by Sarah Sutton
He threw himself toward it, his arm outstretched, his fingertips grazing the grip. Without even a second to think, Tara grabbed a shard of glass, jamming it into his leg. Her hand dripped with blood as she pulled back, the glass still in his leg as he bellowed in agony. His body curled—his focus on the gun momentarily lost. Tara pushed herself onto her knees, about to jump to her feet. She could grab it. The gun was only about a foot away. But just as she got to one foot, she felt a hand grip her other ankle. She spun around to see the shard of glass that was once in his leg now in his grip as he raised it above Tara’s leg that he still held.
Tara kicked out her free leg, sending it straight into his chin. He dropped the glass, and his grip loosened just enough for Tara to pull her leg free. She jumped to her feet. Her back was agonizing, but adrenaline gave her strength to push forward. She saw the gun. He saw it too as he jumped to his feet, favoring one leg, and grabbing the shard of glass in the process. Tara scrambled to the gun as he ran toward her, swinging the glass wildly in his hand. In one swift motion, Tara grabbed the gun, cocked it back, and turned toward him, sending one shot through the air. He stumbled back, dropping the glass in his hand, crashing to the ground.
The front door suddenly swung open. It was Sheriff Patel and another officer. They stood with their guns outstretched in front of them, but then they saw the scene and lowered their grip. Warren came hurrying up the steps behind them. Sheriff Patel and the officer stepped aside as Warren burst into the room. He saw Tara, gun still in hand. He saw Dan Asher flat on the ground, blood oozing from a wound, and he lowered his gun.
Warren stood shell-shocked for a moment as he looked at Tara. Her mind was still spinning as her eyes focused on the man on the ground. “Is he dead?” she asked as she tried hard to steady her breathing.
Sheriff Patel bent down by the reporter. “No pulse,” he said.
Warren was still staring at Tara as he walked toward her. “Are you all right?”
She was perched up against the kitchen counter, her hands resting atop behind her. She could still feel the pain in her back, and as she caught her breath, all she could think about was the banging. She didn’t even answer Warren’s question before she pushed off the counter and hurried down the hall.
“Call an ambulance,” Warren said to Sheriff Patel, who already held his phone to his ear and nodded. Warren then caught Tara’s movement. “Where are you going?” He hurried after her down the hall and then gasped. “Tara, you’re bleeding.”
But she didn’t pay attention to his words. “Shh,” she said as she held her finger to her lips. “I heard something.” Warren quieted down, but he couldn’t help staring worriedly at Tara’s back. They crept along the hall. The banging had stopped. Tara held her gun in front of her, for she had no idea what she was about to discover. “FBI,” she yelled, and suddenly the banging began again in full force.
Tara turned to Warren. He heard it too, and they both barreled down the hallway until they reached a door where the sound emanated. Tara swung it open. It was a garage. A BMW sat parked inside, and it shook at each thump from within the trunk.
“We need keys,” Tara yelled toward Warren, who quickly turned on his heels, running back through to the kitchen. He returned moments later with keys in hand and pressed a button. The trunk popped open, and Tara opened it wider. Inside, a blue tarp covered a squealing body. Tara unwrapped it to reveal a girl, her eyes wide, her mouth taped shut. Tears fell down her cheeks as she stared up at Tara. Warren ripped the tape off the girl’s mouth, and she gasped for air before uncontrollable sobbing overcame her.
The ambulance could be heard in the distance, growing louder as it approached. “You’re safe now,” Tara told her, as she too felt a wave of emotion. The victim was alive, and for the first time, Tara knew the case was officially over.
Chapter Thirty One
Tara stood on the porch of Dan Asher’s home, bandages now wrapped around her core and hand. The ambulance still sat in the driveway as the EMTs prepared to leave. Warren and Sheriff Patel stood nearby, speaking, before Warren turned to Tara.
She was lucky. Her wound was not serious. She would only need a couple of stitches in her back. He had not dug too deep, and for that Tara was grateful. Her hand was fine. She was concerned that she would need time to recover, like she did after the trail killer case, when she had injured her arm. But this was merely a scrape in comparison, and she knew it would heal quickly.
“How’s Justine?” Tara asked as Warren stepped onto the stoop. Justine’s ambulance was now far gone, but she knew Warren had just received an update from Patel. Last she heard was that Justine suffered asphyxia from strangulation, but she had yet to learn if there would be any permanent damage.
“EMS thinks she should be fine, but she’ll need a CT scan.”
Tara nodded. She was grateful that they had gotten to her when they did. Dan Asher had clearly tried to kill her but didn’t know he was unsuccessful. If Tara had gotten there any later, if he discovered that she was still alive––Tara couldn’t even finish the thought as it stirred a swirl of emotions.
She turned to the door and pushed it open. They hadn’t even searched the rest of the house yet, but they were aware of the basement. It was a small bit of information they were able to get from Justine before she was taken off to the hospital. She was kept there, she had told them, but that was all the information she was able to give. The house had already been cleared by Sheriff Patel and his officers, but now Tara and Warren were ready to do a more thorough sweep.
They entered the home, walking past forensic investigators who were placing yellow markers around the blood spatter, where Dan Asher’s body was removed from moments ago. Once they reached the hallway, they turned to a door just past the kitchen and Tara turned the knob in her gloved hand.
The stairs creaked as they descended, the room opening up into a musty, dark unfinished basement. There were no windows. The room was dimly lit and bare except for a computer and television, and a wall of newspaper clippings. Tara and Warren moved closer, as they both peered at each clipping on the wall.
“Looks like he’s been keeping tabs on this whole investigation,” Warren said as they stared at the dates, all from last year, when Alyssa went missing, to now. He must’ve had every newspaper clipping ever printed regarding the case on the wall. It made Tara shudder. Some were developments in the case, others were pleas for details on the missing victims. But then her eyes fell on another—one that was old and faded. She leaned in closer, squinting to make out the date on the article. The lettering was almost too faded, but she could just make out the two and the three zeros. It was from the year 2000, twenty years ago.
A young girl, who looked to be the same age of the victims, stared back at Tara. It looked like a yearbook picture. She was posed and smiling—just a headshot. Tara began to read
The Newbury Police are asking for your help in finding a teenage girl that had gone missing Friday night at approximately 7:30, on her walk home from volleyball practice at Newbury High. Leslie Asher was expected home soon after but never arrived.
Tara pulled her eyes away from the paper. “Asher,” she said under her breath. It was the same last name as the killer. She had gone missing in an almost identical way. Was he recreating a personal tragedy? Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned to Warren, but he was fixated on something else.
A pocketed folder was flipped open in front of him, papers pulled out as he scattered them across the desk, looking at each one intently.
“What is it?” Tara asked.
She looked down at the papers as well. They were hand-written notes—bullet points—each one a detail of the case. Next to some in red ink he wrote Don’t report yet, and then others he had crossed out the same wording and recorded a date for when that information was released.
But Tara followed Warren’s gaze to a detail marked at the bottom of one page. Dewey Beach: Sofia Hernandez was scribbled across it. But it wasn’t the place or nam
e that caused him to stare. It was what was written next to it. Scribbled in red ink it read Ben Ford’s memory card. DO NOT REPORT.
Tara pulled back, and so did Warren as they both shared a glance. It was clear now: he had planted the memory card. But there was another realization that sat heavy in the room.
And then Warren spoke. “He was creating this story all along, intentionally.”
Chapter Thirty Two
Tara and Warren sat across from Reinhardt in his office at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. It was now late in the afternoon. It had been a long day, but one that they were all proud of, and Reinhardt had a smile from ear to ear, but Tara still sat at the edge of her seat.
They now knew that Dan Asher had created the news stories, most likely to further his career. They knew that he did indeed frame Ben Ford. But there was one piece to the puzzle that Tara still didn’t fully understand—the news clipping of Leslie Asher—and she knew that Reinhardt had called them in to tell them what he now knew.
“First and foremost, how’s your back?” Reinhardt asked as he looked at Tara.
“Not too bad,” she replied. After she left Dan Asher’s home, she had gone to the hospital and gotten her stitches. They would dissolve in about a week, she was told.
Reinhardt nodded and then sat back in his chair, placing his hands at the base of his neck. He shook his head. “No one would’ve ever suspected this guy,” he said. He leaned forward again, slapping a piece of paper on his desk and reading it. “Local reporter for the past three years, very well liked and respected at work and in the town.” He shook his head again. “His career really took off when he covered this case. He was the main reporter covering it, and well, it was a huge story. Doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”
Tara and Warren nodded in unison. Reinhardt was hinting at exactly what they had already concluded—that he had created the story to further his career. It sent a shiver down Tara’s spine at how he was there all along—in plain sight. And it had occurred to her just how dangerous he actually was. He was charming, likeable, and intelligent. He had been at crime scenes, watching them, on TV, getting a thrill out of spinning his own narrative. He had been pulling the strings the whole time, and Tara knew he could’ve easily gone undetected.
“And the girl?” Tara finally asked. Leslie Asher was still in the forefront of her mind.
He sighed as he reached for a file on his desk before pulling out a missing person report and placing it in front of them.
“We found her file. Leslie Asher was Dan Asher’s older sister.”
But what does it mean?
“Sixteen years old,” Reinhardt continued. “Her body was found weeks later gagged and buried in the backyard of her volleyball coach.”
Tara shared a glance with Warren as she tried to force the pieces together. She could see in his eyes that he was doing the same. Dan Asher had to have been no older than thirteen when the disappearance and murder happened. It was something that no child should ever have to experience—the death of a family member, let alone a murder. But it all suddenly made sense.
“I’m assuming it really shook the town,” Tara said, and Reinhardt nodded.
“So much so that the family relocated,” he replied.
Tara sat silently, absorbing it all. Dan Asher had witnessed a tragedy just like the ones he created. He chose adolescent girls. He kidnapped them, burying their bodies. It wasn’t a coincidence; Tara was sure of it. She remembered the news coverage when her mother was murdered, reporters waiting outside her house, wanting to get a glimpse of the poor child that had lost her mother at the hands of her father. Her grandmother shielded her from it as much she could, but Tara knew why they were there.
But Dan Asher was older, much more aware when tragedy struck his family. And it was a missing person case—it would’ve stirred more attention. He had seen at a young age the effects of the media, and it suddenly made sense why he chose it as a career path. It was the same reason Tara chose to be an FBI agent—to be on the other side of a tragedy, to be in control.
Tara’s stomach churned at the thought, at the connection. But then another thought pushed forward, setting them apart. The career had never been enough for him. He craved more. He craved murder. And instead of using his career to prevent what he had witnessed, he craved creating the only story he knew best.
“Everything all right?” It was Warren’s voice, and Tara snapped out of her thoughts to see him and Reinhardt staring at her.
“Just a lot to absorb,” she replied.
Warren nodded. “Sounds like he had some deep psychological issues that motivated him.”
Tara agreed, more than Warren would ever understand.
Reinhardt slapped the folder closed on his desk and sighed again. “You two are pretty impressive together, I have to say.” He looked from Warren to Tara. Warren looked over at Tara and smiled as Reinhardt grew silent and stood up, leaning over his desk. He stared right into Tara’s eyes, and then Warren’s. “You two did an excellent job,” he added before a smile burst on his face and he reached out, shaking both their hands. Tara’s heart swelled. It was the exact ending to the case she had hoped for but had feared it would not come, that her instincts were wrong.
Reinhardt then looked behind them to the glass wall separating his office from the rest of the floor. “You guys are becoming famous around here,” he joked as he motioned for them to look behind them. Tara turned around to see each agent was out of their cubicle, standing in the aisle, clapping and whistling.
“Go on,” Reinhardt added with a flick of his wrist. They were done for the day, and it was his way of saying to enjoy it, to savor the moment.
Tara and Warren both stepped out of the office, and the floor burst into a roar and clapping. Some agents came up to them, patting them on their back, shaking their hands, congratulating them. It was a feeling like no other and a reaction Tara had not expected. A smile broke out on her face. When it finally simmered down, Tara turned to Warren. The same satisfaction that Tara felt reflected on his face as well.
“I wish we could get a drink to celebrate,” he said to her.
Warren had never asked to get a drink with Tara, and it felt like a newfound bond and respect had formed between them. But she also could sense that it was a segue to something more.
“You can’t?” Tara asked.
He shook his head, still with a smile. He lowered his mouth to her ear, as if telling her a secret. “I have a date,” he whispered. He pulled back, his smile even wider. It was contagious. Tara had never seen him so happy, and she smiled instantaneously.
“With who?” But at that very moment, Warren’s eyes wandered and his smile beamed even wider. Tara followed his gaze to see Dr. Harris opening the large glass doors of their division, and as the door swung open, she met Warren’s eyes. She waved at him before continuing down the hall. “Dr. Harris?” Tara whispered. She had remembered that Warren dated her before, but he refused to pursue it further. It was too painful for him.
He nodded as he turned fully to Tara. “And thank you,” he added. Tara had no clue what for, and she was about to ask him, but he stopped her. “For reminding me that my wife would want me to find happiness.” At his words, Tara recalled their conversation in the car on the way to the camera store, when she had mentioned that she dug into her past for her mother—for justice and because Tara knew she wouldn’t want her past to plague her. It was something that had clearly hit Warren hard.
Tara nodded. “Good for you, Warren.”
He smiled again at as he looked at his watch. “She’s going to be out of work soon, I better go home and take a shower after today’s events.” He then looked back up at Tara. “What are you going to do?”
The recollection of their conversation only reminded Tara that she had something to do of her own. “I think I’m going to New York,” she replied. It had occurred to her that if she were to find out who that woman visiting her father truly was, she was going to have to come
face-to-face with her. She already knew what time the woman visited him, and Tara was ready to confront her.
“You sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked.
Tara wasn’t sure, but she knew that the only way she could be okay for good was to get to the bottom of who this woman was and what she had to do with her mother’s murder. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s the only way I will be.”
Chapter Thirty Three
Next morning
Tara sat in the parking lot, her car turned off as she waited for someone to enter the building. She had booked the earliest flight out to New York and rented a car, and now she sat right outside the prison. She only knew that this woman was forty-two, had curly red hair, and that she came everyday around noon, but Tara was beginning to think it was a long shot that she would spot her. It was now a half hour past twelve, and every person that had entered the building did not fit that description. She had only spotted one person so far that seemed reasonably close, but once Tara stepped out of her car and said “Mackenzie,” the woman did not turn around, and Tara realized that her hair was actually a light brown, not red.
As Tara waited, she stared down at her phone to see a text from John. I’d love to take you out to dinner when you get back, it read, and Tara sighed. He had been trying so hard to spend time with her, and at every moment she had, she had picked up and left on a mission of her own. He had understood why she left again this time, but she could see the disappointment on his face when she told him. She owed him that dinner, and so she replied that she would love it, which she would. She desperately needed time with him too.