by Mary Stone
Heart beating faster, he waited for the large file to load.
Then he simply stared at it.
A young man, clean shaven, with black hair and vivid blue eyes stared back.
Aiden heard O’Connelly’s chair scrape against the floor, he felt the man move to stand behind him. Heard him ask a question he couldn’t comprehend.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest hurt from a surge of anxiety so intense, he thought for a moment he might be having a heart attack.
“Know ‘em?” O’Connelly asked.
The question broke the spell, and O’Connelly jumped out of the way as Aiden pushed his chair back from the table, nearly overturning it in his haste.
Without a word, he headed to his office, his mind screaming, No, no, no.
He found the file, pulled out the picture, laid it on his desk.
Stared and stared.
It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.
But it was.
Pulling out another folder filled with random pictures, Aiden placed the one on his desk in with the rest. Then he was out the door, his mind still screaming, No, no, no.
Jabbing his thumb at the down button of the elevator, he stared at the seam of the doors until they opened.
“Oh…hi,” Winter Black said, looking startled as he barged in before waiting to see if anyone needed to get off.
Christ.
Looking into her vivid blue eyes, he was filled with too many emotions to name. “Hi,” he managed only because he was able, just barely, to lock every single one of those emotions away as he jabbed the button for the basement floor.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t managed to lock them away completely successfully. “I’m good. You?”
She smiled, although the movement of her lips seemed hesitant. “Yes. I…” she blew out a breath, “I scheduled an appointment to speak with Cameron Arkwell, and he approved my request for the meeting.”
Aiden narrowed his eyes, trying to process her statement. “Why would you do that?”
Winter’s hands went to her braid of black hair, and Aiden’s own hand clamped down on the folder he held.
“With the messages from my brother,” she licked her lips, “I was thinking it might help me to help him when we finally meet to better understand how his mind works. By interviewing Cameron Ark—”
“No!”
The word was closer to a roar, and Winter took a step back, her hands coming up as if to shield herself from his rage. Anger quickly replaced the surprise on her pretty face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do!” she shouted back, this time with a finger poking at his chest.
The door opened, and someone was about to step in, but Aiden pointed at the man. “Not now.” Hands up, the man stepped back, and the door slowly closed. Aiden held his thumb on the “stop” button, ignoring the warning sound that rang out.
Winter pulled at his arm, trying to force him to release it.
He wanted to shake her. “Winter, listen to me.” He didn’t know how to finish. He couldn’t do this now. Not in his state of mind and certainly not in an elevator. This wasn’t the time or place. For him, or for her.
Using both hands, she pulled his arm away, and the irritating loud sound stopped, and the cart began to move again. “I’m done listening to you. I’m not a child.” She jabbed at the button for the next floor.
“Winter, I’ve got something to—”
The door dinged, slid open, and she slipped out. He watched her stalk off and didn’t even try to follow. Just as the door slid closed, she turned and lifted both hands to flip him off, blue eyes flashing.
Could he blame her? In the elevator mirror, he flipped himself off too.
He was sweating by the time he reached the basement floor. His head was pounding, his chest aching. He needed to gather himself.
Heading straight into the men’s restroom, Aiden locked himself inside. He tossed the folder onto the back of the toilet and promptly threw up, heaving and heaving until nothing but bile hung in a long strand from his mouth.
It took a long time before he could straighten, and when he did, he staggered to the sink to splash cold water onto his face. He soaked a few paper towels and pressed them to the back of his neck.
Minutes later, he was breathing normally again. His face wasn’t as pale. But he gave himself another few minutes to pull his shit together.
Straightening his tie, he smoothed down his suit jacket, and finger-combed his hair back into place. Taking a mint from his pocket, he tossed it into his mouth before picking up the folder and opening the door.
He was ready.
He hoped.
The cell in which Phil Rossway was being held would be considered a luxury suite by normal prison standards, but Aiden didn’t want Rossway to be reminded in any way that he was being held as a prisoner. Instead of going inside the cell, he instructed the guard to bring the hacker to the small conference room, then went on in and poured them both a cup of water.
Phil Rossway looked as exhausted as Aiden felt when he walked into the room and took a chair.
“Any word on my father?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Aiden lied without blinking.
Breaking the news would come later. Now, important matters needed to be settled.
“We appreciate your cooperation with the sketch artist,” Aiden began. “I’d like you to now examine each of the pictures I lay out, see if you recognize any of them.”
One by one, Aiden placed the random photos of random men on the table, placing the one he’d pulled from the other file somewhere in the middle.
“Him. That’s White Ghost.”
It hadn’t taken more than a cursory glance for Rossway to tap the picture Aiden had already known he’d choose.
It had come from a folder inside a folder, really. A folder marked “Jaime Peterson,” and the picture had been taken from the yearbook of Bowling Green High School.
The kid had offered the camera a small smile, but there was something in his blue eyes that caused the hair on the back of Aiden’s neck to stand up.
His stomach churned some more.
He wasn’t looking at the picture of White Ghost. He wasn’t even looking at the picture of Jaime Peterson.
He was looking into the face of Justin Black.
34
Chelsey Jones hated her damned job. She didn’t mind cleaning, and she didn’t mind hard work, but people and their slobby ways just pissed her off.
But what pissed her off more was the memory of her deadbeat husband still snoring in bed while she’d fed the kids, gotten them off to school, taken the baby to the daycare that cost too much, then trudged into the job that paid too little.
“Disgusting bastard,” she muttered as she picked up a used condom from the floor with a wad of toilet paper. The double layer of rubber gloves she wore didn’t feel like enough protection from the pot smelling room and the nastiness left behind by the previous guest.
She snorted. Management made her call the asswipes “guests,” like the no-tell motel she worked at was the freaking Hyatt instead of the flea-ridden place most guests used for only a couple of hours.
Well, except for the last room she’d cleaned. It had actually been spotless. The bed hadn’t been slept in, the sinks and showers hadn’t been used. If it hadn’t been for the chair that had been pulled away from the table, she wouldn’t have thought another soul had entered it since she’d cleaned it the day before.
“But that’s not the typical guest at this fine establishment,” she said, chuckling at her humor. Then she got excited when “Good as Hell” came up next on her playlist. Lizzo always made doing any chore much easier. So, for the next few minutes she tossed her hair and checked her nails while she got the room ready for the next guest.
She jumped when her radio squawked on her cart. “Chelsey, this is base. Report in. Over.”
Chelsey snorted again, adding an eye roll for extra measure. Manageme
nt of this fine establishment had lost their freaking minds. They weren’t soldiers on a battlefield. She thought about the condom and the other landmines she sometimes encountered and decided that maybe they were.
Playing along, she used her best military voice. “Base, this is Chelsey, reporting in. Over.”
“Chelsey, add 316 to your list. Over.”
Chelsey frowned and backed out of the door to look down the concrete walkway. Room 316 still had the “do not disturb” sign on its door. She reported this newsflash back to base, almost forgetting to add, “Over,” at the end.
“They haven’t paid, and it’s hours past checkout. Knock and go in. If it’s still occupied, call for backup. Over.”
Sigh. If she hadn’t still been wearing nasty gloves, she’d bonk herself on the forehead.
“Sure thing, base. Chelsey signing out.”
“Base, over and out.”
She almost corrected the manager. She’d learned while watching a documentary on the History channel that real military didn’t use both “over” and “out,” since the words were basically redundant. But she needed her job and the lead manager didn’t think he could ever do no wrong, so she kept her knowledge to herself.
Finishing the current room, she applied a liberal dose of air freshener around the space, holding her breath until she could escape onto the landing. If she didn’t die from HIV or hepatitis, her lungs would surely one day explode from all the chemicals she used on a daily basis.
Pushing her cart down to 316, Chelsey pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and knocked on the door. She waited for ten seconds before knocking again. After another wait and another knock, she used her master key to access the room.
“Housekeeping,” she called as she slowly opened the door. “Anyone here?”
Once, she’d done this very thing, only to find a man masturbating on the bed. The even more dumbfounding thing was that he wasn’t as equally mortified to have been found in such a position. Instead, he bobbed his eyebrows and asked if she’d be willing to “finish him off.”
She really hated people.
As she opened the door, it took her mind a few seconds to process exactly what she was seeing.
Blood.
So. Much. Blood.
The air was thick with it too, and she gagged as she inhaled, practically tasting the copper scent on her tongue.
“Aaaaaa…” She tried to scream, but the sound got stuck in her throat.
She once watched a documentary on a medical channel, and she learned why we make the stereotypical scared expression when something frightens us. It was interesting. Our eyes grow wide so we can see the danger coming, our mouths and noses flare so we can bring in the needed oxygen we need to run and escape.
Chelsey could only imagine the face she was making now, even after the initial shock of seeing the nearly decapitated body on the floor. What allowed her to finally scream, finally turn and run, was the cross drawn on the wall in what could only be the man’s blood.
And the word. The single word written below it.
Judas.
Mariah Young checked both locks on the hotel room she and her father were staying in, then lifted up on tiptoes to make sure the swinging bar latchy thing was closed all the way too. For good measure, she pushed the chair in front of the door then looked around for something else.
“Honey,” her father said, “we’re safe here. I promise.”
Tears welled in Mariah’s eyes, and she wanted to shout that she’d heard that lie before, that they were supposed to have been safe in their home with their new security system and look what happened!
But she didn’t.
Her daddy looked too tired and sick to fight back. The doctor said the hole in his shoulder had gotten infected, so they’d had to get some medicine to make it better again.
On the way to the hotel from the hospital, they’d picked up take-out for dinner. Chinese was one of her favorites. Her father’s too. But while she had gotten her normal orange chicken with noodles, her dad had only ordered a bowl of sweet and sour soup.
She watched him closely. Watched him labor to lift the spoon to his mouth, the lines on his face growing deeper.
“Let me help.” Mariah sat on the side of the bed and took the hot plastic bowl from his hands, then carefully fed him one bite at a time.
She had to make him stronger. Make him better. She had to do everything in her power to make him not die too.
What if he did die? What would happen to her?
Would she have to go to an orphanage, like Orphan Annie? Or go into the dreaded foster care system?
No.
She had grandparents who loved her. Aunts and uncles too. But as much as she loved them back, she didn’t want to live with any of them. She wanted her family back. She wanted her mom. She wanted Sadie. She wanted her house and she wanted her bed.
“You okay, champ?” her father asked, and Mariah realized she was holding a spoon full of soup about six inches from his mouth. Making herself stop being stupid, she finished raising it, giving him his bite. With a wince, Timothy Young reached out and touched her hand. “Honey…talk to me. You know you can.”
It was true. She knew she could talk to him. The problem was that the words refused to come into her brain. She was just too sad. Too afraid. Too lonely for her sister and mom, but she couldn’t tell him that because it would make him sad too.
So, instead of talking about what was hurting her heart, she talked about school and how she didn’t want to go back because she hadn’t been able to study for the math test coming up before school broke for Christmas.
“I’ve already talked to your principal, honey. We agreed that, under the circumstances, you wouldn’t have to go back until school starts back again in January.”
The news was both good and bad. She really had been worried about the math test because she had to study extra hard in math. But that wasn’t the real reason. The truth was that she was even more afraid of all the kids staring at her. Pointing. That’s the girl whose mom and sister were murdered. She could almost hear the words being whispered.
At the same time, she was sad to miss all the Christmas fun. There was ugly sweater day, and pajama day, then her choir concert she was supposed to have a solo in. And the parties and presents. Mariah and her mom had already shopped for her teachers’ gifts. What did she do now? Just throw them away?
But even while she was thinking such things, she felt terrible. Here she was all upset over some parties and presents when her mom and sister were dead and not even buried yet. The funeral was tomorrow, and she didn’t want to go. But her Aunt Lisa had already brought her a new dress and new shoes and everything, so she guessed she’d have to.
She was a terrible person. Maybe she should have been the one who died. Sadie would never be worried about presents or people looking at her or going to a funeral if something terrible had happened to her.
It was all so confusing. Overwhelming. Mariah had never felt so much grief. And guilt.
She wished that she had just died too.
“Honey…?”
Mariah blinked, realizing she had tears on her cheeks. She rubbed her face with her arm, wiping them away before sniffing hard, trying to keep the rest at bay.
“Do you remember the therapist you saw that one time?”
She nodded slowly. The therapist she’d been so jealous of after Sadie had just about almost died. She really was a terrible person. “Yeah.”
“What do you think about me making you an appointment to see her?”
Mariah just stared into her daddy’s soup, then remembered she was supposed to be feeding him and gave him a bite.
When she didn’t answer, he went on, “I think it’s a good idea, and I think I’ll see a therapist too.”
That surprised Mariah. “You will? The same one?”
Tim Young smiled. “No. A grown-up one.”
Mariah studied her father’s face, trying to see if he was being serious. She
could remember overhearing him and her mother fight about the therapy bills for Sadie, so learning that he’d be willing to pay for therapy now came as a surprise.
Maybe he really was serious. Or maybe he just thought there was something really wrong with her.
That didn’t make her feel any better.
He swallowed the next spoonful of soup she gave him, then he closed his hand over hers. “That’s enough for now, sweetheart.”
She looked worriedly into the plastic bowl. He hadn’t eaten very much, but he did look really tired and pale. She was tired too.
“Would it be okay if I took a bath?”
He actually looked relieved. “You need to eat first, sweetheart, then you can soak for as long as you want.”
Mariah made herself smile and put the lid back on the bowl before climbing onto the other bed with her chicken and noodles. But like her father, she wasn’t very hungry either and just kept pushing the food around, only taking a little bite when he looked over at her.
When she couldn’t stand the thought of eating another bite, she closed the lid and set it on the table between them. Her dad was sleeping now, so she tried to be very quiet as she dug through the bags Aunt Lisa had brought them from the mall.
They’d needed everything new since they weren’t allowed to go back to their house. It was a crime scene, her father had told her, so Aunt Lisa had bought them new shampoo and pajamas and clothes.
Mariah wrinkled her nose as she pulled out a bottle of Johnson & Johnson shampoo and conditioner. She wasn’t a baby, but when she opened the top and took a deep smell, she had to admit that the scent was comforting. Pulling the tags from the new pajamas, she took everything into the bathroom and started the water, making it extra hot.
It wasn’t until she sat down, lowering herself under the water until her hair swirled all around her like a mermaid’s that she allowed herself to really cry. Breaking back to the surface, she covered her mouth so her father wouldn’t hear and just cried until all the tears disappeared. Then she washed her hair, left the conditioner on for a full two minutes like her mom taught her to do.
“You don’t want a rat’s nest in your hair, do you?”