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No more babies. Meaning whoever had taken her—this Adam—had been having babies with not only her mom, but other girls. She’d approached John about any missing persons with these names and the timeline of when they might have gone missing. Polly and Debbie had been reported missing, and then the cases closed. Parents said they’d run away and returned. Could be true. Or they could have been hiding what had happened.
Violet had tracked addresses for the two women. Debbie lived in Memphis, and Polly’s last known address had been in Tucson. Debbie had died only weeks before Violet had found her, and Polly had taken her life almost two decades ago. Violet searched for their children and family members, but she’d hit a dead end. Until she got a lead back in July with the Nursery Rhyme Killer, but that family had hidden their daughter’s abduction and child well. Had the means to bury it or fake a story like she went away to a home for teenage mothers and returned with a child, and Violet once again hit a brick wall.
Did she want to talk about this with John? She didn’t speak of it other than to Fiona or Asa, and she did it clinically, compartmentalizing her personal feelings. Looking at herself as a survivor of a victim. She trusted John. He was one of very few people who wasn’t working an angle. No underlying motives. Nothing hidden.
“My mom was abducted by a man named Adam when she was fifteen. Those women you found, I believe were also his victims. I’ve been trying to track him, but I have very little to go on. Mom doesn’t talk about it. What I knew was from her talking in her sleep.”
“I’m sorry.”
Not as sorry as she was. “I’m still trying to find a lead to him.”
“That why you went into law enforcement?”
“To find him. Because if I didn’t go into law enforcement...” She might have ended up a criminal. “I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“I know where I’d be. A jailbird. I was such a delinquent growing up.” He laughed. “I mean it’s not funny really, but my friends used to call me Slick. Had nothing to do with the ladies but how well I could lift something off a person.”
Violet hadn’t pegged John for having a single criminal bone in his body. He seemed well-rounded and honest. It was in the eyes. “I’m shocked.”
“Yeah, well don’t judge me. I turned it around when I was nineteen. Guess all those prayers from my mama and granny that I’d come to know Jesus personally finally paid off.”
No one had ever prayed for her. “I didn’t grow up with a mom who was a person of faith.”
“And now?”
“Meh.” Her mom’s words echoed in her heart. If there was a God, and there’s not, He wouldn’t want you.
“What happens if you never find this Adam?”
“Not an option.” Because she had no idea. She’d hunt him until she either found him or died trying. A raw awareness jolted her eyes open, and she sat at attention, eyeing the darkness and peering beyond the woods.
“What is it?” John asked as his body went on alert, rigid and ready to move.
Surveying the tree line, she stood and inched toward the porch railing. “I feel something. Someone?”
The sound of twigs snapping drew a shiver from her. Could be anything though.
John stood and neared the porch railing, searching the surroundings. “Probably a raccoon or opossum.” He turned. “You want to go inside?”
She scanned the area, thought she saw movement in the distance but couldn’t be sure. “I’m going to bed.” More like escaping the unseen eyes gazing upon her. Like a force salivating to approach her. Consume her.
Devour her.
Quietly, he unlatched the old Civil War painting and slipped into the secret passage. As a child, he’d played hide-and-seek in them with friends and cousins. They’d pretended to be treasure hunters or bootleggers, who were the reason behind the passages being built into the house. Slate County had been a midway point during the Prohibition era. The house had been a boarding house, a front for other things as well.
The wood was moist and smelled of dead rodents and stale air. Cobwebs clung to his clothing and hair as he batted them away and moved between the walls until he came to the staircase.
To the upstairs.
To her room.
The other agent was pretty with her short hair, but the male agent stayed in there too late, too long. He’d lost interest watching her with him. He hadn’t minded watching them kiss, but he’d grown bored when it hadn’t progressed past that.
The staircase spiraled to a narrow hallway between the walls. He turned sideways to maneuver his frame without brushing his shoulders against the walls. If anyone heard him, they’d only think it was mice. He didn’t need his cell phone or a flashlight. He’d done this for years. Knew every inch of the hall and where it opened into a tiny room where moonshine had been stored. Her room was on the right, the one with the dolls. All the pretty little girl dolls.
Long painted lashes and red, cherry lips.
But the agent didn’t like the dolls. She’d turned them all to face away from her. It wasn’t the dolls she need worry about or their eyes studying the way her slender hips swayed, the way her hair flowed freely down her back after she shrugged out of her work clothes. Dainty hands and feet. A soft body.
