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“Got all that?” I ask, not looking away from Jones.
Zeke replays the last part of it. “Yep.”
“Good. Call Hildebrand. Let’s get some men down here.”
My phone rings and I release Jones who trips sideways before catching himself. I read the name on the display. It’s the man watching the Bishop house.
“Yes?” I answer.
“The woman is on the move. Just left with two men.”
I glance at Jones, thinking of his description of the men. “What about the boy?”
“Negative.”
“Tail them. Let me know where she goes.” The only place she should be going is out of town but to leave her boy behind? That doesn’t quite fit.
“Yes, sir.”
I disconnect and am about to tuck my phone into my pocket when it rings again. This is an unknown number, but I recognize the area code. It’s in the city. I answer.
“Yes?”
“Jericho?” a woman’s voice says. It’s familiar and I try to place it but before I can, she speaks again. “It’s Megs.” And the moment I hear her name my heart drops to my stomach because there is no reason for her to be calling me. “I did something stupid.”
45
Isabelle
Gerald Gibson has me inside the house within seconds. He’s big. Like his brother. And as mean.
“You scream and I’ll fucking knock you out,” he tells me as he closes and locks the door behind us.
The inside of the house is a mess of empty food containers, liquor and beer bottles. Cigarette butts overflow from ashtrays. A large, worn-out recliner is set a few feet from the television. I can see cigarette burns on the arms of the torn brown upholstery. Next to it is a half-drunk bottle of beer. There’s a couch in about the same shape as the chair against the far wall.
He drags me toward the tv set and switches it on, turning the volume up. It’s an old sitcom. The audience laughs as I’m dragged deeper into the house. Through an arch I see a dining room, set with a round table overcrowded with junk.
That’s where he takes me, holding onto my arm. He reaches for a cell phone sitting on the counter between the dining room and a small kitchen.
“Let me go,” I finally manage, still somehow clutching my purse.
“I said shut up, didn’t I?” he tells me, gripping my arm so tightly, I’ll have a ring of bruises.
The phone is one of those older flip phones. He opens it with one hand, pushes a series of buttons, then presses it to his ear.
“She’s here,” he says into it. I don’t hear the person on the other end, but he grins and looks at me. “Yeah, it’s her. No doubt.” Quiet. Then the grin vanishes. “Ten minutes. And bring the money.”
He flips the phone closed and turns his full attention on me.
I take a shuddering breath of air that smells faintly of cat piss. I see the litter in the corner. Overfull. I look all around. Anywhere but at his eyes. Because they’re the same as his brother’s eyes. Exactly the same.
“Have a seat,” he says, lifting a wooden, straight back chair away from the table, setting me on it in the archway between the small rooms. He leans in close to me, his breath stinking, forcing me to close my eyes and turn away. He tells me not to move.
I grip the edge of the chair, not moving. He lets go of my arm to reach across the table to a pile of zip ties. He turns back to me with a leering grin.
“Good girl,” he says. He moves behind me. Taking my arms and bringing them together, securing my wrists with one long, orange zip-tie. He tugs hard so the plastic digs into my skin painfully. “Hurt?” he asks coming to stand in front of the chair, his gaze moving over me.
There’s a vibrating sound and his grin vanishes. It’s Megs’s phone. She must be trying to call me, but I silenced it. Our gazes fall to the floor and he bends to pick up my purse, open it, dig inside. He scatters the photos from the ultrasound all over the stained, filthy carpet. He grabs the phone, looks at the display then throws it against the far wall with such force, I scream.
He checks his watch and turns to me, stepping closer, carelessly crushing some of the photos under his boots.
“We got a few minutes,” he says. “Let’s have some fun. My brother got a taste, didn’t he? Said you were sweet and warm and so wet between your legs.” That last part he says so close to me I have to hold my breath. My heart races, as the memory of that night returns. I thought the nightmares were too real. But this, now, being here, seeing this man, feeling him so close, they’re nothing.
“The police are on their way,” I say as he crouches down and sets his hands on my knees. The feel of him touching me makes my stomach turn. He pushes my legs apart and I wish I’d worn jeans today. But I wore the knit dress Jericho likes.
