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There was a woman out there, waiting for him to free her. He knew exactly where she lived, exactly who she was.
He could end her suffering for her, like he’d done for the others.
It was a little different—she would die by his own hand, not by a random accident or illness, but he didn’t care.
There was no reason to care.
It was the right thing to do. She wasn’t ever going to overcome her fear—she wasn’t going to progress, to accomplish or enjoy anything.
Now that he had conquered his own fear, it was his turn to help her. It was his turn to free her from her pain, her suffering. Her life.
He picked up his car keys and put on his jacket.
It was time to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
As he drove up the street in the residential neighborhood, with Fiona in the passenger seat, Jake wasn’t sure what to think. He was damn sure that Dr. Balog was their guy, but Fiona had insisted that the information she’d gotten from him pointed to someone else.
A transcriber.
Jake didn’t buy it. Balog could be lying, of course, to save his own ass.
But when Jake actually parked outside of the house, his mind began to change.
The small home had a worn, dilapidated look. Its paint was chipping and fading, the windows were mostly covered with newspaper and plastic, and its wood had long since rotted away.
“Somebody actually lives here?” Jake said.
“Ted Dunn,” Fiona said. “The transcriber Dr. Balog hired. He lives here…”
Jake had to admit, the look of this place alone sketched him out. Maybe Balog was being honest, and this transcriber was a more likely suspect than him.
He supposed it didn’t hurt to look into it. After all, Balog was at the station, not going anywhere. They had time.
He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. The night air was warm, a slight breeze blowing through the trees. The streetlights cast an eerie glow over the neighborhood, a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded them.
Jake heard Fiona follow him out of the car, her footsteps light but steady on the sidewalk. He took in a deep breath and walked toward the house, Fiona close behind him.
“This place looks abandoned,” he muttered. He wasn’t convinced anyone really lived here, but if they did, then that was definitely a cause for concern. Jake looked at Fiona, who peered at him with hopeful eyes behind her glasses.
He had to put some trust in her. This was her lead, and Fiona had been right before.
He knocked on the door, and it opened with a creak. He froze in place. Whoever “lived” here didn’t even have their front door properly closed, which meant legally, Jake was allowed to enter.
“Hello?” he called out, but no one answered. He stepped inside cautiously, Fiona close behind him.
The inside of the house was cramped and filthy. The walls were dingy, painted an off-white that had seen better days. Cobwebs hung in corners and crevices and the floors were scuffed with dirt and grime. The furniture was outdated and worn out, as if no one had taken care of it or even bothered to clean it in years. The inside of the house was musty and dank with the sickly-sweet smell of mold and rot. There was an underlying stench of garbage and decay, as if something had been left to fester for too long.
And yet it was clear someone did live here. Jake felt for his gun on his belt, relieved to feel its shape.
“Be careful,” he whispered to Fiona.
They crept through the creaky hallway, scanning every inch of their surroundings. The floors were mottled with brown and black spots from years of spilled drinks and stepped-on food. The couch was stained and missing a few cushions. Every surface was layered with dust and grime—even the walls were coated in grease. They could barely discern any useful information or clues among the clutter.
They continued to move through the mess, looking for anything that might help. There were piles of empty beer cans and take-out containers in every room. Old newspapers and magazines, some dating back decades, littered the floor. The furniture was covered in dust and grime, but there didn’t seem to be any signs of anyone living here recently, or even visiting.
The kitchen was an absolute mess—dishes caked with dirt and food, the refrigerator smeared with what looked like spoiled milk. In one corner there were stacks of take-out boxes, as if someone had been living off of it for months on end. On the counter was a bowl of almonds, looking strangely clean and out of place. Odd.
