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Wayne Oxford is victim number eleven. The link that Adam had assumed was Romilly’s imagination, that he’d dismissed as paranoia …
He’d known.
Adam is in a daze, the phone still clamped to his ear, but with that thought he jumps.
“I’ve got to go,” he says abruptly, and hangs up.
He leaps from his desk, shouting out to the incident room. Detectives turn, on high alert.
She was right. Romilly was fucking right. Elijah is connected. And if he is …
The address check of Cole’s old house might have been clear Tuesday morning, but Pippa was abducted after. Eight hours after.
There’s only one place they need to be.
“We need to get to the house,” he bellows, already at a run. “Get there now.”
IF IT WASN’T for you, I would let her go. If it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t be here.
She’s quiet now. Still. Her chin is down against her chest, her hands and feet tied. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or passed out. I reach down and press two fingers against her neck; I can feel the gentle beat of her pulse, her heart working hard to pump the remainder of her blood around her body.
The needles have worked perfectly. Slower this time. She has a purpose, a reason to survive. For as long as I let her.
My anger has faded. It comes on fast, an impulse I can’t control, funneled toward that girl in the park. She enraged me—bobbing along, oblivious, headphones plugged in her ears. How could she be so stupid? So naive?
I felt hot. Detached, as I plunged the knife into her back. I felt resistance, the scrape of metal against bone, but I carried on, even as she fell to the ground. My heart racing, sweating, screaming, as I plunged the knife over and over into her chest. No thinking, no hesitation. An explosion of red-hot fury.
And after, the shame, the humiliation. Fear and panic that I would be caught. Because there is only one goal.
You.
Pippa stirs slightly in her chair. She tries to lift her head, but she’s groggy, confused. I look over to where my equipment has been left. Empty bags, ready to be filled. But the venesection has slowed. Her blood pressure is lower, her body shutting down. I worry. What if they find her before I have a chance to finish?
She’s not so immaculate now. She’s soiled herself again. Her clothes are crusty with dried sweat. With snot and tears and dribble and vomit. She was sick when I tried to make her eat. When I forced the food down her throat. What if she stops drinking, what then? I need her. I need to finish. I need to see if this will work. To the end.
I pause, a plan forming in my head.
I quickly walk across to the table and grab the syringe I’ve already prepared. I attach a needle, disperse the air, then stick it into her arm. She jerks awake and looks at me with panicked eyes.
“What was that?” she gasps.
“Heparin,” I reply.
“Don’t … don’t … please …” she says, and I flick at the tubing, encouraging the blood to move.
But two needles isn’t enough. I fetch more cannulae, strip off her socks, and push them into the veins on the top of her feet. The blood fills the tubing, then stops, ready and waiting.
She’s crying again, begging me to let her go. Last night she prayed to God, for what good that did her. There is no God here. No God near me. He left me to my fate long ago; I fend for myself.
I look upward. Not for God, but for a solution. I see the wooden beam, the hook drilled in. It’s not high, but it’ll do.
I fetch a length of rope and loop it over. I need to be careful. I lean down to her arms, and I carefully snip one of the ties. She jerks up, scrabbling with her free arm, but I grab it tight and wrap the rope around. She has an instant strength, and I admire her determination, but it won’t be enough. I undo her left hand and tie it tight. She struggles, her eyes frantic, her mouth open and screaming as I pull, tugging her arms above her head then dragging her out of her seat. She’s knocked her cannulae loose in her arms, but that won’t matter. I’ll find another vein.
Her feet are still tied to the chair and in her panic she knocks it over. It falls backward, wrenching her ankles in a way that must have been painful. But she doesn’t stop her twisting, her body contorting, hanging from the rope.
I hold her there, until her energy dispels, and she grows slack. I stand the chair up again, and she rests her feet back on the floor.
“Gravity,” I say to her. “The best way.”
