Whispers of words, flickers of images, sift through my mind. Finding the note he left on the windshield of my car while I was in the house going through my father’s papers late Sunday evening.I’m waiting in the barn.Me walking toward the barn, agony spearing through my brain with every step I made. I haven’t tended his wound, that’s obvious, but I haven’t killed him, either. Perhaps my dedication to the oath I took prevented me from crossing that line.
The eerie calmness I feel surprises me. I’m not sure what I should be feeling, but I’m certain this is not it. As an officer of the law, it’s my duty to serve and protect, yet I cannot bring myself to do either for him.
His eyes open and the corners of his split lips lift upward. “I didn’t think you were coming back this time.”
“How did you get here?” The words are mine, but it’s as if someone else prodded me to ask the question. I am oddly numb. Shaking inside where he can’t see.
I steel my spine and force my brain to shift into cop mode. I might not know the name I was given at birth, but I am still a cop. Although I can’t be sure exactly what’s happened here, I have an idea. On the floor between us is a balled-up piece of paper—his note. I should pick it up; it’s evidence. But that would mean moving closer to him. I don’t want to be close to him. I want to run ... to hide. The images and sounds of all the things he did to me erupt in my brain, and the anguish nearly doubles me over.
He laughs, the sound dry and rotten as if his throat is ripping apart. “Why, you brought me here at gunpoint, don’t you remember?”
I steady myself and move my head from side to side. “No. You’re lying.” At least, I hope like hell he’s lying.
If he’s telling the truth, that means I have become the monster. Perhaps there wasn’t a note. I remind myself that I’m a master at denial. It is a traitorous friend. I glance at the wadded-up paper again. But there it is. There was indeed a note.
“Well, maybe you did and maybe you didn’t,” he says on a wheeze, drawing my attention back to him. “But what do you think your friends in the police department are going to believe? You wouldn’t be the first cop to crack, particularly under the circumstances. If you tell them the sad, sad story of your life, maybe they’ll feel sorry for you and send you to one of those cushy mental hospitals instead of to prison. Either way, you’re going down, girl.”
I think of the baby I’m carrying, and my heart clutches. “I did not bring you here. You drove that blue truck, didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “What else was I going to do after those two bitches tried to roast me like a fucking Christmas turkey?”
So Hyatt and Reeves did take him. I refuse to call it kidnapping no matter that I am aware of the legal term. “Why come here?”
“That’s for me to know and you to figure out. But we both know what your friends are going to think when they find out,” he singsongs.
Piece of shit.I tamp down my anger. I refuse to allow the bastard to goad me into doing something stupid. The image of a baby being taken from me arrows into my head, rips through my heart. I flinch. My body trembles with the need to end him.
I struggle to push the emotions aside and to focus on my training. I am a cop. A homicide detective. A damn good one. I will not allow this son of a bitch to damage another minute of my life.
I reach for some sense of calm and push a smile into place. “You were scared and wanted to hide, didn’t you? Those women scared you.”
Fury whips across his face. “No bitch has ever scared me,” he roars. “The only thing they did besides set themselves up for a kidnapping charge was screw up my timeline.” He smiles a sinister, sickening display. “But I got back on track because here we are.”
And then I know. That’s what the note was about. I stare at the way he’s shackled. I laugh. “You know, finding the hardware store where you bought the chain and the pawn shop or wherever you picked up those police-issue handcuffs won’t be that difficult. Just time consuming. You might as well tell me the truth.” I shrug. “Otherwise I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what a coward you are and how your victims got the better of you—just like before.”
I smile as if he—this—is all just a big joke and I am weary of it. But deep inside, the outrage pounds, desperate to be unleashed. I hold back. This baby I’m carrying is counting on me to be smart. I just need him talking. He’s so full of himself, he’ll have to brag about how smart he is.
He laughs then. “Newhouse took you and turned you into something you could never really be. I told him that deep down you were still mine. I branded you at seven years old. He couldn’t wash that away.”
Pain spears my heart as I imagine how the man who raised me—the only father who ever really loved me—felt at hearing those foul words from this bastard. “You were wrong.”
“If you’re so changed, what am I doing here dying like this?”
“You don’t sound as if you’re dying.”
“Oh, I’m dying all right. But I’m taking you to hell with me.”
“Obviously you aren’t clever enough to make that happen.” I know this scumbag. If I keep at him, he will spill his guts. “You never were very bright.”
“It was so easy.” He grins at me like the devil he is. “I saw you and that cowboy partner of yours on the news. I recognized you instantly, and I knew despite all the polish and highfalutin education that deep down you were still my little girl. My heart pounded so hard I lost my breath, got hard just thinking about you. Right then and there, I called my attorney. Made sense he wouldn’t wantnothing to do with me unless there was something in it for him, so I told him my plan. Let’s just say he was intrigued. All he had to do was dig up everything he could find on Lewis and Corrine Newhouse and their lovely daughter, Olivia.”
I want to vomit. To scream. But I need him to keep talking, to explain what the hell he means. What he did. I have to know what happened during all those blackouts I experienced this week. I’m guessing I came out here. Saw him. Talked to him. Judging by all the bruises, maybe tortured him. The chip bags and empty water bottles on the floor indicate someone was keeping him alive.
But I need to be sure. “You see,” I taunt, “I knew you weren’t smart enough to plot all this on your own. The lawyer helped you, didn’t he?”
He attempts to laugh but coughs instead. “He gave me the lowdown on you and the Newhouses. I figured out all the rest from there. Planned every last detail, and I knew that once we spent some time together, you would want to hurt me. All I had to do was set things in motion. Those other idiots thought they could take me down. All they did was make it easier for me. The police were too worried about finding me—the victim—to wonder if I was up to something.”
I lift my chin and stare directly into his beady eyes. “I guess you weren’t expecting that I’d forgotten all about you and the life we shared.”
