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The number of potential hiding spots in the woods around the house concerns me. Anyone could watch her, hidden in the darkness between the trees.
“Sarah, tell vehicles 2 and 3 to comb around the house and set up a brain center. Instruct the technicians to install cameras with motion sensors on the property line. I want eyes on within the next fifteen minutes. If we did fuck up, let’s not make it worse by letting that asshole finish what he started with her. The least we can do is protect her. Everett, you’re with me.” I slid the file back into my briefcase and waited for Everett to put the car in park before I opened my door.
Sarah Ryan was the youngest agent on my team, but she has a tenacity that can’t be taught. She is a tall skinny blonde with a spunky attitude and a drive to rise in the agency. She has only been with the FBI for three years, but she was at the top of her class and didn’t mind taking jobs no one else wanted. It didn’t take long for her to gain favor with leadership. When I was asked who I wanted on my task force, I chose her. She was the only female, but I could count on her to get shit done. She is not interested in fucking her way through the force like some agents; instead, she works her ass off. She is smart and takes no shit, and in the event Ava is uncomfortable with speaking with Everett because of our gender, Sarah has the confidence I need to run point during the difficult questioning that I have prepared. And none of this is going to be easy for anyone, least of all the only person to survive the first time.
I head towards the house and up the wide wooden stairs that lead up to the wraparound porch. Dark green ferns sit at the end of each stair in stone pots with iridescent mosaic glass pressed into them. The lights on the first floor are on, casting a soft white glow on the property.
As I walk up the stairs, I can’t help but feel uneasy as I scan the area. The woods seemed to press in all around the house, providing ample cover for anyone who wished to spy on its inhabitant unseen. That makes me uneasy, and I am mentally contemplating the best way to get eyes on the entire property. In my line of work, leaving a stone unturned can end badly for my team and the people we protect.
The porch was spacious and inviting, with potted plants of various sizes scattered across the railings. The porch floor is lined with shiny black wood panels. There is a country-style black wooden swing on the right side of the door and bright metal café style chairs and a table on the left. I am surprised to find so many plants and flower arrangements in pots adorning the entire porch and hanging between the pillars. The house has been taken care of meticulously, no small detail left untouched. I ring the doorbell next to the thick wooden front door, take a few steps back, and wait.
I don’t see any other cars parked outside the two-car garage, but that doesn’t mean someone else doesn’t live here with her, even though her file said she was unmarried. The bureau keeps files on each individual sent into protective custody for situations such as this.
Ava’s situation was less protective custody and more of a pay-off funding program for her testimony against David Commons. In the event she had a roommate or a paramour, they would be protecting not one but two people. This may make my job more difficult, but it isn’t anything I wouldn’t be able to handle.
The bright-motion lights around the house suddenly flickered on as my agents surveyed the property.
If she didn’t realize we were there before, she would now.
I knock loudly on the large wooden door, waiting patiently for an answer. I look over at Everett, who stands a couple of feet behind me on my right, his eyes scanning our surroundings.
SEVEN
AVA
The doorbell rings while I am in the middle of pulling banana nut muffins out of the oven. I check the front doorbell camera on my phone and see two men in dark suits. One has dark brown hair, and the other has light brown hair. I don’t recognize the agents they sent this time. These two look too young to have been involved in the first investigation. I assume they are old enough to be familiar with my case and were likely chosen because they are the best agents that stand a decent chance of cleaning up the enormous fuck-up by their predecessors. If the FBI sent their guys out, there is a big chance the FBI finally realized that the guy sitting on death row was not the right guy. This confirms my gut feeling thatHehas been looking for me all these years. A cold shiver moves down my spine at the thought.
It did take the FBI longer than I expected to knock on my door. They had to believe he was here, too, right? Why else would they send a team to comb all over my property? The local murders were not just coincidence. He was hunting me. Toying with me. He wanted me to know he had found me before making his presence known. He was predatory and loved the thrill of the chase. But could he really hold out this long to let me know he was here? To come and get me? That is the part that didn’t make sense.
I suddenly feel dizzy, so I grip the counter to steady myself. The doorbell rings again, followed by loud knocking. I take a drink of water and exhale as I force my feet to walk toward my front door. I punched in the code for the alarm, turned it off, and then began the process of unlocking each of the locks knowing that my quiet life was about to get very loud.
I consider for the briefest moment not opening the door and ignoring them. Maybe they would leave. Or maybe I could leave Harborview and never look back. But I can’t fathom the thought of being on the run, constantly looking over my shoulder for the Boogeyman. And I love the life I have built here. I have spent many years building a home for myself. I created a life I never thought I would have the chance to create. I am beyond grateful for the inadvertent second chance I was given so many years ago.
A chance that the other girls should have been given.
All those years ago, I promised them that I would live the life they were not afforded. I would carve a place for myself in the world. I didn’t crawl through Hell to get to where I was today for nothing. I may not have gotten rid ofhimcompletely, but I could wake up each day and live. I will never lethimtake that from me.Hehas taken enough already.
I inhale a sharp breath and unlock the final lock, wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans. I turn the doorknob and pull the heavy door open.
No turning back now.
The dark-haired agent wears a composed look and gives me a curt smile, assessing me before I speak. His dark black hair is combed to the side, and his eyes are blue like the ocean after a storm, with a hint of grey and mystery hidden within. His sharp gaze makes me wonder what secrets he holds behind those piercing eyes. I can’t help but notice the air of confidence that surrounds him, leaving me intrigued. The other one has hazel eyes and light brown hair with caramel highlights from the porch light. The dark blonde guy looks me up and down and gives me an approving glance.Interesting.They both tower over me, easily more than a foot above my petite, barely five-foot height. The short pause makes me uncomfortable, so I awkwardly blurt out the first thing I can think of.
“I wondered how long it would be before the FBI sent a team out here to clean up their mess.”
That came out harsher than I intended.Fuck. Oh well.
“Mrs. Monroe, my name is Agent James Buchanan, and this is my partner Agent Everett Matthews. May we come in and talk with you?” He responds politely, unphased by my tone, but his eyes flash with a look I can’t yet decipher.
“Yes.” I hold the door open, allowing them to come inside. “We can talk in the kitchen,” I state in a clipped tone I, again, did not entirely mean to have.What is wrong with me right now?I close the door and push past them, waving them on to follow me as I hurry away, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“Yes, ma’am.” Agent Buchanan responds. I don’t wait to see if they follow. Instead, I busy myself with pulling the muffins out of the cupcake tin and onto a plate. When I hear their footsteps behind me, I turn around to face them and do my best to steady my racing heart.
EIGHT
JAMES
When the door opens, I am startled to see a beautiful brunette standing before me instead of the pale ghost from her file. The stark contrast between the blood-covered, lifeless, emaciated young girl I had seen in the pictures in her file to the one standing before me left me pleasantly surprised. She wears an unamused expression on her face, and the intensity in her grey eyes as she observes Everett and me has me speechless for a moment. I expect a look of shock, but instead, there is just sadness lingering behind her eyes. Her very presence exudes a quiet strength that belies the horrors she has endured, and I wonder if the untold stories in her eyes are etched deep in the depths of her soul.
