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“All right, Doc,” she said, touching the doctor’s shoulder. “What else? Give me something I can use right now to—”
“She was drugged.” His voice was stern, contradicting the understanding Kay read in his forgiving glance. “She had GHB in her system. She would’ve been sedated, malleable, hardly able to fight her assailant but still awake. She would’ve felt a bit dizzy, maybe nauseated. Had she survived the attack, the next day she would’ve probably not been able to recall any of it.”
“Someone slipped her a roofie?” Elliot asked.
“Yes,” Doc Whitmore replied. “Seeing that, I prioritized the stomach contents analysis. You’ll have something definitive by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
She checked the digital clock on the wall. It was almost five. A smile blossomed on Kay’s lips. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Do you think this case has anything to do with the missing girl, Kendra Flannagan? I know her parents; I’ve known them for years. They’re good people.”
“It might be the same unsub, Doc,” Kay replied, slightly frowning. “I’m thinking Jenna was his first rape, maybe unplanned, perhaps opportunistic. Messy… disorganized. But he discovered how much he likes it, so much, that he needs more time… he used two condoms, right?”
Doc Whitmore nodded, staring at her with a somber gaze through his black-rimmed glasses.
“Perhaps he took Kendra because he’d like to have more time with his victim, in a place where he can discover who he really is and can contain her better.” She shuddered as the thought was starting to take shape. “A place she can’t escape from… someplace where no one can hear her scream.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
SHARDS
Natalie Gaskell watched the digits change, obsessively, unable to focus on anything else, although an open bestseller was placed face down in her lap. Her eyes darted nervously between the clock and the empty driveway, both symbols of her irrelevance.
Neither husband nor son took her seriously enough to come home.
She hated herself for making idle threats… how could she turn off Richard’s cell service, when that phone was her last link to him? It was her lifeline, her only hope of speaking with her son again. It seemed that, whenever she made a threat, it only made things worse between them. She could feel his hatred as if it were a physical presence between them. Raw, unforgiving, searing, a place she couldn’t walk back from.
Remembering their last fight brought a knot to her throat. She closed the book and abandoned it on the sofa, then stood and walked over to the bar, her eyes still fixed on the empty driveway sprawling in front of the picture window. Shadows were growing longer on the perfectly manicured lawn, soon to make room for nightfall.
If Richard had any plans to come home after school, he would’ve been here already.
Hand frozen in midair for a second or two, she considered calling Renaldo’s house, where Richard seemed to enjoy spending most of his time. But her call wouldn’t be welcome. It would have him shouting at her, making threats, accusing her of following him, of damaging his relationships with his friends. No good would come out of that.
Instead, she chose the cut crystal bottle filled with twelve-year-old Scotch, and poured herself a triple in one of the matching glasses. A few ice cubes followed, plopped unceremoniously into the glass after she’d fished them from the dispenser tray with her fingers. A couple of droplets landed on the lacquered bar, a few others on her silk blouse, but she didn’t notice.
For the fifteenth time at least since that morning, she picked up her phone and speed-dialed her son’s number. It went straight to voicemail. Her son, her own flesh and blood, was driving her crazy. It was the entitlement, the rebellious nature, but also the arrogance he exuded. He’d grown into that from a sweet little boy whose mind was way ahead of his age and who soon realized he was smarter than most. After that realization, came the aloofness, the disaffected behavior that drove her insane.
One thing was certain. If he didn’t want to come home, there was no way she could make him. The same went for having a conversation with him. It seemed that everything had to happen on his terms.
The sound of tires crunching the pavement drew her attention. It wasn’t Richard’s Jeep. Edward’s Maybach pulled into the driveway slowly, then entered the garage. She listened as the garage door rumbled to a close, then took a final sip of Scotch before abandoning the empty glass on the coffee table by the sofa.
Hearing his footfalls approaching, light taps of leather soles against luscious marble tiles, rage swelled inside her chest. It was his fault that Richard was gone. The boy idolized his father, the lying, cheating bastard that he was, and hated her because of that.
“So, you finally made it,” she said the moment Edward walked into the living room.
He threw her a tired glance and loosened his tie. Then he took off his jacket and left it on a chair together with his briefcase, on his way to the same bar she’d visited minutes earlier.
The architect who’d designed their cottage had placed the bar in the corner of the room, right next to the picture window overlooking Mount Chester’s barren rock peaks. It was complete with four-legged stools, a stone countertop nesting a small sink, a wine cooler, a minifridge with an ice dispenser, and several glass shelves on the back wall to hold bottles that didn’t need to be chilled.
Edward went behind the counter and opened the fridge. “Want anything?”
She was just about to make another comment about Bambi or whatever the hell her name was, but his question seeded an urgent thirst in her throat. “Yeah.” She collected her empty glass from the coffee table and walked over to the bar, realizing she was swaying her hips. She wore bleached, stretch denim with black heels and a blue silk blouse that shimmered in the electric light. “I’ll stick to Scotch, if you don’t mind.”
Without looking at her or saying anything, he took her glass and drained whatever was left in it into the sink. Then he filled it about halfway, adding a few ice cubes. Putting it in front of her, he said, “I don’t mind.”
Of course, he didn’t mind. To mind, one has to care first.
“Where’s Richard?” he asked, after taking a long sip of vodka, straight from the freezer.
