Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  “I wish I could believe that,” Anna whispered. “I want to. It sure beats the alternative.”

  “Yeah, it does.” He reached up and trailed a thumb lightly across her cheekbone. “I’ll be in touch. Sleep well, Anna.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Saturday, January 20

  The deep of the night

  Jaye awakened to the sound of weeping. The sound echoed through the stillness, hollow and hopeless. The weeping of a lost soul. Another, just like herself.

  The girl who had come to the door.

  Jaye climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood, aching for the other girl. Hurting for her. Understanding.

  Jaye was certain that the other girl was also a prisoner. She wondered if their captor ever allowed the girl outside. If she ever had the opportunity to play in the park or go to a movie. She wondered if she had been snatched from the street, as Jaye had been.

  How long had she been with this monster? Months? Years?

  Sorrow rose up in Jaye. For herself. For the other lost soul. She brought her hands to the door, pressing her palms against its rigid surface. “Hello,” she called out softly, then louder. “It’s me. Upstairs. Stop crying, come talk to me.”

  The weeping ceased. Silence ensued. Moments ticked past. Jaye called out again. “Come upstairs. I’ll talk to you. We’ll have each other. We can be friends.”

  Jaye waited. Seconds became what seemed like hours. Still Jaye waited. And prayed, heart thundering against the wall of her chest. Finally, she tried again. “Please,” she called. “Please come and talk to me.”

  Somewhere in the house a door slammed, final and deafening. Jaye closed her eyes and sagged against the door. The other girl wasn’t going to come. A whimper slipped past Jaye’s lips; hopelessness choked her.

  Alone. She was still alone.

  Sudden laughter shattered the quiet. The sound broke through her thoughts and loosened the monster’s grip on her. She wasn’t going to give up the way the other girl had. She would never stop trying to escape, would never stop trying to beat him.

  The laughter came again. The laughter of a group on the sidewalk below.

  Below her window. A group of people who could help her.

  If she could get their attention.

  Jaye scrambled to the window and threw herself against the boards. She pounded on them like a mad-woman, screaming and clawing at them. The cuts on the tips of her fingers opened and began to bleed.

  The blood ran down her fingers, sticky and wet. Sobbing, Jaye yanked a piece of peeling wallpaper from the wall and wiped the blood on it. It mixed with her tears, streaking across the faded floral design, creating a web of spidery-looking lines. Like the handwriting of an old woman.

  Handwriting. Of course.

  She stared at the lines. Her tears dried. Her hands began to shake. She moved her gaze over the wall, looking for an area of loose paper.

  She found one and carefully peeled it away. The paper, fragile with age, crumbled. Undaunted, she tried again. Then again, working the paper at the edges, slowly pulling it up and away from the wall.

  She ended up with an irregular-shaped piece, slightly smaller than a sheaf of notebook paper. Her wounds had already begun to close, and she squeezed the tip of her right index finger, reopening it. She forced the blood to form a bead, then using the blood, began writing a message on the scrap of wallpaper. Minutes passed. When the first finger began to throb painfully, she switched to another. She repeated the process until she had scrawled:

  Help me. I’m a prisoner. J. Arcenaux.

  The building was old. The fit of window to frame poor. Maybe, just maybe, she could poke the paper through the slim opening between window and frame.

  But first she had to worm her hand through a space between two boards. She managed to do it, though the position was agony; the process slow. Her hand and fingers cramped and sweat beaded her upper lip and the small of her back. She inched the paper forward until it fell away from her, away from the window.

  Only then did Jaye realize she was crying. Silent tears of hope. And hopelessness.

  She freed her hand and sank to the floor. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead against them. And prayed. That someone would find the note and take it to the NOPD. That the police would mount a search for her and she would be rescued.

  It had to happen that way. It had to.

  CHAPTER 26

  Sunday, January 21

  The French Quarter

  Anna awakened with a hangover. Not an alcohol-induced hangover—though she had drunk more than her usual quota—but an emotional one. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to climb out of bed and face the day. Her head and foot throbbed, her eyes felt scratchy and raw, her mood heavy.

  She closed her eyes and reviewed the events of the previous night: Her behavior at the bar; what Quentin had said about those other women; how her terror had grown with each step on her way toward home.

  What had happened last night? she wondered. Had she really been followed from the bar? Or had her imagination taken control of her brain and run away with her?

  She wanted to believe the latter. But couldn’t. She wasn’t prone to hysteria—to have been scared was one thing, to have grown hysterical with fear was another.

  The footsteps had stopped and started with hers. If it had been Malone behind her, they wouldn’t have—they would have continued.

  She grimaced. Unless, of course, she had imagined that, too. She had been under a lot of pressure, stressed out by current events. Malone had planted the seed of fear inside her, it had taken root and become like Mississippi kudzu—growing out of control, gobbling up everything in its path…especially her good sense.

  Anna climbed out of bed anyway, the need for coffee stronger than her need to hide under the covers an hour or two more. She winced as she put her weight on her foot, but limped toward the kitchen anyway. St. Louis Cathedral held its last mass at eleven. That gave her plenty of time for coffee, the Times-Picayune and a long leisurely shower.

  After starting the coffee, she headed downstairs to retrieve the newspaper.

  And found Ben on her front steps, preparing to ring her apartment. He cradled several La Madeline bags in his left arm while balancing a beverage tray in the other.

  He thought he could stand her up at night and get back into her good graces in the morning? Fat chance. “Ben,” she said, tone cool. “What brings you here this morning?”

  He turned and looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t ring yet, how did you know I was here?”

  She brushed by him, bent and retrieved her paper. He understood and flushed.

  “I brought cheese and fresh-baked French bread. You haven’t eaten, have you?” She didn’t reply and he waggled the beverage tray. “Cappuccinos, too. Can I come in?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t feel very social this morning.”

  “You’re angry with me. About last night.”

  Anna looked him in the eyes. “It seems to me, Ben, that if you’d wanted to spend time with me, you would have made it to Tipitina’s last night. I’m feeling like this morning is too late.”

  He looked crestfallen. “I wanted to make it. A patient had an emergency…by the time I was free, I figured I’d be pretty crappy company. I didn’t want to subject you and your friends to that.” He hesitated a moment. “I’m really sorry, Anna. I did want to be with you.”

  He had big, brown puppy-dog eyes and was looking at her as if she’d just put him out in the cold. She let out her breath in a huff and stepped away from the door. “Oh, all right. But I’m really pissed off.”

  Obviously seeing right through her, he grinned and stepped into the building’s foyer. He moved his gaze over the space, no doubt taking in the ceiling medallion, crown molding, chair rails and high ceilings. “I love these old places. They have so much character.”

  “I agree. Come on. I need to get off my foot.”

  He low
ered his gaze, saw the bandages, then made a sound of concern. “What happened?”

  As they walked up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, she told him. When she had finished, he touched her hand. “I should have been there. This wouldn’t have happened.”

  But then she wouldn’t have spent time with Malone.

  She had left her apartment door ajar and they entered. “It wasn’t your fault, Ben. Kitchen’s this way.”

  A couple of moments later, she tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table. “Have a seat. I’ll get some plates and napkins.”

  The bags crackled as Ben opened them. “I got Brie, Gouda and herbed cream cheese. I didn’t know what you liked best.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at his obvious attempt at bribery. “You mean, you didn’t know just how much trouble you were in?”

  He grinned. “Am I that transpar—Anna, did you see this? In the paper?”

  She crossed to the table. He spun the paper so she could read the front page. Her eyes went straight to the headline he meant, lower right.

  Woman attacked in the French Quarter.

  “Oh my God.” She sank onto one of the chairs. “This happened last night?”

  “Yes.” He flipped the paper back around. “She was on her way home from waitressing at the Cat’s Meow. He attacked her from behind.”

  Anna brought a hand to her mouth. “What else does it say?”

  He skimmed the article. “She didn’t get a look at him. Something frightened him off, but she’s not sure what. What time were you followed?”

  She thought a minute. “After one. I remember, I looked at my watch.”

  “This occurred shortly after two. That’s what time the club closed.”

  She swallowed hard, throat tight. “Do you think it could have been the same guy who…followed me?”

  “I don’t know, but the coincidence…”

  He let the thought trail off but it hung in the air between them anyway. The coincidence seemed too great to ignore.

  “What color was her hair?”

  At the question, Ben drew his eyebrows together. “It doesn’t say. Why?”

  She shook her head. “Never mind. I think I’d better call Malone.”

  “Malone?” Ben shuddered slightly, as if cold. “Oh, that’s right, your knight in shining armor.”

  She heard an unfamiliar edge in his voice. As if he was jealous. Instead of being flattered, she was annoyed. “If my memory serves, Ben, I invited you out, but you didn’t make it. So if you have a problem with Malone seeing me home—”

  “A problem?” He blinked and held out the paper cup. “Of course not. Cappuccino?”

  The beverage was only lukewarm, but she drank it anyway, enjoying the flavor of espresso and milk at any temperature.

  He, too, drank a cool cappuccino. They both chose Brie to complement their French bread and ate in semi-silence, chatting about nothing more topical than the weather. When they’d finished, Ben eased his plate away and cleared his throat. “Since we last spoke, I’ve done some thinking about our mystery man. I wanted to share my thoughts with you.”

  She sat up straighter. “Go on.”

  “As you know, I’ve questioned the six patients I saw the Friday I received the package containing your book and the note about the E! special. All six denied having left the package. Of course, they could be lying. Considering recent events, I really don’t expect the guilty party to confess.”

  “So what do we do, beat it out of them?”

  Her attempt at humor brought a smile to his lips. “We could, but I’ve come up with another plan. I’m going to put their honesty to the test.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “First off, I’m not going to limit my inquiry to the patients I saw that Friday. Any of my patients could have left it while I was in session.” He glanced down at his hands, folded on the table in front of him, then back up at her. He smiled, the curving of his lips wicked. “I’m going to use psychology on them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He leaned forward, eyes bright. “When I asked my patients if they had left a package for me in the waiting room, I didn’t say what was in it. So I leave the book in a conspicuous place in my inner office, where my patients will notice it during our sessions. Psychology says the guilty party will be unable to take his eyes off it. I fully expect him to not only repeatedly glance at it, but to comment on it as well.”

  She digested that, then nodded. “Sounds good, but…”

  “What, Anna? It’ll work, I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you positive one of your patients is the guilty party? By your own admission, anyone could have come into your office while you were in session and left the package.”

  “But why would they? I’ve thought a lot about this, Anna. Why me? How am I involved in this? I’ve come to the conclusion that I was a late addition.”

  She frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “This patient, whoever he or she is, started seeing me because of you and their plan, whatever it is. Why I’m involved holds the key to this whole thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Why did they select me? My specialty? Did they hear me speak at a seminar?”

  “Your specialty,” she said. “It has to be.”

  “I agree. So how did they find me?” He lifted his coffee cup, saw that it was empty and set it back down. “The Yellow Pages mention my specialty is childhood trauma and certainly our guy could have heard about me by word of mouth, but personally I think it was through a seminar I participated in three months ago. I’ve called the organizers and requested a list of attendees. It took some convincing, but they agreed. They shipped it out Friday, FedEx. I should have it tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “Thanks.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Sherlock Shrink at your service.”

  They talked a few minutes more, then Anna walked him out. They stopped at the building’s front door. “Thank you, Ben. I feel more positive right now than I have since this whole thing began.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Anna. We’ll find out who’s doing this to you, and we’ll stop him.”

  Before she could thank him again, he bent and kissed her.

  For a split second, Anna froze—taken by surprise, nonplussed. Then she relaxed and kissed him back.

  A moment later, he was gone. Anna watched him walk away, thoughts whirling. She brought a hand to her mouth, still warm from the imprint of his. What in the world, she wondered, had become of her quiet, safe and predictable life?

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday, January 22

  9:20 a.m.

  As promised by the mental-health seminar organizers, the list of the attendees arrived first thing Monday morning. Ben ripped open the Federal Express envelope and drew out the list of one hundred and fifty-two names.

  Aware of the time—his first patient of the day was due in ten minutes—Ben quickly scanned the names, looking for one of his patients or for the name Peter Peters.

  The list contained a number of duplicate given names and a few duplicate surnames, but not an exact match.

  Damn. He dropped the list onto his desk, admitting disappointment. He had been hoping for an easy, immediate answer. He wasn’t going to get it. They weren’t going to get it.

  Anna. He had thought of little but her since their breakfast. He smiled. Kissing her had taken her by surprise. In truth, he had surprised himself.

  He liked her a lot. More than was safe or smart.

  She could break his heart.

  Ben shook his head. He wouldn’t think that way. If they were meant to be together, they would be. Once he’d discovered the identity of Anna’s stalker, they would be free to simply get to know one another.

  With that in mind, Ben returned his attention to his plan. Everything was set. He had prominently displayed Anna’s book on the coffee table in front of the couch, the note about the E! special peeking out from between the pag
es. The manila envelope both had come in rested on the end table, next to the box of tissues.

  The door chimed and Ben glanced at his appointment book. That should be Amy West, a housewife and mother of three who was suffering from depression, the cause rooted in her troubled childhood and unhappy marriage.

  Ben stood and crossed to the door to greet her. He didn’t expect Amy to be the one. Not only had her depression all but paralyzed her, she didn’t fit the psychological profile he had created of Anna’s stalker. He believed the man—or woman—who had planned this campaign against her to be both cunning and controlling, highly intelligent, organized and emotionally detached. The person would possess the ability to lie without blinking and because of his or her emotional detachment, have no concern for the feelings of others.

  Amy West was nearly the antithesis of that profile.

  Even so, he wouldn’t take anything for granted. If there was one thing he had learned from his years being a therapist, a patient’s true nature only revealed itself over time, and in the end, often ran counter to what he had expected. Nothing about the human psyche surprised him anymore.

  CHAPTER 28

  Monday, January 22

  11:30 a.m.

  Quentin stepped into The Perfect Rose. The bell above the door jingled but Anna didn’t look his way. She sat on a tall stool behind the counter, staring into space, obviously lost in thought.

  Quentin was struck again by her uncomplicated beauty. And by the way looking at her gave him this feeling, this ahh. The same kind of feeling he got when he bit into a super-tangy apple or took a deep breath of ice-cold early-morning air.

  He’d experienced the ahh for the first time while watching her dance at Tips, then again later when he’d bandaged her foot. Her white-tiled bathroom had suddenly seemed too small, the situation unbearably intimate. Unbearable only because the thoughts that had jumped into his head had been out of the question.