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Rick resisted the urge to shake the woman.
The sun hung low in the sky as Jenna returned to the Big House, her arms loaded with art supplies and a few bags of clothes she and G
eorgia had found at the consignment store. She’d bought a couple of pairs of jeans, a few sweaters, and a pair of sneakers and a killer pair of black boots. She’d also picked up a phone charger as well as a few toiletry items. They’d driven by her house, not pausing to dwell on the charred remains, so that she could pick up her Jeep, which had survived the inferno. Other than a few lost sketchbooks and clothes, she’d come through fairly unscathed. She was out only a couple of hundred bucks that she’d spent on clothes and new art supplies.
In the Big House, she dropped her bags and flipped on a light. Georgia had left for work, leaving her alone to glance around at the framed family pictures on the walls. Rick might have gutted the kitchen, but he’d saved and framed the pictures of his family. One image had been taken in this very spot. Buddy Morgan and his wife stood front and center and their children were gathered around them. Buddy wasn’t smiling but there was pride gleaming in his eyes. His wife grinned as if privy to a joke. The four children clustered around: fifteen-year-old Deke, twelve-year-old Rick, eleven-year-old Alex, and five-year-old Georgia who stood in front of her brothers, her hands on her hips.
“You’re a lucky guy, Rick Morgan.”
She’d not heard from him for hours but refused to fret. If he wanted to see her again, he could dial her number.
Flipping on more lights, she curled up on the couch tucked in the alcove by the kitchen. She pulled up the picture on her phone and studied the image of the boy who had dated her sister over two and a half decades ago. She had no memory of Billy Martinez, which seemed odd. If he’d dated her sister, surely he’d come by their house at some point. But there were no memories.
She stared into his eyes in the photograph and then flipped open her sketchbook. She opened a new pack of pencils and began with the eyes just as they appeared on the picture. When she’d drawn the eyes, she sat back. Her heart skipped a beat.
Shadow Eyes.
Jenna glanced at the boyfriend’s face. How could he be Shadow Eyes? He had just been a kid—nineteen or twenty—when her family had been killed. This could not be right.
She began with the age progression. She had no access to his genetics or habits in the last twenty-five years, which played a huge part in how a person aged. So, she guessed and generalized.
After an hour, she had a sketch. She stared at the face. It was a closed-lipped expression. She’d given him slightly darker hair and had thinned it a fraction. But as she stared at him, there was no flicker of recognition. “I have no idea who you are. None.”
She snapped a photograph of the picture and texted it to Rick. All she typed was age progression complete.
Her cell rang and she was disappointed to see that the number wasn’t Rick’s. She considered ignoring the call after all the prank calls the television interview triggered, but, thinking it might be Rick from a different phone, she took the call. “Jenna Thompson.”
“Ms. Thompson, this is Officer Woods with the Nashville Police Department. Detective Rick Morgan asked me to give you a call.”
“Okay.” He couldn’t call her directly. The idea burrowed under her skin. “What does he want?”
“He has a question about a sketch.”
“What question?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. A question about a sketch. He said to call and I’m calling.”
“So am I supposed to call him?”
“He’d like you at the station.”
“Really?” Why was she annoyed with Rick? He’d made no promises. She’d wanted no promises. But he was treating her like another cop. Which is essentially what she was, but . . . “Fine.”
“We’re sending a car for you.”
“When?”
“Any minute.”
“Fine.”
She grabbed her purse and phone and headed out the front door expecting to see a marked car driving down the long drive any moment. She’d taken one step off the porch when she heard the crunch of gravel and the very sharp sting of electricity shooting through her body. She jolted, faintly remembered being tased at the academy, and then passed out.
Rick read Jenna’s text about a half hour after she sent it. The instant he opened the image he rocked back on his heels. He recognized the face instantly.
Rick dialed Jenna’s number a second time and a second time got no answer. Georgia had said she was back at the house and drawing. “Where the hell are you?”
Bishop looked up. “What’s eating you?”
“Look at the picture of Sara Thompson’s boyfriend.”
One glance and Bishop cursed. “Fucker was right there all along.”
Rick called Jenna again. No answer. “Jenna isn’t answering her phone.” He made a second call to Georgia. She picked up on the third ring.
“What’s up, Bro?”
“Where’s Jenna?”
Through the phone, he heard the rustle of papers as if she’d put aside what she was working on and shifted all her attention to him. “I left her at the Big House. She was doing your sketch.”
“She’s not answering.”
“Why the red alert?”
“The age-progression sketch she did of her sister’s boyfriend, Billy Martinez, looks like William Spires, a realtor that we interviewed.”
“Shit. Do you think Susan Martinez knows?”
“I don’t know.” Rick’s nerves tightened like a bowstring. “I do know all the murder scenes were for sale.”
“William Spires had access to all the locations.”
He drummed his fingers. “Where the hell is Jenna?”
“She could be taking a walk.”
“She keeps her phone with her.” And her face and family history had been all over the news thanks to Susan Martinez. If she knew what her brother was doing then she’d served Jenna up to him with that interview. “Where is she?”
A chair squeaked as if she leaned forward. “Her old family home is for sale. She mentioned it earlier while we were shopping.”
“Shit.” Worry pounded in his chest, reverberating through muscle and bone. “Thanks.”
“Call me when you have something.”
“Yeah.” His mind already raced ahead. He turned to Bishop who watched him closely, and relayed what Georgia had told him.
“Saying she is missing and in trouble, a fact we’ve not confirmed. Would it be so simple as him snatching her and taking her to her old home?”
“He’s not strayed far from his comfort zone. He picks a home he’s seen and toured. He picks surrogates to take the women.”
“Tuttle, Wheeler, and Mitchell.”
“And Ronnie. Ronnie killed Jenna’s family. But Ronnie fucked up the fire and he didn’t keep to the script. He took Jenna.”
“Spires/Martinez gets smarter and the next go around, he’s on scene during the killing and then kills the surrogate almost immediately. You think he turned Loyola loose on Jenna?”
Tumblers clicked into place as a lock opened. “I do. We need to go to the Thompson house.” He flipped through one of the Thompson murder files on his desk and found the address.
Chapter Nineteen
Friday, August 25, 9 P.M.
When Jenna awoke, she realized she was on a bed. Her hands were tied to the headboard and her feet to the baseboard. The strong scent of diesel hung in the air.
Quelling a surge of panic, she forced her mind to clear as she looked around the room and tried to figure out who had taken her. She moistened dry lips and did her best to ignore the ache and stiffness radiating through her limbs. She swallowed. “I know you’re out there. You wouldn’t set this little event up and just walk away.”
Silence. And then the shuffle of footsteps and the sound of breathing.
Jenna twisted her wrists in metal cuffs that chafed her skin. She looked around the room, doing her best to get her bearings. Her gaze darted from a dresser to an overstuffed chair and ottoman and to an area rug. She’d been here before. Days ago with Susan Martinez. This was the home she’d lived in until she
was five. This was the house where her family had died.
Sadness and panic welled inside her as she closed her eyes for a moment and struggled to get control. Keep it together, Jenna. He wants to see you afraid. He wants to taste your fear. She dug deep for steel and wrapped herself in it. “Kind of trite bringing me to the place where it all began. Couldn’t you have come up with a better spot?” She laughed. “I could’ve done a better job.”
A shadow appeared at the door’s entrance. She couldn’t see a face, but knew she’d gained his attention.
“What, you can’t speak?” she taunted.
A strike of a match and then the flicker of a flame. The flame hovered in the air. She thought about the diesel soaking the carpet and bed and wondered how fast it would all ignite. Did he mean to burn her alive?
“I didn’t think this was part of the scenario. I thought your surrogate shot your victims first?”
The shadow tossed the match on the floor in the hallway. It flickered, just out of reach of the fuel, and then went out.
Her pounding heart rammed her rib cage. If he was trying to ignite fear, he was doing a good job. She drew in a slow, steady breath. “Okay, that was quite the show. What next?”
Another match struck. Unseen lips blew it out before it fell to the floor, inches from the other match. “You’re doing a good job of sounding brave, but I know you’re afraid.”
