Page 17 of In the Dead of Night

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THE PHONE CALLS had worked. After twenty years the girl was back. Better yet, she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. But she was also doing some things he hadn’t anticipated. Like asking questions about that night. Too damn many questions.

He assured himself she couldn’t possibly uncover anything that could be dangerous to him. The case was closed. Her parents and Nicholas Tyson were dead and buried right along with all the dark secrets.

There was one element he had to consider. Little Sara Douglas had been there that night. She’d witnessed the shooting. She’d seen the killer. The real question was had she heard the argument? Had her seven-year-old mind understood it? What the hell was he going to do if she started piecing things together?

It was some comfort knowing she couldn’t remember. Shortly after the killings, he’d read in the newspaper that she’d been so traumatized by the ordeal that she couldn’t remember anything about that night. But he knew from experience that memories had a way of resurfacing at the most inopportune time.

This was definitely an inopportune time.

With Sara Douglas sniffing around, he was going to have to be very careful. He couldn’t let her ruin this for him. This was his one and only shot at the big time. He’d worked too hard to get where he was. He’d paid his dues. Paid a lot more than anyone should have to. It finally looked like things were going his way. Like he would get the break he deserved. Success. Recognition. A place in the spotlight.

So long as that bitch Fate didn’t go and lay down a wild card. But he had to wonder. Was Sara Douglas a wild card?

For the moment, he needed her. She was the one person who could find what he needed. An item that would catapult his career right to the top. But she was also the only person who threatened his ticket to stardom. His dreams. His future. Everything he’d ever worked for. Everything he deserved.

All he could do was give her some rein. Let her sniff. Let her look. If all went as planned she would find the prize. When she did, he would be there to claim it.

Once that happened, Sara Douglas would become a liability. She would become more dangerous to him than ever because she wouldn’t stop there. Once she found what he needed, he would have to find a way to silence her forever.

* * *

SARA HAD KNOWN the mansion well as a child. She and her sister had explored every square inch, no matter how dark or dusty and despite her mother’s scolding. Tonight, searching for a manuscript that might not even exist, she felt overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place.

“If I were going to hide something, where would I put it?”

Standing in the foyer, she nibbled on her thumbnail and tried to put herself inside the minds of her parents. Her father had designed and built the house himself. Had he considered a place to hide valuables such as jewelry or important documents or family heirlooms?

Rain slashed at the windows as Sara ascended the narrow and winding stairs to the attic. The old hinges creaked like arthritic bones when she opened the door. The odors of dust and mildew tickled her nose. She flipped the switch, and stark light rained down from a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Her shoes thudded hollowly on the old wood floor as she walked inside.

The attic was relatively small with an A-frame ceiling and a single gable window. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly against the far wall. Someone had painstakingly packed her parents’ things. Perhaps one of her aunts or uncles in the weeks following their deaths. Sara had not only been too young, but also too distraught. She hadn’t set foot in the house since that terrible night.

Crossing to the boxes, she went to the nearest one and opened it. Inside, she found clothing. Even after twenty years she thought she caught a whiff of her mother’s perfume. The scent brought tears to her eyes. She remembered spending time up here with her mother. Sun streaming through the window. Music floating from the radio. The smell of the sea mingling with the sweet scent of roses….

Shoving the melancholy thoughts aside, Sara closed the box and went to the next one. Inside, she found a few of her old toys, a seashell collection from the beach, and several stuffed animals. Deciding to make a trip to the thrift store in town the next day, she closed the box and started a stack of things she would be donating. The third box contained an ancient-looking reel-to-reel recorder, the kind she and her sister used when they watched Godzilla movies and laughed until they cried.

Smiling, Sara closed the box and shoved it against the wall. The next box held dozens of books, old bills, bank statements and several file folders. She paged through a few of the folders and was about to close the box when a spiral notebook caught her attention. Sliding it from its ancient nest, she opened it and began to read.

Strongly slanted handwriting she didn’t recognize covered the first dozen or so pages.

Contact in Santa Monica. Evelyn. Real name? Not sure. May be a prostitute. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Doesn’t know where. No police. She has warrants. Nudes. Hinted that she was in danger. Is she credible?

Arlene in East L.A. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Brother was the last person to see her. Mother filed a missing persons report with LAPD.

Jenna Sherwood. Roommate claims she went for a photo shoot. A magazine spread. Never returned. Owed roommate money for rent. Roomie thinks she may have skipped town. Did she?

Rachel Garza. Twenty years old. Left behind a one-year-old baby. Her estranged husband believed she was trying to break into acting and/or modeling. Mentioned a job in Hollywood. Significant?

“What on earth?” Sara stared at the words, something dark and disturbing enveloping her like a cloud. It appeared someone was tracking women who’d disappeared. But why? What were the notes doing in her parents’ things? And whose handwriting was this?

Setting the notebook aside, she pulled out a brown clasp envelope. Inside, she found several yellowed newspaper stories about young missing women. She checked the names against the ones mentioned in the spiral notebook and found two that matched. Someone was, indeed, researching missing persons cases. But who? And why? What was the notebook doing with her parents’ belongings?

She paged through several more files, but found nothing relative. Closing the box, she tucked the notebook and envelope beneath her arm. She was almost to the stairs when the lights flickered and went out.

Alarm skittered through her. But remembering the old fuse box, she felt her nerves settle. There was nothing ominous in the works. Just an old house that hadn’t seen maintenance in quite some time. Or maybe the storm had taken out the transformer again.

Eyes wide, she felt her way along the wall toward the stairs. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, telling her she only had a few feet to go. Two steps and she rapped her shin against something hard. The old rocker, she realized. “Damn.” Reaching down, she rubbed her shin. When she looked up movement ahead sent her heart into overdrive.