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But Lucy Kincaid stole my time. I cannot shake her from my thoughts and my nightmares. I am driven to teach her. She is the most ill-prepared for my instruction. She’s the most defiant. I see it in her eyes, in the way she walks. I’ve been watching her for weeks, and never would I have chosen her as one of my students.
But it is not always up to me. Greater powers are at play. Who am I to question? She placed herself in my life when she sought to send me back to prison. She overstepped her bounds, if she even accepts that she has any.
She will be a challenge for me, a test. God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, and as she is merely a woman, I can break her.
I cook my breakfast and eat as the sun rises, though with the dark gray clouds I can see but a faint shift from dark to less dark. I put the leftovers in a bowl.
I cross the worn kitchen linoleum and go down to the basement, as I do every morning. The female is lying in the corner of the cage, under the single wool blanket I am generous to provide.
She looks at me but shows nothing. No fear. No anger. No soul.
I have broken her.
I put the bowl in her cage and see if I am right. She doesn’t move, doesn’t crawl toward the food, though her nose twitches like a cat’s. She smells it. She wants it.
And she waits.
“You may eat,” I say.
Slowly she crawls across the hard-packed dirt basement. There is blood in the corner from her punishment last night. I had given her ointment and a clean towel—I do not want her to get an infection. I’m not inhumane.
I refill her water bowl and leave it with her food.
Her response should please me, but I am not happy. She broke far faster than the others. A trick?
I could give her to another who will appreciate my time training her to be a proper, obedient woman.
But I do not trust her. In the end, they all turn away from the Truth.
She whimpers as she eats.
I sigh. No matter. She’s going to die soon anyway. I don’t have the time to finish her training. Break them, then put them back together the way they should be.
I turn and walk back up the stairs to prepare for the next female.
THIRTY-FIVE
Noah hadn’t been so angry and frustrated with a case in a long time.
Fran Buckley wasn’t talking, and her lawyer, Clark Jager, was playing legal games to keep Noah away from her. In fact, Jager had threatened to pull Lucy Kincaid’s file and use her history as part of his case. It didn’t matter whether there was anything in her file; that it would be open and part of the criminal proceedings increased the chances that it would be made public.
Biggler was more forthcoming, but he didn’t have anything to add to Mallory’s confession. Noah sent Abigail to the bar to flash pictures of Mallory and Biggler—including the sister—to the bartender who served Prenter to see if they could get a witness to corroborate Mallory’s confession.
Abigail stepped into the conference room that had been turned overnight into the “war” room for the WCF investigation where Noah and Hans were reading statements and files. There was enough paperwork to keep them busy for weeks.
“Have a minute?” she asked.
“Sure, but I thought you were meeting with the bartender.”
“Too early, he doesn’t come on until five, but I called him at home and he’s agreed to come here to look at the photos.”
“What else?” Noah rose to stretch his legs, then make a small change to the timeline they were keeping on a large white board.
“ERT called. They’re writing up their report now, but wanted to give us a heads-up that they’re done with their preliminary investigation and said it’s conclusive: Cody Lorenzo didn’t commit suicide. Along with other evidence to substantiate murder, the trajectory of the bullet proved there was no way he could have pulled the trigger.”
“Shit.” Noah leaned against the table, his fingers pressed against his forehead.
“But you thought Mallory was lying. Why are you surprised?”
