by Alison Stone
Confusion swirled in her brain.
“What’s going on?” she repeated when no one answered her.
“Run,” Ruthie yelled. The fear in her friend’s voice struck terror in Heather’s heart.
Fiona slowly pulled her hand out of her jacket pocket and pointed a gun at Heather’s chest. “Run and either you or your Amish friend here dies.”
Heather slowly lifted her hands in a surrender gesture. “No one needs to get hurt. Please, lower the gun.”
What in the world was going on?
Fiona shook her head slowly. “No.” Her clipped answer made Heather’s stomach bottom out.
“I don’t understand,” Heather said as her vision tunneled onto Fiona’s face. The determination in her eyes behind her thick glasses landed squarely on Heather.
“I tried to get her to leave, but she threatened me,” Ruthie said apologetically. “She insisted on seeing you. I’m sorry. So sorry.” Her voice trembled.
“It’s okay, Ruthie. It’s okay.”
Fiona stepped closer to Heather and the smell of beer wafted off her breath. “What do you want, Fiona?”
“You.”
The single word made her knees go weak. “I’m sorry. What?”
“You... I want you dead.” Fiona flashed the gun as if it were no big deal.
“I don’t understand. What have I ever done to you?” Despite insides of mush, Heather projected a commanding tone.
“Please, Fiona, don’t hurt Heather,” Ruthie said, on the verge of tears. “She’s like a sister to me. Please.”
Fiona’s eyes darted around the room, as if she was trying to weigh her options. She grabbed Heather’s arm and squeezed tightly. Heather didn’t react. She had had a lot of experience in tamping down her reaction when Brian was raging. He’d fed off her fear and she’d refused to give him more fuel for his anger.
“Amish girl, sit down and shut up.”
Ruthie lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table and clasped her hands in front of her. All the color had drained from her face.
“It’s okay,” Heather reassured her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Ruthie bowed her bonneted head. A sob escaped her lips.
Heather’s stomach twisted.
Fiona leaned in close to Heather and clenched her teeth. “I need a second to think.”
* * *
Zach sat at his desk at the downtown Buffalo U.S. Marshals office. This was the part of the job he liked least: paperwork. And nothing created more paperwork than a dead escaped convict. He wouldn’t be able to wrap up the case until Fox’s autopsy was complete. He moved the mouse and the computer screen came to life. He had just entered his log-in and password when he heard a soft knock on the door.
He hit the enter key, then turned halfheartedly toward the door, expecting one of his colleagues, eager to hear about the big manhunt that had transfixed the state over the past few weeks. What he hadn’t expected was his father, dressed casually in a golf shirt and jeans.
Zach removed his hand from the computer mouse and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, Dad.”
“You look as excited about that paperwork as I used to feel.” His father crossed his arms and gave him an easy smile.
“I don’t suppose the paperwork is why any of us got into law enforcement.”
“But it might be the reason we retire.” His father sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk and crossed his ankle over his knee.
“What brings you by?” Zach knew his father liked to catch up with his former colleagues now and again, but he usually gave his son a quick text letting him know he’d be in.
“I can’t stop by and say hello to my son?”
Zach eyed his father skeptically. Theirs was a solid relationship, but not a touchy-feely one. “Sure you can. I’m glad you stopped by. I was hoping to take you out to dinner this week. Thank you for your help in Quail Hollow.”
“No need to repay me with dinner. I was glad to help.” His dad rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “An old guy like me likes to feel useful now and again.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
“Speaking of Quail Hollow, are you going to keep in touch with Heather Miller?” His father dropped his foot to the floor and leveled his gaze at his son.
Zach frowned and lifted his hand in a casual gesture, as if it were of no consequence.
“Life goes by too fast. You’ve been all about this job for a long time. You need to let someone in.” His father tapped the edge of the desk with his fingers for emphasis.
“You know what the job’s like.”
“I do.” His father sat back in his chair. “And I loved the job like you do. But what I wouldn’t do to be able to go back and spend more time with your mother. I’d trade anything for it. Now I’m retired. And all alone.”
Zach was about to tell his father that he had him, but he knew that wasn’t what his father meant. His father had spent most of his adult life chasing criminals. Then he lost his wife too soon. Then, tragically, he lost his daughter...
Zach cleared his throat. “Heather and I are clearly on two different paths.”
“But perhaps God brought your paths together for a reason.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his computer screen went blank. In the past, any mention of church, God or faith had made Zach bristle. But this time it hadn’t. Heather’s doing, most likely.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Zach raised his eyebrows. “Not really sure what I’m supposed to do about it. I don’t want to crowd her. She’s been through a lot. She needs time.” Out of habit, he reached over and wiggled the mouse and the screen came to life.
“Well, I’ll let you get to your paperwork.” His father stood and paused in the doorway. “But don’t give her too much time. She might meet herself a nice Amish guy.”
* * *
“You don’t have to do this,” Heather said as she took a chance and backed away from Fiona in the small kitchen of the bed-and-breakfast, hoping—praying—she could find something to defend herself with.
Fiona wore a blank expression that unnerved Heather more than the fuming she was doing earlier. She seemed disconnected, catatonic. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Her tone was flat.
Heather swallowed hard. “Get what?”
“It doesn’t surprise me. He said you were a stupid woman.”
Heather’s heart plummeted and nausea roiled in her gut as she took another step back and reached behind her to feel for the drawer where she kept the knives.
He...he...he...
Heather knew exactly who he was. She felt it in her bones. Brian Fox had manipulated another impressionable young woman.
Even in death, he was coming back to mess with her life.
The room grew close. Too close. A bead of sweat rolled down her back. She had to keep talking to distract Fiona. Distract herself from her rioting thoughts. “Who are you talking about?” Despite her best efforts, Heather’s voice cracked. She needed Fiona to say it. To confirm what Heather already suspected.
Don’t show your fear.
“He was obsessed with you. Even after everything I did for him, he still wanted you.” Fiona’s eyes narrowed into slits behind her glasses.
A buzzing hummed in Heather’s ears and the ground shifted beneath her.
“You helped my ex-husband escape prison?” How could that be? Zach said they had already arrested someone and she was out on bail.
Fiona rolled her eyes, mocking her. “No, of course not. How would I do that? That other stupid woman who worked at the correctional facility helped him. He was just using her. Besides, she was stupid. She deserved to get caught.”
Brian was charismatic. He knew how to charm women. Even in prison he had charmed multiple women into helping him. How had he
reached Fiona?
Keep Fiona talking.
Heather’s fingers brushed across a smooth drawer handle. Inside were several serrated knives. Could she open it without drawing Fiona’s attention?
Bigger question: Could she use a knife on another human being?
“How did you know Brian?” Heather scanned the room behind Fiona, calculating how difficult it would be to shove her out of the way and make her escape. But even if she could, Ruthie might not.
“I wrote him in prison because I wanted to write his story. His side of the story.”
“Brian beat me. He killed his second wife. What more did you need to know?”
“That’s your side of the story. He needed to be able to tell his.”
A throbbing started behind Heather’s eyes. “Brian’s dead. Why are you doing this now?”
“You’re the reason he’s dead.”
Heather’s pulse whooshed in her ears.
“He said he’d be with me when he got out. But he was obsessed with you.” Fiona turned her head and stared out the kitchen window toward the burned-out barn. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Realization smothered Heather like a too-heavy itchy blanket on a hot summer’s day. She struggled to catch her breath. This woman was completely irrational. “You tried to kill me in the barn. You were the one who slammed the bag over my head and started the fire.”
“I didn’t want you to see me. I wanted you to die thinking the man you tossed aside had killed you.”
“But why?” Heather swallowed hard, trying to tamp down her panic.
“I thought he wouldn’t be with me until you were out of the picture. As long as you were alive, Brian would prefer you to me.”
Heather tried to keep her breath even. “Brian’s gone now. He can’t be with anyone.” She held her breath, watching Fiona’s face flush red. Had she said too much? “What do you expect to gain now?”
“A little satisfaction.”
“I don’t understand.” Heather’s limbs trembled, fully realizing she was carrying on a discussion with someone who had discarded logic for some sort of warped revenge.
“He’s dead because of you.” This conversation was going in circles.
Pinpricks blanketed her scalp and she swallowed back her fear. “I didn’t kill him.”
Fiona turned and glared at Heather as if she had offended her. “Can you believe he got mad at me after he found out I tried to kill you in the barn fire? I thought he’d be happy that I had gone after the woman who put him in jail. But he told me I had no right. He told me he was still committed to you. That he had left you your wedding ring. Is that true?”
Ruthie gasped, but Heather kept her attention on the woman in front of her. “Yes,” Heather said, afraid to lie. “He left it in the medicine cabinet. But I didn’t want anything to do with Brian. I was done with him.”
Fiona flinched, as if the words hurt, or perhaps confused her. “Brian was every bit as controlling as you said he was. But I thought if you were out of the way, we could be together.” Her voice held a faraway quality. “But I was wrong.”
“He’s gone now. It’s over. He can’t hurt either one of us anymore. Don’t you see that?”
“It won’t be over until you’re gone, too. Because of you, I couldn’t have Brian. You destroyed everything. You need to pay.”
“Fiona, think about what you’re doing. You’ll go to prison. You’ll have let Brian destroy your life, too.”
“It’s already destroyed.” Fiona lifted her hands to her temples, still holding the gun.
“Tell me how he died.” Heather tried to distract her.
Fiona’s lips began to tremble and she lowered her hands. “He was already nursing a bullet wound to the arm—the jerk was wearing a bulletproof vest when your boyfriend shot at him as he tried to get away on the boat.”
Heather reached behind her and inched the drawer open a fraction as Fiona unraveled her story, seeming to revel in the details. Maybe she still planned to write this story.
Fiona continued, “But once I realized he had used me to get to you, I decided to put another bullet in him. End it for him. I waited until he was good and dead, then I left him in the truck across the street. It was all so neat. I had a perfect ending to my story. The bad guy gets his comeuppance.” Fiona’s finger twitched near the trigger, sending renewed unease twisting up Heather’s spine. Fiona looked off into the distance, as if she was plotting something. “Heather Miller’s ex-husband is found dead in her boyfriend’s stolen truck. Readers love those kind of twists.”
Fiona had gone over the edge. Heather had long ceased talking to a sane person, but she had to try if she hoped to get out of here alive with Ruthie. “No one would have ever known about your involvement. Coming here today couldn’t be worth jeopardizing your freedom. Could it?” Heather held her breath, waiting for her answer.
“The story wasn’t complete. Brian was supposed to be with me. I was going to write his complete story, which was supposed to end with me and him together. But he couldn’t be with me because he was obsessed with you. He was always going to be obsessed with you. You ruined my happy ending.” Her eyebrows rose in an awkward gesture, then her gaze lowered to her shaking hand holding the gun.
“It’s not too late to walk away,” Heather pleaded. “You can claim self-defense with Brian. And you haven’t hurt me or Ruthie. You can walk away,” she repeated, maintaining eye contact with her captor. The light from over the sink glinted off her glasses. “You can be the hero of your story.”
Behind her, Heather eased the drawer open just a little bit more. She slid her fingers in and felt for the handle of a knife. Pinching it awkwardly with her fingers, she eased the knife out of the tray. It hit the edge of the drawer and clattered back down on top of the other silverware.
Fiona’s eyes flared wide. She stepped back, kicked the drawer shut, lifted the gun and aimed it at Heather’s heart. “Yes, I am going to write the ending. My way.”
SIXTEEN
Heather held up her hands, trying to appease Fiona. Trying to make her forget she had just been caught trying to slide a knife out of the utensil drawer. “Please don’t do this.” She hated the squeak in her voice.
Ruthie cried quietly in the corner.
Heather would never be able to overpower a deranged woman with a gun, so her only chance was to talk her way out of this. Dread tightened like a band around her lungs. She hadn’t been able to make any headway so far, but she had to keep trying.
“You’re a writer. You want a great story? Why don’t you write about my mother’s murder?” Shame in the form of heat swept up Heather’s cheeks. Please forgive me, Lord, for using my mother’s tragedy like this.
Fiona lowered her gun a fraction, as if considering.
“I can give you my side of the story. How I grew up Amish and my father left the Amish community heartbroken after my mother was murdered.”
“I told you that would make a great story. I’d probably become famous.” Intrigue softened Fiona’s tone.
“Yes, it’s a story that needs to be told.”
Fiona lifted an eyebrow, skepticism lining her eyes.
“Doesn’t everyone like a good mystery?” Heather hated herself for using her mother like this.
“But, you told me you valued your privacy. You made me feel like a loser for being gossipy with your other houseguests.” Fiona frowned, as if considering something. “I don’t like being made to feel bad about myself. I would have just continued to spy from the barn without your criticism, but I couldn’t get close enough.”
“That was you?” Heather’s hand flew to her mouth. Of course. The police had been checking the restaurant surveillance cameras for possible images of Brian. Fiona could have easily slipped in unnoticed between the cheerleaders who had been there at the same time.
“People have been underestimating me my entire life. I found a ladder behind the barn. Realized I could spy on you from the loft.” Fiona hiked up her chin, obviously proud of herself. “About your mother’s murder...”
Trying her best to sound calm despite having a gun aimed at her, Heather said, “I’ve had time to think about it since we first talked. My mother’s story needs to be told. Maybe your book will lead the police to her killer.”
Something flitted in the depths of Fiona’s eyes. “Exactly. That’s why I started writing true crime. The victim’s story needs to be told.”
“You were never writing a romance?” Heather wasn’t sure why she even asked, perhaps just to keep Fiona talking.
Her captor shrugged. “I dabble. But true crime is my passion.”
“But why did you want to tell Brian’s story and not Jill’s? He wasn’t the victim.”
Fiona froze and her nostrils flared. “Sometimes the story the media portrays isn’t the truth.”
“My mother and Heather’s mother were best friends when Mrs. Miller disappeared,” Ruthie said in a soft, frightened voice from her chair in the corner.
Heather’s heart stopped, uncertain what Fiona would do with that information. Heather never had any intention of sharing her mother’s story—not with Fiona, anyway—she was just trying to talk her way out of this situation. Buy some time.
Fiona turned slowly to look at Ruthie. “Is that so?”
Ruthie’s eyes grew wide. She nodded.
Fiona spun around and grabbed Heather’s ponytail and pushed her toward the front door. She pressed the gun into her spine. “Get up,” she yelled at Ruthie. “We’re leaving.” Ruthie jumped up and knocked over the chair.
Heather’s scalp ached as Fiona shoved her outside, down the stairs and toward her car. Ruthie followed behind.
“Where are we going?” Heather asked.
“We have to get out of here. I know. I watched this place for a long time. Workers might be here soon.” Fiona’s gaze darted around. Her grip tightened on Heather’s ponytail. “Besides—” her tone grew curious “—I want to meet Ruthie’s mom now.”