his kit. His eyes were fixed on Ramirez.
“Shake it off, Paul,” Hughes said. “I need you to focus.”
“Sorry, Chad.” He set his kit down and opened it, took out a pair of nitrile gloves, and pulled them on. “Julie’s outside looking for you. I think she might have found someone who saw something. You want me to start on the victims?”
“Yeah,” Hughes said, stepping around him. “Why don’t you work on the male first?”
“Okay.”
Outside, Hughes found Detective Julie Morrison in her unmarked, looking over her notes from the canvass.
“I talked to a woman,” she said, “three doors down, who says she saw a white sedan sitting in the driveway. She says she saw it there about fifteen or twenty minutes before she heard the gunfire.”
“White sedan,” he said, pinching his bottom lip.
“Yeah, like a Sonata or a Camry, maybe.”
Hughes glanced over at the house. “Any chance she saw the person who was driving it?”
“Nope. She said she was coming home from the grocery store and noticed it parked there behind Ashley’s car. But that’s it. She didn’t think anything of it. Then, a little later, she heard the shots but thought they came from somewhere else. She stayed inside while she called us.”
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