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It looked like two people. Small people.
Children, perhaps?
Cautiously now, he walked toward the bench—his bare feet felt like they were being stabbed by a million tiny needles as he walked through patches of snow. What were a couple of kids doing out here? It was quiet and wooded, exactly why he’d chosen it for his rendezvous with Tamara. But it wasn't a place kids should be on their own, and there didn’t appear to be an adult nearby. The lake was just on the other side of a thick grouping of trees, and at this time of year, it was partially frozen. What if the kids were to wander onto it, not realizing the dangers? Daniel knew he wasn't the world’s best father—not even close—but he’d never let his son play around here on his own.
The children didn’t move as he approached. That was odd. Maybe the kids were homeless? They could be suffering from hypothermia. What if they were dead? He’d never seen a dead body before; the thought of it creeped him out. Whenever he went to a funeral where there was an open casket, he always made sure he stayed as far away from the coffin as possible.
Rounding the bench, he stopped abruptly.
The kids weren’t homeless.
Nor had they succumbed to hypothermia.
Although they weren’t properly dressed for the icy winter weather.
But that didn’t matter because the children were indeed dead.
A little blonde-haired girl sat beside a little blond-haired boy.
In the lap of the little girl was a little blonde girl doll.
In the lap of the little boy was a little blond boy doll.
These children had been killed by the Doll Killers.
His wife had told him about the crimes because their little boy was a seven-year-old blond, exactly the kind of child the killers were targeting. She’d been scared that their son would be taken from them. He’d thought it was a silly thing to worry about, nothing like that was going to happen to their family.
But here, less than a mile from where his son was playing, the killers had left two dead bodies. The same killers had murdered another pair of children a month or so ago before taking the children who now sat dead before him.
They'd be looking for their next victims.
His son.
Oblivious to the cold or the fact that he was wearing nothing but his pants, he began to run.
“Daniel? What are you doing? Who was it? Where are you going? Daniel, you can't just leave me here,” Tamara wailed.
Ignoring her, Daniel just ran. He was desperate to get to his son, make sure he was safe.
As he ran, he prayed.
Promising God that if his son was safe, he’d stop with the affairs. He’d be a better father, a better husband. He’d spend more time at home and less time at work.
If God just made sure his son was safe, he’d do anything.
* * * * *
11:03 A.M.
“Let me take you home, Clara.”
Clara almost protested that she didn’t need to go home. That she had work at the bookstore that needed to be attended to. That she was fine. But that would have been a lie—well, not the work part, she did have a whole list of tasks to attend to at her shop—but the rest of it. Jonathon and Detective Bennett had left the room about ten minutes ago after peppering her relentlessly with questions about her abduction and Tommy. They had been so persistent, so unyielding, that her head had started to spin.
Too many questions.
Questions she didn’t want to answer. Questions she didn’t even want to think about. As soon as the detectives had gone, she’d folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them. Naomi had let her be and paced the room in an attempt to work off her own frustrations. Her sister always paced when she was annoyed, and she always got annoyed when she couldn’t make things better for someone she loved.
“Come on, Clara,” Naomi wheedled. “You need to get some rest. Yesterday would have been bad enough even if it wasn't Tommy who carjacked you. You were hurt, you barely slept last night, you’ve had to answer questions about what happened to you as a kid—you really need to get some rest.”
