Campbell Hall was one of the newer dorms, about five blocks away. But Justine would have to walk through the old section of campus, which was often deserted and a bit scary late at night. There were too many trees, gardens, and saintly statues lurking along the way. As she crossed Maple Hill Road, Justine kind of regretted not letting Darrell walk her to the dorm. All the windows were dark in back of the old mansion that was now the administration building, Emery Hall. The place always reminded her of a haunted house.
A slight chill blew in from the lake, and Justine rubbed her bare arms. She’d worn a sleeveless top, foolishly thinking more visible skin might bring her more luck with the guys.
As she hurried past Emery Hall, Justine glanced around and didn’t see anyone else in the area. She’d thought more students would be out partying on a Saturday night. Now she wished she hadn’t stayed so long at the party and drunk so much. She felt her stomach rumble—a bad combination of nerves and Pabst Blue Ribbon. She peeked over her shoulder. The party house was at least a block away now. She didn’t notice anyone on the street or the sidewalk in back of her. But then, she blinked and she could have sworn someone had just darted behind a tree. It was far enough away that Justine wondered if what she saw was real. Or maybe it was merely her beer-fueled imagination running wild.
She picked up her pace and hurried past another dark, empty, spooky building.
“Hey, pretty lady . . .” someone called in a low, teasing singsong voice. “Where are you going?”
The voice came from behind her. Her heart racing, Justine didn’t dare look back. After a brief hesitation, she walked faster—toward the lights and wide open space of the quad. Maybe she’d see a few students milling around there.
But the place was deserted. Grub Hub closed at two. All the lights were out in the student union building.
“Are you all alone, pretty lady?” the singsong voice called in sort of a stage whisper.
“FUCK OFF!” Justine finally screamed. Then she started running.
Her dorm was still about two blocks away. They locked the lobby door at two. She’d need her key to get in.
Justine kept moving and didn’t look back. In only a block, she’d pass the boys’ dorm, O’Leary Hall, and if she screamed, at least someone there would hear it. Someone would help her.
She raced through the quad toward the dorms. Behind her, more and more distant, she heard his laughter—an awful, menacing cackle.
“Justine!” he called.
He knew her name. How long had he been stalking her?
Justine tried to keep running, but she had to slow down to find her keys in her purse. Where were they?
Frantic, she hurried past O’Leary Hall. She didn’t think she had the breath to scream.
Just a little farther and she’d reach her dorm. She kept rifling through her purse.
Glancing over her shoulder, she didn’t see anyone. There were fewer trees in this newer section of the campus, fewer places for her pursuer to hide. Had he given up?
At last, she found her keys.
Staggering up to the glass door to Campbell Hall’s lobby, Justine tried to get the key into the lock. But her hand was shaking too much. “Calm down,” she managed to tell herself between gasps for air.
She finally inserted the key into the lock, opened the door, and ducked inside.
Still trying to get her breath, she shut the door behind her. She looked out the glass door for her tormentor. But she didn’t see anyone.
Justine felt dizzy and nauseous as she tottered through the lobby and reached the elevator. She pressed the up button. The doors opened immediately. Stepping aboard, she pressed the button for the third floor. As soon as the doors shut, her phone rang.
She reached into her purse and grabbed the phone. She thought she might be sick. Her hands were still shaking. She saw the caller ID: Johnston, Darrell.
“Good God,” Justine murmured. “Give up already. I’m not interested.” She let it go to voice mail.
She decided to wait until her hands stopped shaking before she called the police. Or maybe it was something she needed to take up with campus security. Either way, once they heard her explain what had happened, they’d probably put it together that she was drunk.
Still, she needed to call them. It was pretty damn creepy that the guy knew her name.
The elevator doors opened. Her legs wobbly, Justine headed down the quiet, empty third-floor corridor to her room. Her phone beeped, signifying that Darrell had finally finished leaving his stupid message.
Her hand shook a bit less as she unlocked her door. She pressed the icon on her phone screen to play back Darrell’s voice mail. Then she opened her door and stepped inside the darkened room. She was about to switch on the overhead light when she noticed that Stephanie’s bed was occupied. Her roommate had planned to spend the weekend with her boyfriend. But she must have had a change in plans.
Justine left the light off. She closed and locked the door behind her.
Hi, Justine! Darrell said in his voice mail. It was too loud. Justine realized she must have put her phone in speaker mode. Darrell laughed. That was me following you. I was just clowning around. I’m sorry. I didn’t’t mean to frighten you . . .
“Idiot,” Justine muttered under her breath. The speaker mode was still on, but she managed to turn down the volume a bit. She glanced over to see if Darrell’s babbling had woken up Stephanie.
The covers shifted, and someone sat up in the bed. But it wasn’t her roommate.
It was a man.
In the darkness, Justine couldn’t make out his face—only his outline as he climbed out of Stephanie’s bed.
He had a gun in his hand. That much Justine saw.
She let out a little shriek and dropped the phone.
. . . But I have to admit, it was kind of funny to watch you take off like that . . .
Justine froze.
“Don’t scream,” the man whispered. “Sit down at your desk. Then everything will be f ine.”
I just wanted to make sure you made it back to your dorm safely. Looks like you did . . .
Terrified, Justine felt her stomach lurch. She did what he said and slowly sank down into her desk chair. She felt him creeping up behind her. “Is—is this another joke?” she asked in a shaky voice. She tried to laugh, but it just came out as a whimper. “Do I know you?”
“I know you,” he whispered. “Justine Michelle Everly. Someone else had those same initials, and she died fifty years ago tonight . . .”
Hey, I’m still here in the quad if you want to come back. I’ll apologize in person. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I hope you’ll forgive me. I’d really like to get together with you sometime. Are you free next weekend? I think you’re really nice ...
Trembling, Justine felt the man’s hands covering her ears—until she could hardly hear Darrell talking anymore.
“Here’s the important question,” the man said, hovering behind her. He seemed to ease off the pressure against her left ear so she could hear him. “Will you come with me, Justine? Will you let me take you under the little bridge over by the library? It’s not too far. Would you like to die there?”
She started to cry. “No . . .”
“Then I’ll have to kill you here,” he said.
Suddenly he jerked her head to one side.
The last thing Justine heard was Darrell’s muffled voice—and the horrible sound of her neck snapping.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I think something has happened to him & it’s the worst feeling in the world.
Judging from the lights dimming, I’m pretty sure it’s been 3 days since he’s talked to me over the speaker, 4 days since he’s restocked supplies & emptied out the toilet. It smells awful in here, and the air is so stagnant. I’m surprised I haven’t suffocated yet. There must be a vent hidden somewhere up near the ceiling.
Otherwise, I’d be dead.
I’m down to 1 & ½ bottles of water & a granola bar.
I’m thirsty & hungry, but I’m trying to pace myself in case this is it for the next few days. I hate that he’s made me rely on him so much. The thought that he’s gone & might not be coming back (maybe dead or in an accident) scares the shit out of me. I keep thinking I’ll die in this place before anyone finds me. It makes me feel so hopeless . . .
Eden realized a while back that she couldn’t break out of the shed on her own. She couldn’t knock down the door, manipulate the lock, or tunnel her way out. In all the time she’d been a prisoner, she hadn’t heard a single voice outside except his. There were no traffic sounds. She hadn’t even heard a dog barking. So it wasn’t likely anyone would come to her aid. Her only chance for escape was overpowering him when he collected her trash and restocked her supplies.
Time seemed to go by faster as she planned her surprise attack. Poking a hole in the black pillowcase only took a few minutes one night. She’d hunched over the work, and kept her back to the camera. She would watch him through the hole in the pillowcase. She’d come to realize the point to her putting the black pillowcase over her head was not so that she couldn’t identify him later, but so that she remained blind and helpless while the shed door was open. She’d already tested the pillowcase to make sure the hole was at eye level—and it worked. She would have the pen on the cot where she could quickly reach it. She’d wait until he was emptying the toilet. Of all the chores during his brief visits, that one probably took the longest. She imagined he might even wince and close his eyes as he poured out the shit and urine. That was when she’d tear off the pillowcase and lunge at him with the pen.
Eden’s need for food and supplies wasn’t what made this long wait for his “restocking” visit so excruciating. No, it was her champing at the bit for the opportunity to carry out her plan and escape.
In the meantime, she thanked God for Daphne du Maurier. For a couple of days, Rebecca gave her something to do, something to take her mind off of this place. She’d already started reading it again.
She’d also written at least thirty pages in her journal. She worried about the pen running out of ink. She read the journal over and over, too. It was like a lifeline—someone to communicate with, even if it was just herself. She hadn’t realized how much she’d written in her journal over the summer. Reading it now took her back to the sights, sounds, and smells of Seattle. It took her back to all the adventures on her own and to all the little dramas at home during the last two years with her adopted family. Reliving these episodes through her journal entries made her so terribly homesick. She just ached inside and sobbed. But strangely, the entries filled her with hope, too. Her journal felt like a connection to the outside world—her world, before it was reduced to this tiny space and these four awful walls.
“I see you’re writing in your journal, Eden,” his voice said over the speaker.
Startled, Eden sat up in the chair at her tiny desk. She quickly shut the diary.
“It’s very therapeutic, isn’t it?” he said. “Well, no more therapy for you, Eden. You lost that privilege when you poked a hole in your pillowcase. You thought I didn’t see that? I see everything, Eden. I’m like God. I’m going to restock in about five minutes. I want you to leave the journal and the pen there by the door with your chamber pot and all the other garbage . . .”
“No!” she cried, glaring up at the camera and hugging the diary to her chest. “You can’t do that . . . please, don’t take it away . . .”
“You can leave Rebecca there with the trash, too,” he said, talking over her protests. “But you may keep the Bible. It might do you some good to read those passages about obedience. Now, you know the drill. I want you on the cot, with the pillowcase over your head. Just make sure the hole is in back. Hands behind you . . .”
Getting to her feet, Eden stared up at the camera. She shook her head over and over. “Please, let me keep it,” she begged. Tears filled her eyes. “It’s the only thing I have in here that I care about. Please? I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do anything to make you mad again . . .”
She heard a little click, which must have been him turning off the speaker or whatever he used to listen to her. She’d just heard something else, too: her pleading with him, promising to be a good little prisoner—until he was ready to slit her throat.
Eden hated herself for whining, begging, and sucking up to him like that.
She started shaking as she set the trash bag by the door—along with the shit-pot and Rebecca. A rage built up inside her. It wasn’t just the horribly disappointing failure of her escape plan. It was giving up her journal that infuriated her.
And she’d be damned if she’d let that asshole read it.
She set the pen down by the door. Then she stared at the diary in her trembling hand. Before she knew it, Eden started ripping the pages from her journal and tearing them up into small pieces. Something about this wild act of defiance gave her a little jolt of pleasure. She couldn’t stop herself. She kept tearing apart the diary and throwing the shredded pages up in the air. The page edges sliced into her fingers and gave her paper cuts. Some scraps of her writing rained down with blood on them. She finally threw the empty binder at the door.
Eden stopped just short of picking up the shit-pot and hurling it across the tiny room. She came to her senses before letting that happen.
Exhausted and gasping for air, she plopped down on the cot. The floor was littered with bits and pieces of paper that bore her handwriting. She was hot and sweaty and miserable. But she felt she’d won a tiny victory. Too bad the cost was so dear.
She finally got her breath and stood up. She felt a bit dizzy. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she wandered over to the corner of the shed. Her hands were still shaky and bleeding as she reached over to the near-empty supply shelf and grabbed the black pillowcase. She sat down on the cot and put the pillowcase over her head like a good little prisoner.
As she started to lie down, she heard him talking to someone, his voice, faint and muffled outside the soundproofed walls.
I’m tired, Mama . . . You’re asking too much of me . . .
That was all Eden heard as she lay facedown on the cot and put her hands behind her.
She realized she’d been right earlier: Someone else was making him do all of this. It was just like the Immaculate Conception Killer. He was doing it for his mother.
But Eden didn’t hear another voice.
Was he on the phone? Or was he talking to himself?
It was so quiet out there now.
Eden kept waiting to hear the key in the door lock.
She knew he was able to watch her every move on his phone—thanks to the camera overhead. That was how he knew when she was in position for him to come in. She wondered why he was taking so long. Was he still on the phone with his mother? Or was he simply lording his power over her and making her wait in this submissive, uncomfortable position with the black pillowcase over her head? Eden wondered how much longer she would have to lie there. She counted to one hundred.
“I’m ready!” she finally called in a shaky voice.
No response. She waited a little longer.
“Are you out there?” she called.
“You’re not getting anything until you clean up the mess you’ve made,” he finally answered over the speaker. “Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow. I have a lot on my plate—including a very dangerous mission . . .”
Eden sat up and pulled the pillowcase off her head. She looked up at the camera.
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d pray nothing happens to me. Pray hard, Eden.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Monday, September 21, 9:34 A.M.
“It was an accident,” Detective Castino said.
“Oh, come on, give me a break!” Ellie said into her phone. She was headed across the quad toward Campus Grounds for some coffee-to-go before her ten o’clock class. “I warned you this was going to happen—and damn it, in this case, I really hate being right. Did my two texts and the photos I s
ent yesterday make any impression on you at all?”
Ellie had gotten only a few hours of sleep after Nate dropped her off at the townhouse early Sunday morning. She’d woken up at eight-fifteen and immediately checked online for news of any local deaths. She’d tried different combinations of keywords: Our Lady of the Cove, Death, Delmar, Bridge, and Student. But she hadn’t come up with anything. She’d called a friend at the Tribune for breaking news about the death of a student from Our Lady of the Cove. All they’d had was the brief report about Diana’s “suicide” last week.
Ellie had started to think she’d been wrong and maybe all her worrying had been for nothing. But late Sunday afternoon, she’d found something on Instagram. A senior at the university, Laurie Tanner, had been jogging at 5:30 in the morning when she saw a girl sprawled at the bottom of the stairs that wound under the bridge near the campus library. By the time the local police and paramedics arrived, several students from nearby dorms had taken photos of the scene and posted them on social media.
Ellie examined the photos before they were pulled off Instagram because of their disturbing content. The dead girl’s sleeveless top was bunched up, exposing most of her stomach, and one of her shoes had fallen off. It was just like Jane Marie Eggert fifty years ago.
After more digging around, Ellie managed to find out the identity of the victim. The girl was a junior named Justine Michelle Everly—J.M.E., the same initials as Jane Marie.
Ellie had fired off two texts to Castino last night, pointing out all the similarities between both deaths—exactly fifty years apart. She’d included photos of the two dead girls. She figured he could no longer debunk her copycat killer theory.
Castino hadn’t called or texted her back last night.
But he’d picked up when she’d called him ten minutes ago.
As she neared Campus Grounds, Ellie slowed down. She stared at the stone bridge just beyond the quad. Strips of yellow police tape blocked the stairway access. She couldn’t help thinking—for the umpteenth time—that she and Nate had chosen the wrong bridge for their stakeout on Saturday night.
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