CHAPTER 37 CHELSEA’S EYES POPPED open, the stink of sulfur burning her nostrils. The odor was immediately familiar to her, reminding her of the shooting range. She walked cautiously in the darkness, trying to get her bearings. Her head was muddy from the pills Elizabeth had given her. What had Elizabeth given her? Whatever it had been, it must have been strong. Once she pulled herself out of the thick fog, she realized she was standing in the living room. She fumbled for the lamp and flipped it on. Her breath caught. Boyd was lying motionless in front of her on the carpet. “Boyd?” He was lying still. Too still. There was blood on his beige jacket. A bolt of terror shot through her, quickly sobering her. “Oh, my God! Boyd!” She fell to her knees. What . . . what happened? The room shimmering in front of her eyes, she quickly saw that his chest wasn’t rising or falling. She pressed two fingers to his neck and searched for a pulse but found nothing. She tried a second time and got the sam
CHAPTER 38 LANG BANGED THE steering wheel impatiently with the heel of his hand as he tried to maneuver through Boston’s snarling traffic. Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony streamed through the car’s speakers as he looked out at Boylston Street jammed with honking cars. His police light was flashing, but there was no place for any cars to go. Lang weaved on to the shoulder and gunned the engine. He hit Chelsea’s number on speed dial again, but just like every other attempt, he was sent right to voice mail. Either she was on the other line or her phone was turned off. Shit! He felt an urgency to warn her about Elizabeth. Until he got to the bottom of who she really was, he needed Chelsea to stay away from her. Lang looked up from his phone, and his eyes widened. He slammed on the brakes and swerved, barely missing a startled pedestrian. Christ! Goose bumps broke out along his arms at the near miss. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a man waving his fist in the air. “Shit. Sorry, budd
CHAPTER 39 TWO DAYS LATER, Lang knocked lightly on the door of Chelsea’s hospital room. She turned her head and gazed at him. Her face looked pale and drawn beneath the fluorescent lighting. A nurse was at her bedside taking her blood pressure. Lang had found her in her apartment out cold, both wrists slashed, lying on the floor, close to Boyd Lawson’s body. Since she’d been rushed to the hospital, he’d visited twice, but both times she’d been sedated heavily and sleeping. Luckily, Garcia had been able to speak with her last night. Garcia told Lang that Chelsea reported she’d let Boyd into her apartment, and he’d tried to attack her with a knife. Garcia said so far, it appeared to be a clear case of self-defense. Lang pushed the door open and smiled at Chelsea. “I hear you’re staying another day or two for observation?” Chelsea blinked at him, her face expressionless. The nurse greeted him and stepped out of the room. Lang walked closer to Chelsea and held out the bouquet of lilies he’
CHAPTER 40 LANG PUSHED OPEN the door to the Springfield police station. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d seen Chelsea in the hospital, and he was still feeling gutted that she’d been the killer all along. There were so many unanswered questions. The most important ones: Why had she called herself Elizabeth? And did her mystery friend, Elizabeth Jessup, even exist? He’d watched the camera footage of her exiting the hospital via the freight entrance eight hours after the search had commenced. She’d gotten ahold of a pair of scrubs and a lanyard and could be seen walking out nonchalantly. There was an APB out on her. Her apartment was also being monitored, as well as her vehicle, credit cards, and cell phone. He’d received permission to assemble a task force and had just left the second meeting. Several cops were out searching for her, and calls to the tip line were flooding in and being verified. So far they knew that she’d used an Uber to drive her from a coffee shop six
CHAPTER 41 AN HOUR LATER, Lang sat in Dr. Swenson’s cramped office, which was housed in a small medical-office building in Chicopee, just outside Springfield. Dr. Swenson was the psychiatrist who had treated Chelsea when she’d lived with the Jones family. Per Delores Jones’s notes, Chelsea’s last appointment with him had created quite an upheaval. Lang wanted to know why. He’d been waiting for about five minutes when Dr. Swenson walked hastily into the room. “Sorry for the wait.” Swenson went to a cabinet and fished out a file, then sat down behind his sturdy mahogany desk. “I’m also sorry it took me so long to return your messages.” “Not a problem,” Lang said. He stood and handed Swenson the subpoena that allowed Swenson to talk about Chelsea’s case. He watched the doctor stroke his salt-and-pepper beard while he read through it. Then Lang brought him up to date, telling him about the Springfield Coed Killings. About Chelsea being wounded. The notes and subsequent shooting of Boyd, al
CHAPTER 42 BACK AT THE motel, Lang finished packing. He was taking a red-eye from Logan International to Miami International. There’d been several sightings of Chelsea in the area, and he wanted to meet with their FBI field office. “You’re saying Elizabeth might have committed those murders and Chelsea might not even know about them?” Janie asked, folding one of his shirts and placing it in his suitcase. “From what Swenson told me, it’s definitely a possibility.” “God, the things she’s been through in her short life. I feel horrible for the poor girl.” “Me, too.” Lang got a lump in his throat. He’d wanted good things for Chelsea. He’d been rooting for her. And now she might be dead, so to speak. As though sensing Lang was thinking about his owner, Harry jumped up on the bed and meowed. Lang pet the cat for a moment, then grabbed his carrier. He knew Chelsea had loved the cat, and he hadn’t had the heart to let Garcia’s officer take Harry to the pound. Janie had agreed to bring him to V
CHAPTER 43 ELIZABETH APPLIED HER makeup in the hotel mirror. Just outside her window, crystal-blue waters gently lapped the white sands of Key Largo. Canvas lounging chairs, hammocks, and palm trees dotted the beachfront, along with a dozen or so hotel guests. Mostly baby boomers, quite a few of them divorcées with money, sat drinking and talking loudly at a twenty-foot-long ocean bar. But she didn’t hear any of it. She was inside her head, remembering that Halloween night five years ago. After seeing a shit-faced Ethan and Christine beginning to flirt, Elizabeth reached up and took over. Hatred flooded her middle as she sat on the couch, observing. Ethan was with Chelsea, and Christine knew it. Pretending to be asleep, she quietly watched Ethan kiss Christine, then gather her in his arms and walk back to her bedroom. A minute later, thinking she was asleep, Amy retreated, too, to her own bedroom. All alone, Elizabeth sprang off the couch and paced the living room. They were disrespect
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS People often say that raising a child takes a village, and I know that was true for me with my twin sons. I have no clue how we would have done it without our village. And we were blessed to have an amazing one. Writing a novel also takes a village. At least, when I’m the one writing it. I’m so very grateful for those who helped me during the writing of this one, and there were a lot of you! First and foremost, a huge thank-you to my husband, Brian, who played Mr. Mom again while I worked day and night for many months on this book. A big thank-you to David Wilson for all his amazing help during the writing of this book. Thanks to Mom and Terry for always being there when I need anything. Sage Gallegos for emotional support and letting me use her desktop in Los Angeles when my laptop failed me. Thank you to Roger Canaff and Catherine Johnson for answering my investigative questions. Deanna Finn, Izabela Jeremus, and Ashley Previte for beta reading. Charlotte Herscher for
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2014 Alan Weissman #1 USA TODAY BESTSELLING author Jennifer Jaynes graduated from Old Dominion University with a bachelor’s degree in health sciences and a certificate from the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. She made her living as a content manager, webmaster, news publisher, medical assistant, editor, publishing consultant, and copywriter before finally living her dream as a full-time novelist. Jennifer is the author of The Stranger Inside, Never Smile at Strangers, Don’t Say a Word, and Ugly Young Thing. When she’s not writing or spending time with her husband and twin boys, Jennifer loves reading, cooking, and studying nutrition. Visit Jennifer at www
.jenniferjaynes.net.
PRAISE FOR JENNIFER JAYNES
“. . . intricately plotted . . . The action builds to a jaw-dropping conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Stranger Inside
“Talented Jennifer Jaynes turns up the intensity with her first standalone thriller: The Stranger Inside, an edge-of-your-seat crime thriller solidifying her place alongside the best of female crime writers out today!”
—JDCMustReadBooks
“Jennifer Jaynes writes a smart and twisty thriller that’s guaranteed to keep you reading well past bedtime . . . I am anxiously awaiting the next book.”
—Gregg Olsen, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of
A Wicked Snow (on Don’t Say a Word)
“Jennifer Jaynes serves up pulse-pounding suspense with a large helping of heart . . . She’s an author to be reckoned with.”
—J. Carson Black, New York Times bestselling author of
Darkness on the Edge of Town
“Jaynes dazzles with shocking twists and turns that will keep you riveted to the very last page.”
—Lisa Regan, award-winning author of Finding Claire Fletcher
“Jennifer Jaynes has quickly become one of my favorite writers. Her stories are deep, dark, and twisted . . . I can never turn the pages fast enough.”
—Winter Renshaw, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Royal
“The ending was mind blowing. There were so many shocking twists and turns one right after another, I was truly left speechless when I finished this one . . . Can’t wait to read more from this amazing author!”
—The Princess of Everything on The Stranger Inside
OTHER TITLES BY JENNIFER JAYNES
The Stranger Inside
Strangers Series
Never Smile at Strangers
Ugly Young Thing
Don’t Say a Word
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Jaynes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542046381
ISBN-10: 1542046386
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
For Christopher and Ryan.
You boys will always be my proudest achievements.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
November 1, 2010
The morning after Halloween
IT WAS ALMOST 1:00 a.m. A living-room window was half-opened, and a thin, lemon-colored curtain billowed out as chilly morning air streamed into the small apartment. A slice of streetlight illuminated blood spatter on the cheap beige carpet and the motionless body of a teenage girl. Blonde and slender, she lay on her stomach, naked except for a pair of low-rise blue jeans. Detective Robert Lang stood in the doorway of the apartment and assessed the scene.
Blood stained the far wall of the living room, and a crooked scarlet trail led into a darkened hallway. The apartment smelled like stale smoke, spilled alcohol, and the metallic odor of blood. Lang also caught another scent he knew far too well.
Fear.
No matter who the victims were, no matter their gender, religion, social class, or circumstances, the bitter, acrid stink of their fear always smelled the same.
Lang had been intercepted in the parking lot of the apartment building by a concerned neighbor who’d reported the screams to the 911 dispatcher. The neighbor told him the occupants of the apartment were three young women who attended Springfield College. He said that several of the building’s tenants were students, so random screaming and other loud noises were heard often—especially on nights like Halloween. But he said the screams he’d heard had been different.
As Lang’s eyes locked again on the girl’s body, his pulse pounded in his temples.
It never failed.
Even though he’d been working homicide for five years now, every new case felt like his first.
A voice called from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “You got here quick.”
It was a young officer named Brandon, the first responder on the scene.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Lang said, his voice hoarse with sleep.
“I’m still sweeping,” Brandon said.
Lang nodded. “I’ll be careful.”
Lang dug a pair of latex gloves and blue polyethylene bootees from his jacket pocket and slipped them on, then moved carefully to the body and knelt.
The victim was young, a year or two out of high school at most. Her head was turned to the side, and her milky-blue eyes were wide and staring. She had multiple stab wounds to her back and legs. Too many to count without a formal examination.
A couple of feet from her lay a white bath towel. An empty pizza box was splayed open on the coffee table, along with an empty whiskey bottle and a plastic two-liter bottle of Diet Coke.
“There’s another body. First room on the left,” Brandon said, pointing.
Lang stood and moved into the hallway. He stopped at the bedroom and peered in. Another girl. This one lay on top of her bed. Her sheets were twisted around her, and a pink comforter lay in a heap on the floor. A lamp next to her closet had been overturned, and blood was spattered across one of the walls.
He walked to the bed and squatted down to get a closer look. She looked about the same age as the first girl. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her face was a sickly white-gray, her mouth open as if frozen in midscream. Blood was matted in her stick-straight auburn hair, and it stained her T-shirt and jeans.
Sirens wailed in the distance as Lang got up to move to the other side of the bed.
Brandon yelled from across the hallway. “I’ve got something!”
Lang drew his weapon and moved carefully into the hallway, toward the sound of Brandon’s voice. He found the officer standing in front of the bathroom doorway, his gun also drawn.
“Movement.” He motioned with his chin. “Inside.”
Lang nodded the go-ahead and pivoted to the left. Brandon struck the door with his foot, sending it flying open and banging against the wall on the other side.
Lang rushed inside to find a young woman cowering in the corner of the tub. She was curled tightly in the fetal position, shivering
. The room was freezing. The odor of blood and the sickly-sweet scent of vomit hung in the air.
Lang looked up and saw the small window above her was wide-open, the wall leading up to it smeared with blood, as though she’d struggled to climb out.
His eyes flicked to a message scrawled on the bathroom mirror in what appeared to be red marker:
YOU MADE ME
Frowning, he went to the girl and kneeled next to the tub. Her clothes were drenched in blood. From the location of the bloodstains, he could see she had suffered multiple stab wounds, at least one of them deep in the side of her abdomen.
But she was still breathing.
Christ.
“Call for EMTs!” Lang barked.
She opened her eyes halfway and shielded her pale face with blood-covered hands. “Please . . . nnn . . . noo . . . ,” she whispered, her voice thready. “Plee-aase.”
“We’re the police. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Behind him, Brandon was making the call for an ambulance into his radio.
The tub’s porcelain bottom beneath her was slick with blood.
Too much blood.
He scanned her wounds to see if any were more severe than the others.
The girl slowly spread apart her fingers, revealing glazed, bloodshot eyes. Her dark pupils were grossly enlarged. Her blue, chapped lips trembled. “Oh, my God. Ethan . . .”
Lang snatched a white towel from a bar next to the tub and began to apply pressure to the side of her abdomen. She winced at the touch, and the towel immediately turned a deep crimson.
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