“I’ll send over a link. Probably take an hour or so.”
“Fine. An hour,” she told him. “Don’t make me come back out here.”
Tanner said nothing in response.
“I mean for the footage or for anything else. You best keep your hands to yourself from now on.”
Tanner frowned, mumbling something as he turned and disappeared back into the house.
Will slapped the top of Kylie’s patrol car and let out a little whistle.
Kylie’s gaze shifted from Tanner’s house to Will Merkel.
“You certainly told him,” Merkel said, his expression hard to read. Maybe he was impressed. Or maybe he thought she was about to fall on her face.
“Think he’ll send the footage?”
Merkel glanced back to the house. “No saying with these assholes.” He looked across the car at her. “If he’s got any sense in his head, he’ll send the footage now so he doesn’t get a repeat visit.”
As she returned to the warmth of the car, Kylie found herself smiling.
CHAPTER 29
IVER
Iver tried to focus on the stack of paperwork on his desk. He’d gotten behind with the record keeping. Way behind. But he couldn’t stand being in this space. Everything about being in the bar made Iver feel like scratching his skin off. He’d hated the bar since he could remember, his father’s place. The power that man had had over him. Still had over him even though he was dead. The very smell of the place—stale beer and dust and waitresses’ stress sweat—reminded him that every decision in Iver’s life had, in some way, been an effort to please his father.
His father had loved the idea of having a son who was an athlete, a soldier, a hero . . . Iver had been able to play along, checking all the boxes his dad had lined up for him.
Until the explosion.
And the hospitals. The pain. The drinking. The divorce. He thought again about Debbie. Surely she had heard about the dead woman. A year ago, he would have gone home to her. She would have been his alibi. She would have reminded him that the idea that he could have killed someone in a drunken rage was crazy. Impossible.
Iver stood from his desk, suddenly anxious to get out of the bar. Outside he pulled a Jack Daniel’s box from the top of the dumpster, glancing across the inside of the metal bin and imagining the woman who had been dumped there. You did not do that.
Shivering, he returned to the office and collected the paperwork from his desk, adding the receipt tapes from the past few days, the unfinished invoices, and the outstanding bills to the pile in the box. He tidied the surface, then stacked a couple of glasses to take to the bar. He checked around the desk and floor for any of his meds and patted his pocket to be sure he had his phone.
As he turned for the door, he remembered arriving Thursday morning to find Mike there with Sheriff Davis and the detective. He could still feel the excruciating pain of that migraine, like a scar that still ached when the weather changed.
There had been a glass on his desk when he’d come to his office to find his medication. A dirty glass, he remembered, with some sort of white residue in its base. He opened the drawer of his desk, but the glass was gone. Hadn’t he put it there? He opened the drawer above it, then the one below. The glass was gone. Its absence left a strange feeling in his gut.
He took the other glasses to the bar and left them in the sink, then returned to the office to do a final sweep. He loaded the box into the cab of the truck before helping Cal up as well.
As he started the engine, he imagined how nice it would be to walk away from the bar for the last time. Maybe his old friends like Mike wouldn’t get it, but he imagined Lily would understand somehow. How good it would feel to tell her he wanted to give up the bar. Then he wondered why he felt that way.
He glanced down the street in the direction of his house but turned toward Lily’s. He would check to see if she was okay. Had being in her home brought back memories? Only after leaving her there had he realized that she had no way to contact him. He would take her to get a phone, help her get settled into her unfamiliar life. He had known her well when they were younger. He could tell her about that time. Maybe it would help her memory return.
Iver thought about the smell of her when they’d been in the bathroom, the sensation of being close to her. The little jolt in his stomach when their skin had touched over the computer. How long it had been since he’d had that feeling about someone.
He’d just turned on Lily’s street when his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, hoping somehow it would have Lily’s name. But of course it couldn’t be her.
Instead, the name on his screen was Debbie, a little heart on either side.
He turned his gaze back to the road, wishing he could unsee his ex-wife’s name. Her name with her hearts, the way she had entered herself into his phone years ago. “I’m the woman in your heart,” she’d told him. The woman in his heart, the woman who had broken it to free herself. He hadn’t even realized it was still written that way. Why would he? They hadn’t talked in months. She’d been gone a year. More than a year now, he realized. She’d left at Thanksgiving the year before last. The marriage was over, but the damn hearts were still there. So what? He’d change it. He’d delete her from his phone.
As if it were that easy.
And why now? What did she want?
Unable to put it from his mind, Iver reached Lily’s block and pulled to a stretch of empty curb. “Damn it.”
He lifted the phone and read her text. Mrs. Waverly said your truck was at my house on Wednesday night. In the middle of the night.
His truck. Her house. He read the line multiple times before it made sense. The night Abigail Jensen had died. He’d gone to see Debbie.
She said you parked your truck on the curb and came to my door.
Iver searched his mind for some sliver of memory, some image of the house where she lived, the door. Had he ever been there? Yes, once. He’d come to bring her the rice cooker, of all things. He started to type, to ask her if they had spoken. Had she answered the door? But then he stopped. How could he ask that? He’d been there. He should know.
Stay away from us, Iver.
Stay away from us?
Iver stared down at the phone, at his ex-wife’s name with the stupid hearts. He had pushed Debbie away with his drinking and his inability to move past the pain and the memories. How many times had he woken in the night, a strange woman’s face staring at him, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle?
He had done it to save them, but then they had all died anyway. Hours later.
Everyone except him.
He glanced through the windshield and eyed the street where Lily Baker now lived. What was he thinking coming here? He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even help himself. She trusted him. She believed there had been someone else in his house, that it wasn’t Iver who’d attacked her. But what if it was? What if he had killed Jensen and attacked Baker?
He had no business being in her life.
He had no business being alive at all.
CHAPTER 30
LILY
Lily Baker didn’t know how long she’d been on the bathroom floor. When she opened her eyes, the room seemed to swim around her. A pounding echoed—in her head or maybe from the front door.
Tim Bailey was bent over her, his fist raised. “Lily Baker!” a woman shouted.
Tim paused, hand raised, and then swung his fist backward into the mirror over the sink. The glass shattered, large shards falling to the sink and floor around them.
More pounding on the door.
Lily cowered against the wall, tears streaking her vision. Tim clenched his fingers on her face, brought his mouth to hers, and kissed her hard. “You better figure out what the fuck you want.” Then he let go and slammed the bathroom door.
Lily rose again on her throbbing ankle and eased the door back open. Down the hallway, Tim stood at the door with Detective Kylie Milliard.
“This is
a private residence,” Tim shouted at her.
Detective Milliard stepped past him, one hand on her pistol. “It’s not your residence, though, is it?” Her gaze found Lily in the hallway. “You okay?”
Lily shivered, nodding, but she wasn’t okay. Please don’t leave, she tried to tell the detective. Don’t leave me here with him.
“Get lost,” Tim told her.
The detective took a step toward Tim. He took a step back as though by instinct. “If you’re not looking to get arrested today, you’d better step aside,” she warned him. “I’m here to speak to Lily.” She turned to Lily. “Is this the man who attacked you last night?”
“What the hell?” Tim shouted.
“No,” Lily said, thinking of the feel of that man, the smell of him, a kind of earthy scent. But it wasn’t just dirt. It was also sort of sweet.
“You’re sure?” the detective asked.
Lily had opened her mouth to respond when Tim swung back to her. “Tell this bitch to get lost, Lily.”
But Lily shook her head. Her fingers found the tender spot on her scalp where he’d gripped her hair, and she stepped across broken glass in her socks.
“I think you’d better be leaving, Bailey,” the detective said.
Tim took a couple of steps back to Lily, but Lily held out a hand. “No.”
Tim looked surprised. “What the fuck?”
“You should leave now,” the detective repeated.
Lily nodded.
Tim halted, mouth open, as he stared at Lily. “If I go, I take—”
He glanced back at the detective and snapped his mouth closed, lips turning into a smile as though she’d tried to trick him. He swayed. Had he been drinking? Or something else? He patted his pocket. “If I go, you may not see me again.”
“You got something in your pocket?” the detective asked, stepping between Lily and Tim.
He raised both hands and moved toward the door. “I got nothing.”
“Get out of here, before I arrest you on assault.”
“Assault, my ass. I didn’t assault anyone. I’m here with my girlfriend.”
“I am not your girlfriend,” Lily said.
“Fine,” Tim said, crossing his arms like an ump’s safe sign. “Not my girlfriend.” He backed onto the porch and started to turn toward the stairs.
“You better not be driving,” the detective warned as Tim walked down the stairs toward the street.
“No, ma’am,” he said, raising his hands to the sky. “I’m walking. It’s a beautiful day for a walk.” He gave Lily a last narrowed gaze and started toward town.
Lily didn’t take her eyes off the doorway until Tim was out of sight. Then she hurried down the hall on her tender ankle and bolted the door.
“Are you okay?” the detective asked.
Lily nodded, but she wasn’t okay. She was scared and alone. She was so alone. Had she been in a relationship with Tim Bailey? Had she let him beat her? For what? Drugs?
“Did he hurt you?” The detective set a hand on Lily’s shoulder, which made her jump.
“I’m okay now. Thank you.”
“Can we sit?”
Lily nodded and followed the detective to the living room, her living room, though it didn’t feel like hers. Nothing felt like hers. Lily sank onto the couch, and the detective sat across from her.
“Are you sure that wasn’t the man from last night? Your attacker?”
Lily fought chills. “Positive.”
“A hundred percent?”
“It wasn’t him.”
Milliard studied her a moment, then said, “There’s something I have to tell you, but I want to make sure you’re okay first.”
Lily nodded. “I’m okay.”
The detective studied Lily’s face as though searching for the lie. She was lying. It was all a lie. This couldn’t be her life. But it was. It had to be.
Milliard sat in a chair across from her and leaned forward. “You want to tell me about Brent Nolan?”
Lily gasped, pressed a hand to her mouth. “I don’t—I—” She shut her mouth. What could she say?
“Were you with him, Lily?”
She shook her head.
“We found your prints in his car. We know you were there.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. What had she done? What could she say? The truth. She could tell the truth. Someone had killed Abby and attacked Lily at Iver’s home.
“Were you in his car Wednesday night, the night Abby Jensen was killed?”
Lily said nothing as the detective stared, her piercing gaze almost a physical touch. The memory of huddling with Abby in the woods circled in her head. If she shared that memory, the detective would help her find out what had happened. They could catch the man who had been coming for them, the man who must have killed Abby. She opened her mouth to start when the detective said, “You were with Brent Nolan the night you said you were with Iver?”
Iver. Her one ally. The one person she trusted. By telling the truth, she ruined his alibi. “No,” she whispered.
The detective watched her, her expression tightening. “Lily?”
“No,” she said again. “I was with Iver, just like I said.” The lie came so easily. Because she needed it. Needed it to be true. It was all she had. She couldn’t help Brent now, and he couldn’t help her. But Iver was still here.
The detective leaned forward. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
“I’ve answered this question, Detective. More than once. I’m not answering it again.”
The detective sat back and nodded. “Okay.”
Lily exhaled and wiped her cheeks. She wanted the detective to leave. She wanted to go to Iver, to talk this all out with him. To figure out how to stay safe, how to stop whoever was doing this. “Is that all?”
“One more thing,” the detective said.
Lily waited.
“I got a call from the police over in Glendive, Montana.”
Lily frowned. The town meant nothing to her. Should it?
“That’s where Jenna Hitchcock had been living.”
Had.
“The third survivor.”
Lily’s mind raced in circles. “Survivor.”
Milliard nodded. “The third girl to come out of Derek Hudson’s cabin ten years ago.”
Right. There had been three of them. Her, Abby . . . and this woman. Jenna.
“She was found in a park.”
“Found?”
“She was killed, Lily.”
Lily shivered. Killed. Abby and Jenna. And her . . . she was the third.
The last.
Detective Milliard was suddenly beside her, hand on her arm. “You need to tell me what you know, Lily. Everything you know.”
Never talk to the police. No. That was Derek Hudson’s rule. But should she tell the police everything? Would they help her? Or would it only make matters worse?
“You’re not safe, Lily. Not until we catch this guy.”
Lily began to cry. Huddled, she shook and cried.
I can’t remember anything. Why couldn’t she say the words? Why was she so afraid to admit she’d lost her memory?
How could things get any worse?
Things could always get worse. The more she learned about herself, the more she hated who she was. What if she had done something to make this all happen? Not just Brent Nolan’s car accident, but also Abby’s death? And the other survivor’s, too? Jenna. What if this was all her fault?
“I need your help,” Milliard said.
“I can’t,” she said. And it was true. She couldn’t help. And she could be honest. “I don’t know anything.”
CHAPTER 31
KYLIE
Kylie Milliard left Lily Baker’s house as frustrated as she’d ever been. Baker hadn’t told her anything. She’d answered Kylie’s every question with, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” And Baker had been crying and shaking so badly Kylie couldn’t bring herself to push any harder. Kylie c
ouldn’t imagine what Baker had been through, how thoroughly her captivity had broken her. Kylie had noticed the scar on her left arm, the one that ran parallel to the veins in her arm. An old scar but a clear sign that Baker hadn’t had things easy.
But Kylie had wanted to shake some sense into her. Baker had to know what was at stake. Two survivors of Hudson’s captivity had been killed. She was the last one alive. Those were not good odds.
Kylie put a call in to Dispatch to have a patrol car stationed in front of Lily Baker’s house and didn’t pull away until the officer was parked. While she waited in the car, a light patter of snow collecting on the windshield, she texted Gilbert for everything he could find on Tim Bailey. Kylie knew Bailey from the hospital and around town, but she didn’t trust him. She wanted to know how the hell that creep fit into all of this. Had he been at Skål on Wednesday night? More than an hour had passed since her meeting with the charming Alvin Tanner, and there was still no email footage from him.
Damn him. Was she going to have to drive all the way back out there tomorrow? The coroner’s report had come in, and she was looking forward to reading that, but she felt like she had little to show for the morning’s efforts. And the day was almost over. She glanced at the clock and saw it was almost four. She wondered if there was any chance she might be able to catch Sarah Ollman, the pastor’s daughter.
Did pastors work banking hours? There was only one way to find out.
With Baker under surveillance, Kylie drove the four blocks to the Ollmans’ house, a large Victorian with intricate woodwork and shingles of various colors. It was the kind of thing you would expect to see in a wealthy neighborhood of San Francisco, not in Hagen. The official lodging of the church’s head pastor, the house was situated one block south of the church. Ollman had lived there since sometime in the nineties. A house like this, it was almost enough to make someone consider the seminary.
Not Kylie, but someone.
Kylie left her car at the curb and walked up the stone path, cautious on the ice, and rang the bell. A small dog barked, the noise growing closer, until she could imagine the pint-size thing directly behind the door. Kylie rang the bell again and stepped back to look up at the second floor. A shade shifted, and Kylie lifted a hand to wave. It was harder to avoid a guest at the door once they’d seen you. From the size of the person in the window, it was either Sarah Ollman or her mother. It would be awkward to explain why she was there to Mrs. Ollman. Kylie assumed the woman didn’t know that her seventeen-year-old daughter had been in a bar on Wednesday.
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