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Holy. Fucking. Shit.
A hand flies to my mouth as the backs of my eyes sting for a new reason. In a flash, Travis is in front of me, hands on my cheeks, thumbs stroking my skin as he soothes my sudden realization.
“You’re okay, sunshine.” His lips press mine with a chaste kiss. “You’re safe.”
Leaning into his touch, I give a subtle nod. Travis wipes tears from my cheeks, kisses my forehead, then inches back.
I twist to look at Chief. “Not sure of his last name, but the only Charles I know is at the pharmacy in the market.” Confusion is a fiery tornado in my chest as I recall every interaction I had with Charles. His grumpy nature and strange commentary. Most days, he’d been cordial, with generic greetings and obligatory conversation. But our most recent interaction was… bizarre. “Last time I picked up my prescription,” I start, flashing back to early November, “he said the most uncomfortable thing.” I meet Chief’s unyielding gaze and swallow. “It was right around when the woman in the woods was discovered and people were clearing shelves in the market.”
Travis rests his hand near my knee, his thumb drawing lazy circles. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I drop my chin to my chest, blink back tears of disappointment. Disappointment with myself for not putting this together sooner. For not seeing the signs right in front of me. For not saying something to someone, anyone.
Though I only stopped at the pharmacy every three months for my prescription, I saw Charles more often. It wasn’t odd for him to eat at the restaurant once or twice a week this past year. Majority of the town pulled up a chair at Poke the Yolk and chitchatted with the staff. I didn’t always wait on him, but waved in the hopes of cheering him up.
Obviously, he took my smiles and gestures and politeness as something else.
“Looking back, I still see the judgment on his face as he handed over my birth control.” Lava flows through my veins as the memory hits. “He made this snappy comment. Something about being more careful who I take home with a killer on the loose.” With a shake of my head, I laugh without humor. “It pissed me off, but I ignored it. Smiled and told him to have a better day. Passed it off as a man still mad at his ex-wife for leaving with their child.”
God, I am a fucking idiot.
“Kirsten.” I meet Chief’s eyes. “This is not on you. He was a sick man that needed help.” He takes out his phone, taps the screen a few times, then types a lengthy note. When he finishes, he rises from the chair. “We’ll search for the ex-wife and reach out.” With one long stride, he rests a hand on my shoulder. “But this is over now.”
I nod, then narrow my eyes before meeting his. “What about the bunker?”
Chief winces, steps toward the door, and shrugs on his coat. “Unfortunately, that one is on me.”
Travis straightens to his full height and looks at his dad. “What? How?”
Slipping on leather gloves, he zips up his coat. “The bunker has been there since the 1950s.” He tugs a beanie on his head. “Your great-grandfather had it installed. Life was pretty rocky at the time and he wanted a safe place for the family in case things hit the fan.”
“So Big Papa G put a bomb shelter in the middle of the woods?”
The corner of Chief’s mouth curves up as a memory hits him. “When I was a boy, paranoia was Papa G’s middle name.” His lips shift to a softer smile. “But he grew up in a different time. And before he went off to war, he wanted to know his family would be safe.”
Travis cocks his head as his brows knit together. “But why the middle of nowhere?”
“It wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. A wood cabin sat about ten yards from the hatch until the late eighties. Built at the turn of the century, it slowly fell apart with no one maintaining it. Papa G, Dad, and I spent weeks tearing it down. Dad reminisced about playing in the shelter for years as a boy. Mom had redecorated it in the seventies, wanting to modernize it in case we ever used it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “Of the cabin, we took what wouldn’t break down in the forest to the dump but left the rest to decompose.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “And some of those pieces formed the shack over the hatch. Had I taken the time to routinely check the properties, maybe I’d have found it ages ago. It’s probably been some vagrant’s home for years.”
Vexation etches lines in the expressions of both Emerson men. Both berating themselves mentally for not doing more. Without a doubt, Chief is angry he and his family didn’t drive off with all the pieces of the old cabin. Had they, the shack would never have existed. And Travis is undoubtedly upset he didn’t know about the shack or bunker. Had he hiked the woods more recently, he would have stumbled across it and saved all this from happening.
But neither is to blame.
The future is a kaleidoscope of unpredictable uncertainty. No one foresees a person building a shack in the woods above an abandoned bomb shelter. No one predicts an unstable individual will use the space to torture and kill women.
Hell, I missed the signs right in front of my face. After his unsavory commentary at the pharmacy, why hadn’t I mentioned it to anyone? Why hadn’t I been more uncomfortable seeing Charles in the restaurant afterward? Not a single red flag waved in my head. Not a single alarm went off in warning. Nothing made me connect him to the unwelcome, disturbing notes or gift. My sympathy for Charles’s situation obviously overshadowed my common sense and intuition.
If the Emerson men want to blame themselves, fine. Nothing I say or do will change their minds. But if they take an ounce of responsibility on their shoulders, how can I not do the same?
Eyes unfocused on the floorboards, my fingers stroking Trixie’s soft fur, the door creaks as Chief and Travis exit the cabin. Their conversation is dull in my ears, but I don’t miss Chief’s words, “I’m proud of you, Travis. But next time, please wait for backup.”
Brown leather boots invade my line of sight, denim-clad legs bending as Ben squats inches from where I sit. He lays a hand on my knee and squeezes. “It’s over now, sparkles.”
I study the stitching on his flannel. Home in on the tightly woven lines of black and green and blue until my eyes rove over ivory buttons. One button, then another, until my tired, stormy irises land on serene turquoise ones.
With a heavy sigh, I relax for the first time in weeks, months. “I’m ready to go home.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
