Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  She started her jeep and shot him an evil grin. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Such a pain in my ass … ” He propped his arms on her door and leaned his head through the open window. “Look, I’m not gonna push about this O’Shea guy—I think we’ve both had enough personal growth for one day.” He leaned his forehead against the outside of her car and looked down. “Just promise me if things get tight, you’ll let me in.” His tone was easy, but she knew he wasn’t going to let her leave until she gave her word.

  She pressed in the clutch and threw it into Reverse. Letting him in would be a mistake. She had no idea who or what O’Shea had become. All she knew was just thinking about it scared the hell out of her. She’d already made the mistake of involving Nickels, and look where that got her. “If things get tight, there might not be room for you.”

  “Then we’ll make room. Partners—remember?”

  She nodded. “Partners. And for the record, Nickels and I are friends. Just friends.”

  “That’s too bad. Nick’s a great guy.” He stepped back so she could leave. She pulled out of the station lot and turned right, toward home, then took a glance in her rearview mirror. She wasn’t at all surprised to see a truck pull away from curb and force itself into traffic.

  She was being followed.

  Sixteen

  Taco night was in full swing at Casa Vaughn when Sabrina arrived. Val liked to match music to food, so tonight’s selection, old-school Vicente Fernandez, blasted through the open windows of the house. Grateful Val and the kids liked their music loud, Sabrina killed the headlights before she pulled into the drive and quietly shut her car door. She’d hoped to stay below the radar until she could get rid of her unwanted guest, but he had different ideas.

  “Alone at last,” Sanford yelled at her from the street. He vaulted the pretty picket fence and crossed her lawn in broad, uneven steps. He was drunk. Perfect. Just friggin’ perfect.

  “Why are you here, Sanford?” She watched him advance, closing the space between them to just a few feet.

  “Why am I here? I don’t have a job, I’m living on a barstool, my wife took out a restraining order against me, and you’re at least partly to blame. So you tell me, where else would I fucking be?” He leaned into her space and jabbed her in the chest with his finger. What was it with this ass-clown and the poking?

  She took a deep, slow breath and a step back. “Don’t touch me.” Drunk or sober, Sanford was an asshole, but at least he had slightly better judgment when he was sober. She shifted her body into a defensive stance, ready for a fight.

  He smiled. “Whaddya gonna do,” he sneered and closed the gap between them. “Shoot me?” He drilled his pointer into the center of her chest again.

  Okay, asshole. Game on.

  She snatched his finger off her chest and bent it back until she heard the pop. Sanford howled and swung wildly with his free arm. She blocked the blow with her forearm and gave him a hard crack in the nose with her elbow. Stunned, he tried to stumble back, but the grip she had on his finger kept him tethered. She delivered a face-crushing head-butt that drew blood, and he swung again, this time clipping her in the side of the head. Pain shot through her temple, but it was fleeting.

  He caught her in the ribs with a ham-handed jab that stole her breath. She used the grip she had on his finger like a rudder and shoved him backward, jerking him to the side before she let go. The force, and the fact he smelled like he was sweating pure booze, sent him stumbling away from her. She used the time and space that created to shed her jacket.

  As soon as it hit the ground, Sanford zeroed in on her SIG. He stood a few feet away, cradling his abused finger, dripping blood all over her cobblestone walkway. Instead of giving him second thoughts, the sight of her gun seemed to give him hope.

  “Now we’re talkin’.” The relief in his voice was obvious.

  Holy Hell. He really wants me to shoot him. “Don’t do it, Sanford,” she said. He ignored her warning and started toward her. She closed her hands into fists, raised and ready for round two.

  “Is there a problem?”

  She shot her gaze to the right to find Michael O’Shea standing on the sidewalk just a few yards away.

  Sanford turned toward him and glared through the blood. “Mind your own business, asshole.”

  Michael appraised Sanford with cool amusement. “When I see a drunk guy harassing a woman in her own front yard, I tend to see that as my business.” He spoke calmly, but she saw it—the shifting of body weight, the cool amusement turned to cold calculation in his eyes. It told her if she didn’t intervene, Sanford would get exactly what he was looking for.

  “Who the hell are you?” Sanford said.

  “Just a guy, out for a walk, who happened across a situation he feels uncomfortable with ignoring,” he said, welcoming Sanford’s full attention.

  She took a few steps back, widening the distance between her and Sanford, before she unholstered her SIG and aimed it downward. “Sanford, give me your car keys.”

  “What?” He rounded on her belligerently, saw the gun held at her side.

  “I said give me your goddamn car keys.”

  Without a word, he fished them from his pocket and held them aloft. “What if I don’t?” He gave them a little shake before closing them into his fist. “What if I just charge you, see who comes up the winner?”

  “Take one step in my direction, I’ll put a bullet in your knee. It won’t kill you, but you’ll have to hang up your tutu and kiss your dance dreams goodbye.” She gave O’Shea a quick glance. “That goes double for you, Mr. Can’t-Mind-My-Own-Business.”

  “Smart-mouthed bitch … one of these days, you’re gonna get what’s comin’ to you.” He tossed the keys at her feet, and she stepped on them. He snarled and started toward her. She aimed her gun directly at his knee. The movement stopped him cold.

  “Yeah, one of these days … but not today.” She waved him off. “There’s a bus bench in front of the park. Go sit on it, I’ll call you a cab. Your truck will be at the station tomorrow. You can pick it up there,” she said to Sanford.

  “I’m not taking a fuck—”

  “Yes, you are. You’re too drunk to drive. Leave. Now, before I put one in your leg for bringing this shit to my house. And don’t ever come here again. If you do, I will kill you,” she said.

  He smiled. “Good to know,” he said and took a few steps toward the street. He passed through the gate, eyeing Michael the entire time. Michael leaned against the fence, hands stuffed into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, watching him walk away.

  Sanford stopped just past gate and turned toward Michael. “What are you looking at?”

  Michael chuckled then shrugged. “I don’t know … you’ve got”—he took a hand out of his pocket and waved it at Sanford—“something on your face.”

  Sanford used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the blood. He smiled and took a half-step in Michael’s direction. Sabrina intervened before he had a chance to respond.

  “You,” she jabbed her finger at Sanford, “get the hell out of here.” She turned to Michael. “And you—shut the hell up.”

  “This isn’t over.” Sanford turned his back on her and started walking.

  “Yeah, that’s what you keep telling me. See you later.” The tension leaked from her system with every step he took, but she didn’t holster her gun.

  With little more than a glance in his direction, she bent down and collected Sanford’s keys before making her way toward the front porch. She took a seat on the top step and stared across her yard at the man by the fence.

  Michael looked at her for a few moments before he pushed the gate open and crossed the lawn to retrieve her jacket. Bringing it to her, he held it out, but she refused to accept it. She preferred to keep both hands wrapped around the gun dangling between her knees. Waiting
another beat, he tossed the jacket on the porch.

  “You broke his finger.” The thought seemed to amuse him.

  “No, I didn’t. I dislocated it.”

  He laughed. “You can put that away now,” he said, nodding toward the SIG.

  “I like it just where it is.” Her eyes locked on his face. “What are you doing here, O’Shea?”

  He flashed her a killer smile. She tightened her grip on her SIG and waited for him to start spitting lies.

  “Melissa—”

  Her spine snapped tight, encased in ice. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay, Sabrina … I wanted to apologize for this morning. Lucy knew I was going to be in the area, and she asked me to look in on you. I really didn’t think you’d recognize me.” The explanation soun-

  ded completely reasonable, and it would have been enough to placate her if it were true.

  “Liar.”

  The smile didn’t fade; it blinked out like a switch had been flipped. In its place was a carefully guarded expression that gave away nothing.

  “He killed my sister,” he said quietly. The words carried the force of a wrecking ball. They hit her square in the chest, nearly knocking her over.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Liar.” He threw her word back at her with vicious smile. It held for a moment before his face gave way under the weight of his grief. He looked away from her for a moment, seemed to be wavering, choosing his words, before he turned back to look at her. “I need your help.”

  She stood and reholstered her gun at her side.

  “No.”

  He made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh and nodded his head. “You don’t even know what I want.”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea, but it really doesn’t matter. The answer stands.” She turned to leave. What he wanted from her was obvious. It would be what she’d want from him if she were in his place: he wanted her to go back to Jessup with him so he could bait the hook.

  Not gonna happen.

  “Let me ask you something … do you feel even a tiny bit guilty you’re alive? I mean, don’t you feel like all those dead girls are at least partially your fault?”

  “What?” she said. His words rooted her in place. She turned to stare at him while the porch steps rolled beneath her feet like the deck of a ship. She turned around to face him. “What girls?”

  “Really? You thought he stopped with you? Guys like that don’t do what he did to you and then just stop.” His tone was hard. Cold.

  She shook her head, still unwilling to believe. “No. I would’ve heard—”

  “He likes waitresses. Young ones with blue eyes. Spreads it around—

  Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas. Sticks to small towns with podunk sheriffs who couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a map. He’s disciplined. Careful. He only takes one a year. Guess when?” he said.

  His words sucked the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. October first. Today. He was hunting today.

  “He takes them and—poof—they’re gone, never seen again. Frankie was number fourteen last year. My guess? He’s looking for number fifteen—if he doesn’t have her already.”

  Liar. He’s a liar. He’d say anything to get her to do what he wanted.

  “How do you know? If the police can’t put it together, how did you figure it out?”

  “I have unlimited resources, and I’m highly motivated.”

  His answer reminded her she had no idea who or what he was. Not anymore. She turned her back on him, surprised she found her way up the last of the steps without stumbling. She turned to give him another look. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my family.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to help me.” He bared his teeth in another vicious smile. “One way or another.” He backed away from her until he was standing in the glow of the streetlamp. The sullen young boy she remembered was gone. In his place was a hardened man who would not take no for an answer.

  “Oh, and a word of advice? Stop digging into my background. You’re going to get your boyfriend killed. I’m staying at the Brewster place. You want to know something, just ask.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m warning you.”

  “Don’t come back here.” She wanted to run. Instead, she crossed the porch slowly and pushed through the door. She closed it with a quiet click and engaged every lock in an impressive row of chains and deadbolts.

  I’m staying at the Brewster place. You want to know something, just ask …

  The Brewster place was a B&B, one street over—directly behind her house. She looked out the foyer window. He was gone.

  Seventeen

  Sabrina did her best to bury it. The fear, the worry—she tossed it in a hole she’d dug in the back of her mind and did her best to cover it up. But it was still there.

  Her life was unraveling.

  Valerie made dinner while she helped the twins with homework. Afterward they played Scrabble. For just a few hours, she’d tried to pretend everything was fine. She’d laughed and joked, teased and played—but every time she looked at Riley, she imagined her trapped in the dark, with nothing but the sound of her own screams and the smell of blood to reassure her she was still alive. That she hadn’t died and gone to hell.

  “Mom? Can I?”

  She looked up. Jason was staring at her, Scrabble tiles in his hand and a concerned look on his face. Game over, she and Jason were putting the game away while Val and Riley loaded the dishwasher. Somehow, over the years, she’d become mom instead of sister—a natural progression of time and the love they both felt for her.

  “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “I asked if I could use the car this weekend,” Jason said, tossing the handful of tiles into the box. “I asked Staci Greene to the movies.”

  “Ohhh, the infamous Staci with an i,” she said, and Jason blushed. He was a good-looking kid with hair a few shades darker that his twin sister’s auburn color. Where Riley’s heart-shaped face was finely boned, Jason’s was more masculine, his features a bit broader. But they both had the most heart-breaking blue eyes Sabrina had ever seen. Sometimes looking into them was hard, but she did it now, ignoring the twinge of fear she felt in her gut.

  “Yeah, Mom, Staci with an i … so, can I?”

  Her hand found the lapis band around her neck and squeezed.

  The look of concern on Jason’s face deepened into a scowl. “Mom, are you okay?”

  She smiled again, quickly averting her eyes, concentrating instead on folding the game board and placing it in the box. Jason had always been the sensitive one. He noticed things.

  “Fine.” She nodded. “I’m fine, kiddo. Long day, that’s all. If you can wrestle the keys from your sister’s iron grip, then I don’t have a problem with it.” She arched an eyebrow at him and narrowed her eyes. “You do understand that I expect you to treat Miss Staci with an i with respect, right?”

  “Mom.”

  “Just sayin’,” she said with a shrug.

  “I understand. Besides, getting the keys from Ry won’t be hard. She has a date,” Jason said in a sly tone that had Sabrina’s head jerking up.

  “A date. Riley has a date? With who?”

  Jason cast a quick glance at the door connecting the kitchen and dining room to assure they weren’t overheard.

  “Jimmy Bradshaw.”

  “Jimmy? Little League Jimmy? Braceface Jimmy?” She felt marginally better.

  “He’s nose ring, blue mohawk Jimmy these days. Anyway, he asked her out.” Jason didn’t seem pleased, and truthfully, neither was she.

  He killed my sister …

  Worry gnawed at her. Somehow she’d managed to delude herself into thinking that even though he was still out there, the man who k
idnapped and tortured her had stopped with her. That he hadn’t hurt anyone else. Michael was right—she was smarter than that. “Would I be completely terrible if I asked you to push for a group outing rather than a one-on-one thing?”

  Jason looked reluctant. “Me and Jimmy don’t exactly hang any-

  more.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He got all weird after he didn’t make varsity last year.” Jason put the cardboard top on the game box and put it away.

  “Sounds like he needs a good friend.”

  Jason laughed and shook his head. “My mom—the gun-toting humanitarian.”

  “Jason.”

  He rolled his eyes at her but softened it with a smile, “Okay, okay—I get it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, see if he’s down with it.”

  “Thanks, kiddo.” She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. When she pulled back, he was giving her that look again.

  “I know something’s wrong. You always do that when you’re upset,” Jason said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Do what?”

  “Hold on to your necklace.”

  She looked down. Her hand was wrapped into a fist on her chest, the lapis band clutched tight. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. She looked up to give Jason a half-hearted smile and a lame excuse, but she found herself alone.

  Eighteen

  Michael let himself into his room and locked the door before taking a quick look around. Other than fresh sheets and clean towels, the room was untouched.

  He stooped and pulled out the case, set it on the bed. He punched several buttons on the coded keypad and popped its top. Guns. Laptop. Prepaid cells. Cash and documents. He bypassed it all and pulled out his binocs. He took the chair from the small writing desk and set it in front of the window before retrieving the bottle of Glenfiddich from the dresser.

  Sabrina didn’t believe him. She didn’t trust him—had no reason to. Goddamn it, he’d come at her straight on, been honest, and she’d flat out refused to help him. She was the beginning, the point from which all roads led. Way he saw it, she was the reason girls were dying.