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“You mean Nathan Bell?” he said.
“He was one of Todd’s friends.”
“He was only a kid back then.”
“So was Aaron Berkoff.”
“You’re still forgetting something—the video. I can tell you, that’s not Nathan in the video. The figure is too small.”
The damn video. There was still something about it that Barbara was missing.
Why did Marcus film his own death? And if he expected to die, why worry about getting his jacket dirty? The answer was there, but tantalizingly out of reach.
Nicholls shook his head. “Marcus was bled dry. If he was killed by another human, where’s the blood? Nowhere near enough at the scene.”
This was also true. Barbara felt frustration bubble. “Okay, I hear you. But there’s a lot here that just doesn’t add up.”
“And I guess that means you won’t sign off this case till it does.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job otherwise, sir.”
A deep sigh. “So what’s the plan?”
“I’d like to talk to Stephen and Jacob…and Nathan.”
“Okay. Let’s make those house calls tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”
That it had. Hard to believe it was just over twenty-four hours since she had arrived.
Nicholls still looked thoughtful. “I still say there’s a good chance Marcus just found this ring in the woods and put it in his own pocket.”
“So why did someone leave the coat for Tucker to find?” Barbara picked up the small piece of circular metal. “I don’t believe in coincidence. Tucker’s right. The ring is a message.”
“From the killer?”
She nodded. “And if this is the same killer…” She turned the ring over in her fingers, so it glinted in the light. “They want us to know it.”
She dozed fitfully. Night and day meant very little to her down here, so sleep was a random thing, taken whenever she grew weary. And she was weary, for once.
The bar was looser than she had expected. It had only taken a little more excavating and then a large lump of plaster had given way and suddenly it was free at the bottom. A few more hours’ work and she would be able to remove it completely.
The achievement had elated her, but it meant she had worked for longer than usual, scraping away more plaster than she normally dared. But the tantalizing idea of freedom had spurred her on. She had to force herself to stop, meticulously patting the plaster back into place and pulling the blind. Nothing more could be risked for now. And impatience could make her reckless.
Once she was done, she took herself into the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly, removing every trace of dirt and plaster. She hid the plastic knife back in her mattress. Her top was a little dusty, but she brushed off as much as she could and turned off some of the lights. Hopefully her Captor wouldn’t notice. Then, she curled up on the bed. A nap before her Captor came with food. Her Captor normally brought at least one meal a day. Normally. Sometimes there were aberrations. A day or two missed. She never complained. It didn’t do to upset her Captor. Her Captor loved her. To complain would be ungrateful and there might be consequences. Like losing books or entertainment, or worse.
Once, her Captor didn’t come to feed her for a longer time. She had wondered if something had happened to them. Had they been hurt? Or perhaps died? She didn’t believe they would just leave her. She had paced the room for hours, trying to quell her panic, and ignore her hunger. In between, she had worked more feverishly on the window, even though she knew she would be unlikely to make her escape before hunger and weakness took her.
Eventually, as she lay in bed, stomach convulsing with agonizing pangs, mouth dry, she had heard the familiar sound of a key turning in the lock above her and the slow tread of footsteps down the cellar stairs. Her Captor was back.
“Hello, darling.”
She jumped. Not a dream or a memory. Real.
Her Captor stood at the bottom of the stairs holding her meal.
She sat up, blinking, momentarily disorientated.
“Did I wake you?” her Captor asked, face creasing in concern. “I’m sorry.”
