Shit.
Using the key fob to pop the trunk, Sabrina tucked the box Croft gave her inside. On impulse, she added the box with the cat carcass before punching out a quick, one-word text.
DON’T
Shutting the lid, she noticed that the parking lot was nearly full. Parked across the lot, along the shoulder of the road, was the same King Ranch she had seen outside Vega’s house.
He was here.
Her phone rang and she breathed a sigh of relief, answering it quickly before Church changed her mind and hung up in favor of following through on her threat and slitting Croft’s throat.
“I stopped by Saint Rose on my way back to the hotel—Vega is here for midnight mass. I’m going to slip in and—”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice, yeon-in.” Phillip Song’s voice wrapped around her, deep and smooth, as playful as always. “Almost as relieved as I am irritated that you disappeared without telling me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “How did you—” She stopped short, panic squeezing at her throat. “Michael. Michael called you.”
He’d left their valley. Used a cell phone. Risked his life and everything they’d built. For her. She didn’t know if she wanted to kill him or kiss him.
“He did,” Phillip said, his tone going flat. “He also told me he’d asked you to do it but that you’d refused. Why would you do that, Sabrina?”
The parking lot was emptying, the last few people filing into the small sanctuary. Men in shirts that looked clean and pressed. Women, their heads covered with shawls and scarves. Children in what looked to be their very best clothes. Within moments, she was alone.
“A secret only stays a secret if you keep your mouth shut, Phillip.” She told him the truth. At least part of it. The rest—that some part of her knew Michael was right, that Phillip’s feelings for her had grown far beyond his perceived debt to her—was something she didn’t want to get into.
“You don’t trust me.” There was no question in his tone, only something that sounded like hurt, mixed with disbelief.
She really didn’t have time for this. “It’s not that.” She sighed. “I trust you but there’s a lot at risk here—not just me. Not just Michael.” She thought of Christina and Alex, the children they’d rescued. Loved. “We’re a family. That’s not something I’m willing to jeopardize. Not for anyone or anything.”
“It seems to me,” Phillip said quietly, “that when it comes to your well-being, you and your Michael are willing to risk very different things. He says you need my help and for once I am inclined to agree with him.”
For a second, she tried to imagine introducing a powerful Korean mobster to the former pet psychopath of Livingston Shaw. The mental picture made for a spectacular shit show. She needed to keep Phillip and Church far apart. “I don’t need your help, Phillip. I’m—”
She watched a lone figure materialize from the shadowed fields surrounding the church. It was Will Santos. She watched him walk across the dirt lot, pausing for a moment in front of the King Ranch she’d tagged as Vega’s before continuing on. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled open the door to the church and stepped inside.
Phillip was still talking and she had to force herself to focus on what he was saying.
“… I care for you, Sabrina,” he said, his voice hardening around the words. “But you have always been a poor judge of what and who you need. I’ll see you soon.”
She looked down at the closed trunk lid, weighing her options.
The box can wait, darlin’. Better hurry inside now—the show’s about to start.
“Okay.” She didn’t have time to fight a battle she’d already lost. “Whatever,” she said, without bothering to tell Phillip where she was. If he wanted to put his nose where it didn’t belong, he was going to have to work for it. She killed the call without waiting for a response, then she followed Detective Santos into the sanctuary.
Thirty
She was alone.
There was a silence to the place she’d never heard before. An emptiness that made her sure that wherever he’d gone, the man who took her was not here. She didn’t know how long she’d lain there listening to the empty black that surrounded her, but somewhere between realizing there was no one to stop her and remembering where she was, Maggie made a choice.
Pushing herself against the wall, she planted her bound hands on the floor, levering herself up until she was sitting. She’d pissed herself again. The cold sting of it rubbed into the chafed skin of her thighs, mixing with the tacky blood and the …
That’s when she started to remember.
What he did. How much it hurt. How long it went on. What he said to her. The lash of a whip, the brutal thrust of his hips. Over and over until each unbearable pain bled into the next. Until she screamed and cried. Begged for him to stop.
Until she wanted to die.
She started to shake. Her arms and legs trembling so hard she had to wrap herself into a ball and press her face into the top of her thighs to keep herself from coming apart. “Stop it,” she said out loud. “Stop it right now.”
She didn’t have time to fall apart. She was alone, but for how long? Ten minutes? An hour? Unwrapping herself, she planted her bound hands on the floor and pushed again, pulling her legs beneath herself slowly, finding her balance, until she was standing.
The room was pitch black. When he’d dragged her back down the hall and toss her into it, she’d hit the floor, her knees buckling before she scrambled across the cracked concrete until she hit a wall. Wedging herself into its corner, she’d cowered and waited.
He’d stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching her—his fingers flexing around the handle of the knife he’d used on her. “Do you still believe in miracles, Margaret?” he said to her in the same calm, reasonable tone he’d used while systematically raping and beating her.
“Yes.” She whispered it, worried that if she raised her voice he’d be able to hear the lie. She knew instinctively that the moment she told him the truth—that she didn’t believe in anything anymore—he’d kill her.
Instead of answering her, he just laughed and shut the door.
Now, hands outstretched, she shuffled forward, shoulder scraping the rough block wall. The dark had a way of disorienting you. Turning you upside down. Growing and shrinking until you didn’t know where you were. Making it impossible to find your way to the other side.
The more she stared at it, the more the crack of light beneath the door seemed to stretch and wane, growing farther and farther away with each step she took. She kept going. One step in front of the other. Eyes fixed on the crack of light that would show her the way out.
When her hands closed over the door handle, her breath caught in her chest. Please. Please let it be open. Please God, help me find my way out. Please, please, please … She levered the handle downward. Felt the latch that held it closed give way.
The door swung open.
It was a test. Some sort of trap. The certainty of it had her shrinking away from the open doorway. She’d try to escape and she’d be caught. He’d punish her. Drag her back into that room and do things …
She leaned heavily against the doorframe and waited. Listened. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. Trap or not, this was her chance. She wouldn’t waste it. Pushing herself away from the door, Maggie took a tentative step into the hallway.
The space was deserted. There were other doors. Other rooms. Trying them, she found some locked, some not. The ones that opened were empty. There were no windows. Not anywhere. No way out that she could find. Looking down, she saw the blood trail that cut down the center of the floor.
Maggie followed it. Not toward the room he’d taken her to, but in the opposite direction. Around a corner and down another corridor. The bl
ood trail grew fainter and fainter until it was nothing more than indistinct brown streaks soaked into the concrete, disappearing under a closed door.
If this is where he’d taken the body of the other woman, maybe it led to the outside. Maybe it was a way out. Again, she stopped and waited for the trap to snap shut.
After a few seconds of more nothing, she yanked on the handle. The latch released and the door swung open. Her chest went tight, constricted with hope. She would find her way out. She would escape. She would run.
She would live.
It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. What she was smelling. Bodies. So many of them, heaped on top of each other in a gruesome tangle of mottled skin and rotting flesh. She gagged, the smell of it—spoiled meat and spent fluids—pushing her back into the hallway.
“Did you get lost, Margaret?”
She was spun around by the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder and she swung out with her hands and missed, throwing herself off balance. He grabbed for her but she lunged out of the way, slamming into the wall. She almost went down but kept her feet. Kept running. Kept moving.
Back the way she’d come. Past the room she’d been kept in. Past the room she’d been raped in. She could hear him behind her, shouting at her to stop. That he would kill her if she didn’t.
She didn’t stop. She ran until she found stairs.
She climbed them faster than she thought she could, slamming into the door that topped them. Pushing it open, she launched herself through it.
More dark. The howl of a coyote.
Below her, she could still hear him. He wasn’t shouting anymore but he was coming. He’d warned her what would happen if she didn’t stop. He was coming and if he caught her, he would kill her.
Maggie had made her choice the second she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She didn’t want to die. So she ran.
Thirty-one
Sabrina found Santos in the chapel’s small atrium, standing at the stoup just beyond the entrance. She watched him dip his fingers into the basin before making the sign of the cross. Easing the door closed as quietly as possible, she watched the detective continue up the sanctuary’s only aisle to the front of the church.
He sat directly behind Vega.
Vega seemed to know he was there, stiffening in his seat the second Santos slid in behind him, cutting a quick look over his shoulder before he settled back against the hard wood of the pew. The man sitting beside Vega dropped a hand on his forearm and leaned in, whispering something in his ear before giving Santos another, decidedly nastier look.
Slipping into the last pew, Sabrina took a look around. The place was lit by what had to be hundreds of candles, the heat of them warm against her face. Father Francisco stood at the altar, a bright white robe over the dark pants and shirt he’d been wearing in the courtyard. He bowed his head and began to pray in Spanish.
There was a slight rustle to her left and she turned to see the last thing she needed. An old woman sliding across the hard wooden bench, coming right at her. Behind her was Val’s little sister, Ellie. She’d changed her clothes, trading her pants and YPD rain jacket for a modest summer dress, her long hair caught at the nape of her neck in a low bun.
Turning her face away, Sabrina focused on Father Francisco, pretending to listen to what he was saying. Ellie was here, sitting less than three feet away from her—and she’d brought her mother.
Years ago, Amelia Hernandez had been a mother to her in a way her own had never been. Had patted her cheek and called her mija. Fed her warm tortillas and watched Jason and Riley for her while she waited tables, refusing to take a dime for any of it, even though her own need was obvious. If not for this woman, she would have lost hope long before Wade found her and locked her in the dark.
She pushed the memories aside, forcing herself to focus on the service Father Francisco was giving. The way Vega kept sneaking looks at Santos over his shoulder. The altar boys clustered on the front pew, perched on its edge in their white robes like a dole of doves, waiting anxiously for communion. Anything to distract her from the fact that Valerie’s mother sat inches away from her, staring at her like she recognized her.
Like she knew her.
Which was impossible. When she’d been found, no one but the doctors who treated her, her grandmother, and Val even knew she’d survived. As much as it killed her, Sabrina had demanded that Val keep it from her mother. As far as Amelia Hernandez was concerned, Melissa Walker died nearly twenty years ago.
That ain’t entirely true, now is it? Thanks to that reporter of yours the whole damn world knows you survived, darlin’.
As if to prove Wade right, the woman reached over, pressing her softly lined palm to Sabrina’s cheek, turning her face so that the two of them were practically nose-to-nose. “Mija,” Amelia whispered, tears glittering in her sharp brown eyes. “You came back.”
Before she could react, Ellie leaned over, pulling her mother’s hand back. “No, Mamá—” She stalled out when she realized who it was her mother had put her hands on. “My apologies, Agent Vance. My mother suffers from mid-stage Alzheimer’s,” she said quietly, patting her mother’s hands into her lap. “She thinks you’re my sister.”
Amelia frowned at her, her eyes suddenly dry and dull, any hint of recognition lost in a sea of confusion. “It’s okay,” Sabrina said, smiling first at the woman sitting next to her and then at her daughter. “It’s okay,” she said again, nodding at Ellie who returned the nod with a relieved smile.
The rest of mass passed in silence. Around them, people stood and sat, knelt and prayed. Through it all, Ellie never moved, her hand anchored in her mother’s, staring straight ahead while Amelia hummed softly to herself. Sabrina recognized the tune as one she used to sing to Jason and Riley when they were babies.
A la roro niño
A lo roro ya
Duérmete mi niño
Duérmete mi amor.
When Father Francisco finally called for communion, Amelia stood, reaching down to take her hand. “Ven conmigo, mija,” she said, pulling her out of her seat, and Sabrina followed because it was easier than trying to extricate herself from her grip.
Standing in the church’s center aisle, with Amelia’s arm looped through hers, Sabrina listened to her jabber on in Spanish about her garden and how much she enjoyed riding her horse, Chula. As far as she knew, Amelia never had a horse—or a garden, for that matter. Casting a look behind her, she caught sight of Ellie. She was standing near the stoup, talking on her cell phone and looking right at her.
“Ni si quiera sé por qué vino aquí. Padre Francisco no le dará la comunión. No después de loque le hizo esa chica.”
Amelia’s sing-song voice snagged at her, pulling at her attention. “What girl?” She looked down at the older woman standing beside her. “Amelia, ¿qué chica?” she said, switching to Spanish in hopes that it might trigger an answer.
“She was Ellie’s friend.” Amelia frowned like she wasn’t sure of what she was saying. “I never liked her much—I guess I should feel bad about that now.”
Rachel Meeks. Amelia had to be talking about Rachel Meeks. “Who hurt her?” she said, drawing more than a few looks. “What was his name?” She finished in a whispered rush, hoping to beat the clouds she could see rolling across Amelia’s mind. “Who hurt Rachel?”
“Who’s Rachel?” Amelia asked in broken English, confusion and something that looked very close to fear casting shadows across her face. “Where’s Ellie?”
Sabrina forced herself to smile, feeling grief and disappointment in equal measure. “Ellie’s here—she had to take a phone call, Mrs. Hernandez.”
“Okay.” Amelia visibly relaxed, returning her smile. “Are we waiting for communion?”
“Yes,” she said, the word getting stuck in her throat. Looking behind her, she could see Ellie, still standing by the sto
up. She was still talking on the phone but she was staring at them. Giving her a small smile, Sabrina redirected her attention to the line in front of her.
Ahead of them, people received their communion wafers and Father Francisco’s blessing before exiting the chapel through the door that led out into the prayer garden. Suddenly there was a commotion, people murmuring to themselves as they moved aside for someone pushing their way up the aisle.
It was Paul Vega and the man who’d been sitting beside him, Santos following in their wake. None of them looked happy. Vega looked right at her as he passed by before averting his gaze completely.
“I’m glad you came home, mija.” Amelia patted her arm and smiled, oblivious to the commotion. “I’ve missed you.”
As distracted as she was, Sabrina felt the words tug at her. Even if they were nothing more than confused nonsense. “I’ve missed you too,” she said, playing along because she wanted to keep Amelia calm and because it was true.
“Do you remember how I’d make fresh tortillas every morning?” Amelia chuckled before she released the rest of the memory. “Valerie would never eat them because she was afraid of getting fat, so you ate her share as well. One of the thousand things I loved about you.”
The tumble of emotion nearly turned her upside down. Panic. Joy. A sadness so keen it choked her into the sort of stunned silence that turned the edges of her vision gray. Amelia wasn’t confused. She wasn’t lost inside her own mind.
Somehow, Amelia knew exactly who she was.
Thirty-two
Margaret was gone.
She’d disappeared into the desert. More afraid of what lay behind her then what lay in wait for her in the dark. She charged into the open, stumbling across loose dirt and rocks. Her breath escaping her lungs in panicked little bleats. Crying and flailing into the desert, bound hands outstretched in front of her, she disappeared.
He let her go. Let her run. Instead of chasing blindly, he followed patiently. There was no need to hurry. No need to worry. Where could she go? There was nowhere to hide. Not out here.
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