by Cynthia Eden
Ben still had the gun in his shaking hand.
And Carla—she was propped up against the cot. The front of her shirt was soaked with blood. Had the second bullet hit her?
Ben dropped his gun and grabbed for Carla. “Help me!” Ben yelled. “Somebody please help me!” He put his hands on her wound and blood pumped up from between his fingers.
The cell door swung open again and Asher rushed inside. Bailey was there, too, and Asher heard Sarah calling for help—for an ambulance.
Carla’s head slowly turned toward Bailey. “No . . . guilt . . .”
“Carla, don’t talk,” Bailey said, her voice breaking. “Save your strength.”
Not talking wasn’t going to help her. Asher knew it. Based on that wound, hell, the bullet had been fired at almost point-blank range.
“Sh-she grabbed for my gun,” Ben stammered. “Sh-shot me. We fought for the weapon and it went off.” He was still pressing his fingers to her chest.
“I . . . was in the car . . .” Carla whispered, her eyes on Bailey. “S-sorry . . . for that.”
“What car?” Bailey asked. But Asher saw by her expression—she knew.
“Mad at . . . you . . .” Carla said. “But more . . . mad at him.”
Him.
Her body jerked, shuddered.
“Jesus!” Ben cried. “There’s so much blood!” He gave a frantic shake of his head. “She shouldn’t have done that! Why did she do that? I wasn’t going to hurt her! I wasn’t going to—”
Sarah shoved him back. She yanked open Carla’s shirt, getting a look at the damage. Her gaze flew to Asher’s. They both knew . . .
She only has moments.
“I . . . I did kill him.” Carla’s voice was even softer now. Barely a breath. “F-finally did it . . .” She smiled, a bare curl of her lips. “N-never saw m-me . . . c-coming . . .”
Asher saw it happen. The moment when she passed. The pain faded from Carla’s face. Her eyes seemed to glaze over. One moment, she was staring at Bailey, and the next . . . Carla’s eyes were still wide open, but she wasn’t staring at anything.
Gone.
So fucking fast. An instant of time.
“No!” Ben yelled. He tried to shove Sarah and Asher back. “No, she can’t do this! I didn’t mean to—she can’t do this! She can’t die!”
She had. She was gone. And when Ben finally got to her, pushing on her bloody chest, still trying to save her life, her body just rocked, just moved with the force of his hands.
“Please, no,” Ben said, and he had tears in his eyes. “Don’t do this.”
Asher slowly backed away. Ben was bleeding from a hit he’d taken in his side. The guy would need to go to the hospital. Get checked out.
But Ben didn’t seem to even be aware of his own injury. He was still pressing on Carla’s chest. Trying to get her to come back.
His first kill?
The young deputy’s body shook. “I—I just wanted to help her . . . I thought she knew . . . she knew . . . I was there to help her.”
Carla didn’t need help, not anymore.
Asher watched as Bailey put her hand on Ben’s shoulder.
An ambulance arrived to take Ben to the hospital. He climbed into the back, his expression so confused and lost.
Carla’s body had been covered in the cell. She’d be transported away soon, too.
“I can’t believe this fucking shit happened,” Wyatt said as he stood at Asher’s side. “She went for his fucking gun? Why? Did she have some kind of death wish?”
“I think she was afraid,” Sarah said, voice carrying only to them.
“Afraid of what? Going to jail because of what she did to Spawn?” Wyatt shook his head. “A deal could have been worked out. I told her that last night. She could talk, tell everything she knew about the Death Angel, and we’d work something out.”
The FBI had just pulled up at the station. They’d rolled up in their typical black SUVs. The doors opened. Agents in suits stepped out.
Bailey was silent as she watched Ben’s ambulance drive away. Asher put his arm around her shoulders. He knew she was taking Carla’s death hard.
She wanted to find the other survivor for so long. And she did . . . just to see Carla die.
And how was she taking the news that Carla had been in on the murders? Did she believe Sarah?
Does she believe me?
“I don’t think Carla Drake wanted to tell anyone anything else about the Death Angel,” Sarah said.
“Why the hell not?” Wyatt asked. “He’s dead. Putting a name on those remains would have marked the case as closed. It wasn’t as if she owed the bastard anything.”
No, she shouldn’t have owed him anything.
“Before those suits get up here,” Sarah murmured, “I have a question for you, Sheriff. Both Carla and Bailey had patient files with Dr. Leigh, correct?”
“There were files there, yeah, but—”
“What about the other victims? Were they also being treated by him?”
Asher felt Bailey’s jerk of surprise.
“I don’t . . . I haven’t been through all the case files.”
“The FBI is going to take over those files.” Asher saw the agents gauging the throng of reporters. No doubt, they’d be holding a big press conference soon. That was their deal. Establish the chain of command early on—by getting in front of every camera they could find. “We need to know that information, right the hell now.”
“Why—why would all the victims be seeing Leigh?” Wyatt asked as they all backed into the station. They hurried toward the small area that had been designated for evidence. “You think he was involved in some way?”
Bailey was too pale. Too quiet. Her gaze flickered from Wyatt to Sarah.
“I think victims are chosen for a reason.” Sarah would know—too well—how killers picked their victims. “I think a pattern exists and we have to find it. We know—right now—that both Carla and Bailey had ties to Leigh.”
“But Dr. Leigh didn’t know she was the other victim,” Bailey said, her voice little more than a rasp. “He didn’t know . . . not until the end . . . that’s when he came to my house, wanting to do a story. He said all along that I was wrong, dissociative, that—”
“Maybe he lied to you.” Sarah’s expression was grim. “Maybe he was a very, very good liar.”
Wyatt gave a quick start of surprise. “Carla . . . she told me something like that.” He shook his head, hard. “She told me that she lied all the time. I thought she was just bullshitting, trying to look tough . . .”
Asher thought—in that instance—that she’d been telling the truth.
Wyatt had picked up a big-ass box of folders—and the box was marked leigh files. He started thumbing through them.
“Maybe Leigh did know about Carla,” Sarah continued. “Maybe he knew a lot more than you believed.”
“Fuck. Here’s one.” Wyatt held up a folder. “Jamie Holiday. She was the second victim taken.”
Asher wanted that file. “What does it say in there?”
Wyatt hesitated. “Like I can show this to you. Patient rules—”
“Come on . . . now you’re going to throw rules at me? The FBI will be inside any minute. What does the file say?” Asher demanded.
Wyatt scanned the details. “Guilt complex. Her . . . her best friend drowned when they were sixteen. Jamie was swimming with her. She made it back to shore but the friend . . . she was never found.”
Bailey backed up a step.
Asher’s eyes narrowed as he considered all the angles with this case. “Carla said that she had a boyfriend once who taught her about breaking and entering.”
A furrow appeared between Wyatt’s brows. “Yeah, okay, so?”
“Cops got called to one of the break-ins. Carla slipped away, but the guy was busted. He died in jail.” And Carla had just died that way, too.
“A pattern,” Sarah said, nodding. “It’s there. No one saw it before.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, well.” Wyatt slapped the folder down on the desk. “I don’t see it now. So these two women might have seen Dr. Leigh, so Bailey saw him, too. It doesn’t mean—”
“I left my parents to die.” Bailey’s voice was that of a lost child. “We all left someone . . . and the guilt was destroying us.”
Death angels. They’d survived but had the killer thought they were supposed to die?
Wyatt stared down at the files. “If the other victims are in here . . .”
“If they had a similar experience, that’s our link.” Sarah started to pace. “We need to check those files. We need to see just why those other women—”
Footsteps. Raised voices.
Shit.
Asher turned and sure enough, the FBI agents were closing in. The agent in front, an older man with a bald head and slight paunch, frowned at them. “Sheriff Bliss?”
There isn’t going to be time to look at those files, not now.
“I’m Agent Henry Franco, and I’ll be taking point on this investigation from now on.”
Franco had kicked their asses out, pronto. But the guy had shown them one courtesy—instead of being fed to that frenzy of reporters out front, Franco had let them use the back door.
He’d also allowed Sarah to stay in the station. So, that was something. One point in their favor. Sarah’s name tended to still impress the FBI brass, so when someone was looking to break a case and build the perfect profile . . . her help wouldn’t be refused.
But Franco didn’t want Bailey anywhere near the investigation. And I wasn’t about to stay there without her.
She was silent as they crept toward her car. Far too silent. She was still shaken from Carla’s death, and Asher didn’t know what to say in order to comfort her. Maybe there wasn’t anything that he could say.
They walked past another car, one that had also been parked in the shadows, away from the crowd. A blue Honda with dark red dirt stains on the side—
Asher stilled. He glanced back at the blue vehicle, noting the way those stains slid over the door. A pattern there, and it didn’t look like the heavier material of dirt. It looked like—
Snap.
A flash went off right beside them, startling Asher for a moment. He blinked quickly and then—
A gun was pointed at him.
Richard Spawn—that fucking dick—had a camera dangling from a strap around his neck and the fat fingers of his left hand grasped a gun. Spawn smiled at him. And at Bailey. “Knew you’d come out, sooner or later.”
“Spawn . . .” Asher snarled. “Put down the damn gun.”
“Can’t do that. Got to get my exclusive first.” He licked his lips. “Bailey, come here.”
Asher shook his head. “Bailey, do not move.”
Spawn’s eyes turned to slits. “Bailey, if you don’t get that sweet ass here in the next five seconds, I’ll shoot your boyfriend. Right in the heart. How long do you think it will take him to die?” He had the gun aimed right at Asher’s chest.
After Carla, dammit, she knew how long it would take. “Bailey . . .” Asher rasped but it was too late. She’d already lunged toward Spawn. Traded her life . . . for mine.
Spawn grabbed her—fast and hard—and put that gun right under her chin. Then he smiled. “I did my research on you, Asher. I know just how to control you.”
You are a dead man, Spawn. “Since when do reporters grab victims like this?” Asher demanded as he took a lunging step toward them. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“I’m not reporting on the news any longer,” Spawn said, his smile stretching. “I’m making it. And by the time I’m done tonight, I’ll have the fucking best story ever.”
Asher shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
Spawn jabbed the gun harder against the underside of Bailey’s jaw. “How do you feel about sweet Bailey Jones?”
Asher’s gaze slid to Bailey’s face. Her expression was blank. Not afraid. Not angry. Just . . . empty.
“How do you feel about her?” Spawn asked again, voice roughened. “You seemed to lock onto her pretty fast. So that got me to thinking . . . maybe you care for her.”
“I do,” Asher gritted out. He more than cared.
“Let’s find out how much,” Spawn taunted. He backed up, with Bailey in front of him, the gun still shoved under her chin. But his right hand thrust down into his pocket and he pulled out a small key ring.
He pressed a button and the trunk popped open. “Get in,” Spawn said, jerking his head toward the open trunk.
Asher didn’t move.
“Want to see how much damage a bullet will do to her from this angle? I bet it will go through her jaw, maybe come out her cheekbone. Or maybe . . . maybe it will go straight through her brain.”
Bailey didn’t make a sound.
“Get in the trunk,” Spawn ordered. “Or I start hurting her. I start killing her, and that shit will be on you.”
Asher looked into Bailey’s eyes. Such gorgeous eyes. And he smiled at her. “It’s going to be okay, Bailey.”
She shook her head. “Don’t,” she whispered.
But he headed toward that open trunk. He climbed inside.
“Asher!”
“It will be okay.” The trunk slammed closed a moment later, sealing him in darkness.
Asher didn’t breathe for an instant, and then . . .
Then his hand slid down to his ankle. To the sheath that waited there. And he palmed the knife in his hand.
This scene won’t fucking end like before. I won’t watch while someone I love is hurt. Bailey won’t be hurt. Not while I’m near.
His fingers tightened around the knife.
Chapter Eighteen
Spawn shoved Bailey into the blue vehicle. “You drive,” he snapped. “The better for me to keep the gun on you.”
She cranked the car. His left hand held a steady grip on the gun.
“Figure since the lover is in the back,” Spawn added tauntingly, “you won’t do anything stupid like try to wreck the ride. Wouldn’t want to hurt him, right?”
No, she didn’t want to hurt him. Not ever. That was why she’d gone to Spawn, because she couldn’t bear the idea of Asher being shot.
Only look where we are now.
“Keep to the back roads. We’re heading out to a familiar spot. Got it ready last night. Had to find someplace to stay low after that bastard Dave turned on me.”
She didn’t know who the bastard Dave was. Her hands were tight around the steering wheel as she drove forward.
“We’re going back to the cabin,” Spawn told her, in case she hadn’t figured out what he was talking about.
I figured it out, asshole.
“Seems fitting, right? The survivor dies at the scene of the infamous crimes.”
He’s going to kill me and Asher. Her foot eased up on the accelerator.
The gun jabbed into her side. “Speed the fuck up! Because I can always shoot your ass now and dump your bleeding body in the backseat. You can get to the cabin by being conscious or unconscious—the choice is yours.”
Her foot pressed down on the accelerator again. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why? Why? Because I’m going to have the power this time. I’m going to be the one in the limelight. Not just chasing stories anymore, I’ll make them.” He laughed. “Figured out how to do that with the pretty redhead.”
Dear God, he means Hannah.
“I was out in the woods, after tailing you and that jackass in the trunk . . . and there she was. Just put right in my path like some kind of freaking sign. Everyone was already forgetting the Death Angel, see. No one wanted to buy my stories, so I thought . . . I’ll just make them all remember again.”
Nausea rolled in her stomach.
“Turn right at the fork,” he muttered.
This isn’t a damn Sunday drive, bastard!
But she turned right.
“I didn’t expect the rush.” He was talking and talking and making her cra
zy. “I mean, I always wondered why the Death Angel did it, but I didn’t understand, you know? Not until her blood was on me. Not until I stared down at her still body. Then I realized . . . I did that. I killed her. I took away her life.” He laughed. “And it felt really fucking good.”
You are so sick.
“I took pictures of her—because that’s what the Death Angel did, right? And it was what I did, too. When I took those pictures, I became him. I saw the world through his eyes.”
The Death Angel is dead. He doesn’t see anything anymore.
“I didn’t know how long it would be before someone found her body, so I figure I’d plant the camera at your place. I wanted you to know the Death Angel was back.”
“You’re not the Death Angel.” She risked a glance in the rearview mirror. Was Asher okay back there?
“Got to admit, though, you nearly screwed things to hell and back for me when you found the cabin before you found the camera. But, hell . . . how was I supposed to know you would go to the cabin?” he muttered. “Couldn’t believe that shit. I mean, I used that cabin because I’d found a note about it in one of Leigh’s files.”
Her head jerked toward him. Leigh’s files? The car swerved.
“Eyes on the fucking road!”
“What files? What are you talking about?”
“Who do you think hooked Leigh up with the book deal?” Now he sounded boastful. “I did. That was our deal. We were going to blow the Death Angel story wide open.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He laughed again, the sound so taunting. “You never had a clue, did you? Leigh and his obsession with serial killers. Why do you think he was so obsessed?”
Her sweaty palms slid over the steering wheel.
“Because he was one,” Spawn whispered.
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s not possible. He was—he was my shrink. He was helping me.”
“Yes . . . he was. He was helping you all.” More laughter. Grating laughter. “I figured that shit out. Me. Because I am the best damn reporter in the business. I don’t care what that hack Dave said.”
Who the hell is Dave?
“Turn left,” he barked.