Don't Breathe: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Darkwater Cove Psychological Thriller Book 6)

by Dan Padavona

  Derek cups his hands together.

  “Sounds harmless.”

  “They’re all terrific and acclimated to human contact. Stop over, and you can hold any of them. They’ll eat off your hand.”

  “So if this isn’t your pet, where did it come from?”

  Derek rises and assesses the nearby homes.

  “No way old Mr. Anderson keeps tarantulas. Maybe a kid down the block. I’ll ask around. Either way, tarantulas come from hot, arid climates. They don’t do well in the Carolinas when they escape captivity. Poor thing was looking for a way inside.”

  Cynthia swishes through the grass and stops beside Julian, who introduces her to Derek.

  “I thought of something while Jennifer and I brought the chicken indoors,” Cynthia says, drawing Derek’s attention. “Didn’t a girl die from spider bites outside of Greenville?”

  Derek snickers.

  “I saw that on the news. Total bullshit.”

  “How’s that?” Julian asks.

  “There are only two spiders you need to worry about in the United States—the black widow, and the brown recluse. And the odds of either killing you are less than Elon Musk walking on Mars next week. Especially with a young, healthy person. Whatever killed that camper, it wasn’t a spider.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sunday, September 13th

  11:30 a.m.

  Nadia Ames swipes a brush through honey-brown hair, styled as an Angled Bob. The clock warns her she has a half-hour to apply makeup, brush her teeth, and drive to the library on the other side of Smith Town. Twenty-four and tired of bouncing from one job to the next, she glares at the woman in the mirror and wonders when she’ll get her break. She graduated near the top of her class from North Carolina. So far, her History degree has earned her a slew of office temp positions and waitressing jobs. She barely has enough money to cover the rent each month.

  After she finishes in the bathroom, she paws through the refrigerator. Dammit, she forgot to make a salad. Looks like she’ll buy lunch again at the deli across the street from the library. Passing through the living room, replete with a lounge chair spilling stuffing and a used couch she refuses to sit on without a cover, her eyes stop on the photograph of Nadia and Leigh in Cape May, New Jersey, in July. It’s a selfie taken at sunset, three photo-bomber girls in bikinis passing through the background as the surf pounds the shoreline. The twins look so much alike, even Nadia confuses herself with her sister until she spots the heart necklace hanging to her chest.

  She touches her neck and finds the necklace missing. Her heart clenches. For three years she dated Kealan. There’s a hole in her life without him to share her days with. But their relationship had reached an odd stasis. They watched the same movies and television shows every month, went to the same restaurants, drew each other into tired, predictable arguments after either had a bad day. The spark was gone. Snuffed out as if it hadn’t been there at all. She wasn’t ready to settle down, and Kealan never stopped talking about marriage and how many kids they’d have (as if she had no choice) and where they’d move after the honeymoon.

  Not that she hadn’t loved him. Maybe she still does. But he seems more interested to reel her in than steal her heart. And he never stops pressing her to marry.

  “We need to share a laugh,” she tells Leigh in the picture.

  Her sister is a true crime junkie and missed her calling with the FBI. During the Darkwater Cove murders, Leigh watched the news and read every article on the Internet. She should have become a serial killer profiler like that woman in Genoa Cove. Darcy Gellar? Or is it Darcy Haines now?

  She lays a hand on the frame and promises the photograph she’ll phone Leigh after work. If anybody can knock Nadia out of her funk, it’s her sister. Stuffing her keys into her pocketbook, she hurries to the door. Her cell phone rings. She would have forgotten the phone had it not been for the caller with bad timing. As she snatches the phone off the end table, she reads the screen. It’s Kealan. Better let the call go to voice mail. But it keeps ringing, shrilling at her.

  “I’m late for work,” she says, rolling her eyes at how callous she sounds.

  “Nadia.” A long pause. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

  Nadia clamps the phone between her ear and shoulder and wedges the warped door open. A gray sky hangs low over Smith Town and threatens rain.

  “I’m sorry, Kealan.”

  “You’re not sorry. You’re never sorry.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What more can I give you? I love you more than anyone else could, and you shut me out. What’s more important: the people you care about, or making it to work on time?”

  Nadia sighs.

  “Regardless, I can’t be late. This is my job. I need to pay the rent and eat.”

  “It’s a shit job, and it doesn’t have to be this way. I’ll take care of you. All this worrying over money…I told you I’d support you. That’s my duty.”

  “Oh, Kealan. That’s old-fashioned.”

  “So love and caring about someone other than yourself is old-fashioned?”

  Nadia yanks the door handle to her car. Locked. A grunt as she juggles the keys, searching for the right one as a rain drop plops upon her head.

  “That’s one problem we had, yes. You have this notion you need to care for me, that I can’t survive without you holding my hand all the time.”

  He cries. A great, gulping sob that stuns her as she twists the key and climbs into the car, escaping the rain.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. We had a good three years, but—”

  “That’s all I was to you? Someone you spent three years with? I gave you everything. My heart and soul. And you act like there was nothing special between us. You’re a cunt, Nadia.”

  She jabs the brakes and stops the car at the base of the driveway.

  “What did you—”

  “You heard me. Cunt.”

  The fights became routine over the last six months, but he never abused her.

  “That hurt.”

  “Good. I hurt all the time. It’s time for you to hurt too. You’re not wearing the necklace.”

  Nadia’s heart pounds. Her hand slips to her chest as it did before. Finds the necklace missing.

  “Are you watching me?” she whispers, moving her gaze from the hedgerow bordering the property to the trees across the road.

  The phone goes dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sunday, September 13th

  12:15 p.m.

  “I’m leaving for Kaitlyn’s.”

  Darcy towels her hair dry in front of the mirror and cracks the bathroom door open.

  “What did you say, hon?”

  “Kaitlyn’s. I’ll be back around three.”

  Before Darcy replies, the front door opens and closes. She was about to suggest the two of them drive to the village and spend the afternoon shopping. Now she listens as the engine turns over on the Prius, then the blare of music as Jennifer drives off. So much for mother-daughter time. As she teases the brush through her hair, she yanks a gray clump off the bristles. Moaning at the old face in the mirror, she sets the hairdryer aside and pulls her hair into a ponytail, topping her head with a baseball cap.

  Wet hair drips down her neck and soaks her collar as she pads barefoot to the bedroom. She hisses and steps back when her foot touches something dark on the floor. Holding a hand over her thumping heart, she exhales when she spies the black sock in the middle of the floor. She must have dropped it on the way to the laundry room. Snatching the dirty laundry, she backtracks to the bathroom and tosses it in the hamper. Every shadow on the wall, every spot on the rug reminds her of the ugly spider. Last evening, before dusk settled over the cove, she checked the backyard and couldn’t find the spider. Some animal must have come along and dragged the carcass into the meadow for a treat.

  Or the monstrosity crawled off on its own. The words sound ridiculous in her head. But they don’t prevent her fro
m checking the hidden corners behind the nightstand while gripping a sneaker, prepared to flatten the first eight-legged beast that skitters across the wall.

  She flips the light switch and scours away the darkness.

  “You were quite the hero this week,” she mutters to herself on the way to the dresser. “Some poor kid’s pet crawled out of its cage, and you killed it.”

  Sliding running shorts over her hips, she curses. It’s as if she gained a size overnight. She forces the buttons together until they click and ignores the tight fit, holding her breath until the waist band relaxes. Next she slides into socks and sneakers as a car door closes outside.

  “Julian?”

  She pokes her head into the hallway and listens. Hearing no reply, she follows the corridor into the living room before checking the kitchen. The backyard lies empty beyond the sliding glass door. A sea breeze sets her garden in motion. As she turns, she spies the note on the table.

  Helping Cynthia move. Be home by two.

  Darcy leans against the counter. He told her last night his partner wanted his help to haul an old table to Goodwill. But hadn’t he promised Darcy they’d drive over together?

  She needs to run before her nerves unravel.

  Darcy grabs the keys and sets the alarm before she locks the house. The sun warms her face as she jogs past the corner, following the circle around her neighborhood. The Indian couple at the end of the block waves when she passes. She keeps forgetting to stop by and introduce herself. Maybe she’ll bake them a pie and welcome them to Genoa Cove.

  By the time she reaches the pathway to the cove, her lungs tighten, breaths flying in and out as sweat dots her brow. Ignoring her poor conditioning, she struggles through the sand and pushes harder. Once she reaches the shore, it’s easier to run along the waterline. Seagulls circle and swoop. She’s the only person on the cove, the breeze running fingers through her hair as water sloshes against the sand.

  Her thigh cramps halfway to the public beach. Cursing, she pushes onward, knowing the best choice is to stop and stretch before she pulls a muscle. Breaths come ragged. It feels like she’s running through quicksand. Memories flicker like an old movie. Her partner at the FBI, Eric Hensel, standing in the doorway to her office while they tracked the Full Moon Killer. Tyler pushing Hunter down the sidewalk, their son giggling as the bike’s training wheels jiggle over the cracks in the concrete. She runs faster now, sneakers kicking up sand. Sweat stings her eyes. She pictures the black, beady eyes of Dustin Gendron, the murderer who kidnapped Julian’s niece, Michael Rivers leering at her across the table in the prison outside Buffalo. Faster. Her arms pump to match her legs. The ocean mists her face as her sneakers dig a trench through the sand.

  The burst of energy dissipates before she reaches the public beach. Hands clasped behind her head, Darcy paces and catches her breath. That was better. She’ll never be thirty again, but her strength and endurance are miles ahead of where she was three months ago. It’s not enough. She needs to run faster, hit harder, and improve her aim with the FBI-issued Glock-22.

  As she pants, the phone buzzes inside her armband. Pulling the Velcro apart, she rips the phone free and checks the number. Another unknown caller.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing. The caller hangs up. That’s the third such call in the last month.

  A normal person would suspect a spam caller or a kid having fun with crank calls. But she’s lived through too many real-life horror movies to take the calls for granted. Since she captured the Widow Maker, the FBI hasn’t identified an active serial killer in the United States. Not yet, anyway.

  Activating the voice recording app on her phone, she says, “Check with the cell company next time I’m in the office.”

  Darcy reverses course and walks back to the path. Recovering her strength, she forces herself to jog home. Passing by Harold Gibbons’s house, she keeps her vision focused straight ahead.

  “Morning, neighbor,” he calls from the driveway.

  The contempt on his face belies the greeting. He turns a hose on his new Jeep and wipes the doors with a sponge.

  “Harold,” she mutters without breaking stride.

  She’s surprised to see Julian’s car in the driveway. When she opens the door, he peeks his head out of the refrigerator.

  “How was your run?” he asks as he pops the top off a ginger beer.

  “Better. I almost made it to the public beach on a full sprint. How did it go with Cynthia?”

  Julian takes a swig from the bottle, squints when the spices hit his nose, and wipes his lips on his sleeve.

  “Had a helluva time fitting the table into her hatchback. But we made it to Goodwill, and that’s all that counts.”

  “You want a sandwich? I’ve got ham and lettuce from the farmer’s market.”

  “Thanks, but we grabbed wraps at the new deli on Fifth Street.”

  Untying the laces on her sneakers, Darcy stops for a moment.

  “You’re looking at me like we went on a romantic dinner date,” Julian says, eyeing her over the bottle.

  “Not at all. She’s your partner. I don’t care if you have lunch together.”

  “Partners grab lunch. It’s how you build camaraderie. I’m sure you and Ketchum get food.”

  Darcy shakes her head.

  “Ketchum keeps to himself. Most of the time he eats at his desk.”

  “What about your former partner, Hensel?”

  She stops and stares.

  “Not so much. He was a good friend, but he never slowed down long enough to eat. That’s the way it is for most of the agents I work with.”

  Except she recalls a nighttime stroll down the boardwalk on Seagull Island with Hensel during the hunt for the Full Moon Killer. They purchased lobster rolls and watched the tide roll in. She caught him staring from the corner of her eye as her cheeks filled with heat. There was a time before the Rivers stabbing when Darcy felt herself falling for Hensel. Were the feelings mutual, or had she imagined his interest?

  Why is Julian bringing up her late partner?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunday, September 13th

  12:30 p.m.

  With the phone call playing on the Prius’s speakers, Jennifer casts a glance in the mirror and makes a sharp turn onto Cedar Road. In this direction, the houses grow as if the fertile soil adds to their square footage. The yards draw attention with fine landscaping and perfect green lawns.

  “So if my mom calls, you’ll cover for me?”

  Kaitlyn snickers.

  “You’re asking me to perjure myself, Ms. Haines.”

  “Please, Kaitlyn. Don’t joke around. I’m totally screwed if my mom or step dad find out.”

  “Mums the word. You know I’ve got your back.”

  “I owe you.”

  Jennifer’s gaze follows a Mercedes out of a gated driveway until it turns up the road and rockets out of the neighborhood.

  “Sean Braden, eh? Nice catch. He’s cute.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Would you rather I say he’s dog meat? He has a nice ass.”

  Jennifer hisses laughter.

  “Kaitlyn!”

  “What? I’m just being real. This is between you and me, but Ashley told me last year Sean was checking you out at her party.”

  “He was not.”

  “He so was. It must be kismet, the two of you hooking up.”

  Moving a paranoid eye back to the mirror, Jennifer searches for Julian’s car. He suspects she has a boyfriend, though he hasn’t spoken to her. The street lies empty behind the car.

  “You make it sound sordid.”

  “Well, you’re sneaking over to his house while his parents are in L.A. and hiding it from your mother. What would you call it?”

  “Wait, his parents are in California? He told me they left for the day.”

  “They’re vacationing, darling. They have to spend Mr. Braden’s money somehow.” Kaitlyn makes a purring sound in her throat. “You’ve got the whole
place to yourselves. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  After the call ends, the silence inside the Prius pushes on Jennifer. She turns the air conditioning to a colder setting, anything to fill the void inside the noiseless interior. Should she be doing this? It’s one thing to hide a boyfriend. But driving Mom’s car to his house and lying about visiting Kaitlyn seems extreme. Her teeth grind. A layer of goosebumps rise on her bare thighs, the miniskirt riding up her hips.

  Like red licorice, a welt rises off the top of her thigh. She pulls the skirt down to cover the wound. There’s a twin cut on the left side of her abdominals. She doesn’t notice her fingernails digging into the steering wheel until a nail snaps.

  Since the Georgia kidnapping, Jennifer has seen a therapist. Even Dr. Calloway doesn’t know she’s cutting.

  Except she isn’t. Jennifer could never take a blade to her skin. The thought revolts her. Yet she’s dug layers of flesh away with her fingernails without noticing until the next morning after the hot spray of the shower hit the wounds.

  She considers turning around when the house appears on her left. Sean sits on the front porch. He already saw her.

  “It will be fine,” she tells herself as she pulls the car into the driveway.

  Wearing athletic shorts and a tank top cut to reveal a six-pack of abdominal muscles, Sean hops off the steps and jogs to the Prius. She lowers the window.

  “Hey, do you have somewhere I can park so the car isn’t visible from the street?”

  “Follow me,” he says, motioning her down the driveway.

  After she closes the window, he walks in front of the car, every muscle in his physique moving to a rhythm she can’t pull her eyes from. He glances back a few times with a knowing smile etched to his face. The pristine stone driveway winds behind the house and ends at a two-car garage. He punches a code on the wall, and the doors lift, inviting her inside. The cool shadows of the garage touch her flesh as she angles the car against the back wall. If she screws up and scrapes the wall, she’ll damage the garage and the car. Won’t Mom be thrilled if she hands her damage claims for the garage and the Prius?