One Last Breath

by Sarah Sutton

  She turned her head to the other side. She didn’t even think to sit up. Her mind was still too clouded by confusion. But she needed to see what was around her. Her vision cleared slowly as she focused on the rest of the room. She could see a desk, a chair, a computer. Images taped to the wall around them, but they were too far, and she was too tired to make out what they were. The light above her was the only one in the room, and it cast a shadow over the wall, making whatever hung upon it less visible. But she needed to see, she wanted to know what they were.

  She placed her hand on the ground, pushing herself into a sitting position as the room spun. She squinted at the images as she grabbed hold of a beam in the middle of the basement and pulled herself up to standing. As she stood, she heard floorboards creak above her, and a recent familiar feeling flooded into her body as if to shake her mind fully awake—it was fear. It was an instinct. And suddenly the recent events pierced her mind in fractured memories. The flat tire. The ride. The… She stopped herself. She couldn’t quite remember what happened next. She remembered a wrong turn and then an excruciating pain in her head. Her hand moved to her temple, and at the slight graze of her fingers, she winced in pain. Her heart began to pound. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew it wasn’t where she was meant to be.

  Again, she looked toward the pictures on the wall and walked toward them, taking a closer look. They were newspaper clippings and printed Internet articles. But as Justine looked even closer, her eyes widened. Each article showed images of young girls that she most certainly recognized. They were the missing girls she had seen from the news, their bodies found on the beach.

  Justine suddenly felt sick as she stared at images of the crime scenes, of investigators scavenging the beach for bodies. She stared at the girls’ images. How could I have been so stupid? she said to herself as she remembered getting into the man’s car. It was him all along. The realization made her head spin harder. It was hard to believe. She had served him so many times at the restaurant; he was kind and charming, everyone loved him. As the thoughts ran through her head, reality sank into the pit of her stomach. She knew each of the girls on the wall thought the same.

  The floorboards creaked above her, and Justine looked up. The sound was just over where she stood. She could hear him pacing, chairs moving, as if he were rearranging. Her heart quickened. It was only a matter of time before he knew she was awake, and she scanned the room for an escape. There was a series of unfinished wooden stairs in the corner of the room. She walked closer, only to see a door leading to the floor he sounded on. It was no use. She needed another way.

  Her eyes wandered until they spotted cement stairs leading into a dark crevice. She walked toward it quietly, carefully placing each foot lightly upon the floor, until she was close enough. She gazed up the stairs. There were a set of metal cellar doors, and her heart leapt. She scrambled up the steps. If I could just open them, I could run, she said to herself and then stopped in her tracks. She could still hear him moving about above her. He had not heard her, but she knew pushing the doors open would certainly make a sound. She studied the doors. There was no latch; she would just simply push them open, and her heart pounded from anticipation and fear. It seemed too good to be true. But she needed to wait for the right moment, or he would surely hear her.

  He had stopped moving furniture around, and Justine felt panic swell at the thought of her opportunity escaping. Only silence echoed from above. She had no clue where he stood, or what he was doing. Did he hear me? She was about to just go for it, to push the doors open and run, but then she heard his footsteps again and another push of furniture across the floor. Justine didn’t wait; as the movement vibrated the ceiling above her, she pushed at the doors. They opened slightly. She could see light filter between them. She pushed harder, but the doors did not budge further. They were locked, and tears welled in her eyes, and the doors fell back down, their metal clanking together.

  It was a sound he had to have heard. She was sure of it. She listened to the floor above her. His footsteps had stopped. He was no longer pushing anything across the floor, and an uncomfortable feeling prickled down Justine’s spine. She looked around the room. She had no defense. She needed an object, something to hit him with when he came down. She quietly tiptoed to his desk. She scanned every edge of it, but all that sat upon it was a computer and a mouse. There was nothing she could use as a weapon.

  Suddenly, his footsteps quickened above her, growing louder and closer as they approached the basement door. Without any other defense, Justine quickly flattened against the wall where the stairs ended. I have to try she thought as a tear trickled down her cheek. She would hit him before he even knew she was there, and then she would have an escape. She could run up the stairs. Her last ounce of hope danced frantically in her thoughts as the door swung open and he descended the stairs.

  She could hear his cynical laugh before speaking her name. “Justine,” he called. “You awake?”

  Three more steps, she said to herself. Two, one.

  She swung around the corner, already punching and kicking, and she swung at his face, but he caught her arm in his grip. She kicked her leg out, attempting to hit him in the groin, but he bounced back before sending a punch right into her jaw. She stumbled back, falling to the floor as she screamed out in pain and blood pooled from her mouth. She felt her face. Her jaw was now shifted to one side, and she couldn’t bear to open it.

  “Nice try,” he said as he walked casually to her. He bent down next to her. It was as if he were assessing her wound. “They always try to escape but never do,” he added. “It’s always fun to watch your prey run wild before you catch it again.” He let out a sinister laugh as he shook his head. He reached for her hair and slammed her head into the floor.

  Justine’s mind swirled into a haze. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She could hear him move about the room, and he bent down beside her again, grabbed hold of her ankles, and tied something around them. It was painfully tight, and she winced, but she still couldn’t move as he did the same to her wrists.

  He grabbed hold of a tarp in the room and rolled her into it, encasing all of her. She felt him lift her up, tossing her body over his shoulder, but she had nothing in her to fight back. He carried her up the stairs, through the house, until she heard the opening of a door, of a car unlocking, a trunk unlatching, and she was tossed inside. She now knew her fate, and she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She wanted scream, but no sound could fill her lungs.

  He pulled the tarp down by her face and smiled at her. She could see a string held in his grip, but she still couldn’t move. He pressed it up against her throat, harder and harder. Justine gasped for air. She wanted to claw at him, but her hands were tied. She wanted to scream, but she had no air, and her vision faded into blackness.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Tara stared down at her GPS as she placed her phone down in the middle console. She had just pulled out of the parking lot moments ago, and she was already ten minutes from the reporter’s house. She waited for Warren to pick up as her palms began to sweat onto the steering wheel. She wasn’t sure what he would think. If he would be annoyed that she drove all the way out to Dewey Beach without him knowing. If he would be frustrated that she was still investigating.

  “Mills.” Tara’s thoughts were interrupted. His voice was tinged with urgency, and it caught Tara off-guard. She wasn’t expecting it. Does he already know I went off on my own? she worried. “I was just about to call you,” he added. “Another girl went missing.”

  “What?” The turn of conversation shook her, and she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her instincts were right, and at that thought, Tara’s blood ran cold. “When?”

  “This morning. I just got a call.” His voice was rushed, and she could hear him moving about as if he were heading out the door. “She’s a waitress, never came home last night. Her roommate called it in.” Tara heard the closing of a door behind him. “I’m alrea
dy headed to the restaurant now. Where are you? Are you driving?”

  He could hear the hum of the motor, the distance of her voice on speaker. She knew she just had to say it, and knowing another girl went missing, she now felt more confident with her choices. “I am,” she said. “I’m near Dewey Beach.” She paused a moment, but Warren waited for her to continue. “I was having doubts last night about Ben. I came out here to ask around the coffee shop again. I think I may have a lead, but I’m not sure.”

  “What’s the lead?” Warren didn’t even sound angry. His thoughts were fully on the case, and he wanted all the information she had.

  “There’s a crime reporter from a local station. He’s been at every scene, usually the first one there. I knew he looked familiar. But he apparently goes into the coffee shop a lot, he knew Reese. Apparently she had a crush on him.”

  “And he’s the type of person someone would take a ride from.” Warren finished her sentence.

  “Exactly, and he would know a thing or two about how to conceal evidence. He’s also someone who would possibly have a camera.”

  “Where are you headed now? I’ll meet you there,” Warren said, sounding rushed.

  “To his house. I called him. He gave me an address. I told him I knew he was following the story and wanted to see what he knew.”

  “Mills,” Warren sighed. Tara could hear the concern in his words. “You need to wait until I get there. It could be a trap.”

  “I know,” she said abruptly. She was now realizing more than ever how dangerous of a situation she was entering. But she also knew she had no time to wait. And it could take Warren close to an hour to get there.

  “I can’t wait for you,” she replied. “But I’ll call Sheriff Patel.” She knew that he could send backup, which would protect her during the time Warren took to get there. “If that girl could still be alive, we might still have a shot at saving her. If we wait…” Her voice trailed off; she couldn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t have to.

  Warren sighed again. It was clear he understood. They both knew she couldn’t wait for him. She wasn’t going to let another girl get murdered. “What’s the address?” Tara read it off to him as he entered it into his GPS. “It’ll be forty-five minutes,” he sighed. “Please just do me a favor and don’t go in there before backup gets there.”

  She agreed that she would wait, and after hanging up, she immediately called Sheriff Patel. He picked up instantly.

  “Patel, I need backup,” she said without a second to spare.

  Patel didn’t skip a beat. “Whereabouts?”

  She gave him the address before explaining whose home it was and why she was heading there. “There’s a strong possibility this could be a killer. I need backup there immediately, but no sirens. This could be a potential hostage situation if he still has a victim. I don’t want to raise his suspicion.”

  Patel understood. “My guys are all out on scenes right now, but I’ll rally them up and send them over. Give me ten minutes and someone will be there. You’ll see an unmarked vehicle across the street. You’ll know it’s us.”

  They quickly hung up.

  Tara stared out at the road, her fingers clenched tightly around the wheel. She was almost there, and as the car sped closer, an unwanted memory sprang into her head. It was the previous case she worked on––her reckless decision putting her in an almost fatal position. It surged into her mind like a warning, but Tara shook it off. This was different. Warren knew where she was, and backup was on its way. At that thought, she buried every trace of the voice telling her to wait for Warren.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tara stood on the doorstep of a split-level home at the end of dead-end street. She did one circle around the block before arriving, hoping to buy backup some more time, but it was all the time she was willing to give. She looked behind her—still no unmarked car where Sheriff Patel said it would be. She looked at the clock on her phone. It was now five minutes past when he said they would be there, and she knew any moment they would pull up. She didn’t want to waste another minute. She had waited long enough.

  She knocked on a large wooden door with three square window cutouts on the top that were too high for her to see through. She waited a moment. There was no car in the driveway, Tara noted, but she could see a light on, assuming that any car was in the garage.

  Within moments, she could hear someone moving toward the door. It swung open to reveal Dan Asher with a smile from ear to ear. He was wearing suit pants, a button-down shirt, and tie. He had just finished his shift, Tara remembered, but his clothes were perfectly unwrinkled, as if he had only worn them for a short while.

  “Agent Mills,” he said as he put out his hand. His grip was firm and his shake was hard. “Come in,” he added as he opened the door wide. Tara stepped into a living room that was immaculately clean and organized. The walls were made of shiplap, the floor a dark finished wood, with dark gray furniture throughout. “Take a seat,” he said as he gestured to a couch and sat down on a loveseat opposite.

  He was remarkably welcoming, and it made Tara relax as she began to question her suspicion toward him. “Thank you for seeing me,” she started. He nodded without hesitation.

  “I just hope I can help you,” he replied. He knitted his eyebrows in concern as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. His concern seemed genuine and took Tara by surprise.

  “You’ve been following this case, correct?” Tara asked.

  He nodded. “Since the beginning, when Ashley White went missing.” He straightened up, pressing his back against the couch as he shook his head. “It’s terrible. The poor girls in this town. Everyone’s on edge.”

  It was a bit of a strange remark, Tara noted. His focus not on the victims but on the terror it ensued in the community, but she didn’t bring attention to it. Instead, she pushed forward. “And you knew Reese?”

  He sighed and nodded. “I used to order coffee from her.” He spoke to the floor as he said the words, and then he lifted his head. “That’s as much as I knew about her, though.” He shrugged.

  “Did she ever mention anyone? Anyone she may have been meeting after work or speaking to?”

  He shook his head. “I wish she did. Believe me, I wish I could help.”

  Tara took out her phone. She still had the pictures of the house fire from the memory card, and she flicked one open. She already knew the images were Ben Ford’s, but she wanted to see his reaction. “Do you know who might’ve taken this photo?”

  He leaned in closer, studying it, but only for a moment before he sat back into his seat. “It looks like a house fire we put on the news. I think a couple weeks ago. There were a few reporters there with camera crews, though; it’d be tough to know.” His eyes veered to one side of the room, as if to avoid any eye contact as he straightened awkwardly. But then at Tara’s gaze he suddenly relaxed and turned to her. It gave Tara a strange feeling, as if he had for a split-second morphed in and out of character.

  “Was anyone from your station there?” she asked. Again, she wanted to see what he would say, what his body language would reveal.

  He nodded. “It doesn’t look like any footage I saw, though. I’m not sure if it came from our station. Were there any other pictures on the memory card?”

  He stared at her, waiting for a response, but he hadn’t even realized what he had just revealed. Tara’s heart quickened as the reality of the situation dropped into the pit of her stomach. She never mentioned a memory card. They hadn’t even released that information to the press or public.

  “I never mentioned a memory card,” she replied.

  He stared at her a moment, as if understanding what she just said and what he had just done. She could see a flicker of panic flash in his eyes, until he chuckled, making light of it. “I just assumed. If it was taken at a scene, it had to have come from a memory card, right?” As he spoke, he awkwardly rubbed his knees with his hands, and as Tara looked down at the
m, she could see swelling and bruising around his knuckles. It looked fresh and new.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  He looked down at it and then flinched, pulling it toward himself. “I…uh,” he stuttered. “I take boxing a couple days a week to stay in shape. Hit a bag too hard.” He smiled, stroking his hand. But Tara could tell he was lying. He was witty. He was not someone who would stumble on the truth or even a lie that was well thought out. But on the spot, anyone would.

  Silence sat heavy in the room, and for a brief moment a sound echoed in the distance. At first Tara wasn’t sure what she heard, but as she looked at his face, it was clear that he heard it too. The same terror Tara saw a flicker of before burst into flames in his eyes.

  “What was that?” she asked as she stood up. It was a banging from down the hall, and now Tara could hear it more consistently. She began to walk toward it. “Mind if we go see what that is?” she asked. Every inch of her mind pulled her forward. She needed to see what it was. She could feel the air in the room was now different.

  He nodded, but he didn’t speak, his charming persona now nowhere to be found. “I don’t know what that is.”

  Tara inched into the hall, but before she took a next step, she sensed him following close—too close. She spun around, his fist already in the air, but she ducked just in time. She charged into his stomach, sending him sprawling backward as he tripped on the edge of the rug, falling flat on his back.

  Tara reached for her gun on her belt loop, pulling it out in one swift motion. But just as she took aim, he kicked her legs out, sending her tumbling backward, her gun skidding across the floor. Something shattered and she crashed into something as an excruciating pain shot through her back. Glass covered the floor, every way she looked. She had hit the coffee table, and she could feel a shard in her back as the sensation of warm liquid soaked through her shirt. It was blood, but she didn’t have time to assess the damage. He was already scrambling for her gun.