And her own little family as well, she thought as she moved past the next five headstones, all children of Barbara and Tobias who had not survived into adulthood. She stopped at the sixth stone. Its design was identical to that of her grandparents, the inscription as weathered as Tobias’s. Not surprising, since they’d been bought and carved at the same time.
One side, her father’s, was mercifully blank. The other bore a terrible lie.
Margaret O’Bannion Sullivan. Beloved wife and mother
.
‘Hello, Mother,’ Faith murmured. ‘It’s been a while.’
As if in response, a high-pitched scream floated across the air. Startled, Faith did a three-sixty, looking for the source, but saw nothing. No one had followed her, of that she’d made certain. There was nothing like being stalked to teach a woman to be careful.
No one was here. It was just Faith, the house, and the fifty acres of fallow farmland that was all that remained of the O’Bannion family holdings. She patted the pocket of her jacket, calmed by the presence of her gun. ‘It was a dog howling,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s all.’
Or it could have simply been her mind playing tricks, echoing the scream from her nightmares.
Twelve steps and a basement
. Sometimes she woke from the nightmare to find herself screaming for real, which had scared the hell out of her ex-husband – a fact that gave Faith a level of satisfaction that was admittedly immature. Officer Charlie Frye deserved a hell of a lot more than a start in the night for what he’d done.
Her mother had done so much worse to her dad. ‘Dad deserved a hell of a lot better than what you did to him. So did I. I still do.’ She hesitated, then spat the words out. ‘I have hated you for twenty-three years. I
lied
for you. I lied to Dad so that he’d never know what you did. So if you meant to hurt him, you failed. If you meant to hurt me, then congratulations. You hit the bulls-eye.’
It suddenly occurred to her that her best revenge might be to live as her mother had always expected to – as mistress of the manor. It was almost enough to make Faith smile, but the memory of her father’s devastation made her angry all over again.
The thought of her father brought to mind the promise she’d made. Reluctantly she snapped a photo of Margaret’s headstone with her phone and texted it to her dad. He’d made a pilgrimage to her grave every few years, but a recent stroke had him housebound. Faith had promised him the photo so he’d know for sure that the grave was okay.
Got here safely
, she typed.
All is well. Mama’s grave is
–
Her finger paused as she searched for the right words, rejecting all the wrong ones that would be sure to hurt her father, who still believed the inscription to be true. ‘Well cared for’ was honest, she decided, so she typed it.
Will call from the hotel.
She didn’t dare call now. Standing here looking at her mother’s headstone . . . She wouldn’t be able to keep the bitterness from her voice. Swallowing hard, she hit
send
, then turned back to her Jeep with a sigh. If she couldn’t get into the house, there was nothing more to be accomplished here today. She’d hit the Wal-Mart near her hotel to buy some cleaning supplies and turn in early. She had a busy day tomorrow.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 6.05
P.M.
His hand froze mid strike as the light in the ceiling began to flash.
What the hell?
The alarm. Someone was outside.
‘Fuck,’ he bit out. It couldn’t be the caretaker. He’d mown the grass a few days before. It was a trespasser. Rage bubbled up, threatening to break free. Someone had the nerve to trespass here? To interrupt him
now
?
He glanced down at the young woman on his table. Her mouth was open, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs, her expression one of desperation. It had taken him two fucking days to get her to this point. After fighting him tooth and nail, she’d finally begun to scream.
She had the most remarkable threshold for pain. He’d be able to play with her for a long, long time. But not right now. Someone had trespassed and needed to be dealt with.
If he was lucky, it was someone who was lost, looking for directions. When they realized the house was abandoned, they’d leave. If not . . .
He smiled. He’d have another playmate.
He put the knife aside, several feet away. Just in case. The woman on his table had proven to be smart and strong. A little too smart and strong for his liking, but he’d soon fix that. The moment his captives’ wills broke, the moment they realized that no one would come to save them, that he was their master for as long as he chose . . . He smiled.
That
was satisfaction.
Closing the door behind him, he left the torture room and went to his office. Powering up his laptop, he brought up the cameras, expecting to see a salesman or someone stranded—
He stared at the monitor, shock rendering him motionless for several long seconds.
It can’t be. It simply can’t be.
But it was. It was
her
. She was
here
. Standing at the cemetery fence. Staring at the grave markers, her face as cold as ice.
How can she be here?
He’d seen the news reports, the pictures of her little blue Prius, twisted and smashed. She could not have walked away from that.
I know I killed her.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered. Obviously he had not. The girl had more lives than a damn cat.
Go, finish the job.
But first he had to make sure she was alone. He switched to the camera out front and got another jolt. A Jeep Cherokee, bright red. Filled with boxes.
She’d already bought a new car, but at least there were no other passengers.
Good.
He’d take care of her once and for all. He’d have to catch her unawares because the bitch carried a gun. He couldn’t allow her the opportunity to use it.
She’s all alone out there. Kill her now.
He switched back to the cemetery camera, then cursed again. She had a cell phone out, taking a picture. He ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Skidded to a stop at the back door and peered through the gap between the boards that covered its window.
His heart sank. She was typing into the phone, giving it a final tap.
She’d sent a text. She’d texted a damn photo.
Somebody would know she’d been here. He couldn’t kill her now. Not here.
Never here
. Disappointment mixed with his panic. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the law coming around, poking in his business. Or even worse, the press.
Find her and kill her, but not here.
He edged his way to the front room, peered out of the window. His pulse pounding in his head, he watched her get in the Jeep and drive away.
Part of him wanted to jump in his van and follow her. To kill her now.
But he made himself slow down and think. He liked to plan. To know exactly what he’d do at every phase of a hunt. At the moment he was too rattled – and anyone would be, seeing her at the cemetery like that. He’d been so sure he’d killed her. But she was obviously quite alive.
That would soon be remedied.
He drew a deep breath. He was calming down now. More in control. This was better. A rattled man made mistakes. Mistakes drew attention, requiring even more drastic clean-up. This he had learned the hard way.
He’d find her easily enough. He’d followed her long enough to know her preference in hotels – and Faith was even more of a creature of habit than he was. Although she’d surprised him with the Jeep. A red one, even. That didn’t seem to be her style, but perhaps she’d been forced to be less choosy when her old car had become a pile of twisted metal.
How she’d walked away from the wreck was a detail that she would divulge. Before he killed her. Because he
would
kill her. He’d find her and lure her someplace else and
end
her, once and for all. Nobody could come looking for her here, to this place.
My place.
Nobody could know. They’d spoil everything. Everything he’d built. Everything he treasured.
They’ll take my things. My things
. That would not happen.
Think carefully. Plan
.
Flinching at a sudden pain in his hand, he looked down to realize he was holding his keys in a white-knuckled fist. He was more rattled than he’d thought.
Which was . . . normal, he supposed. But ultimately unnecessary.
She’s just a woman, just like all the others.
Easily overpowered. When he found her, she’d be sorry she’d threatened him.
Except . . . Faith wasn’t easily overpowered. He’d tried to kill her too many times. She’d become careful, aloof. Now she never allowed herself to be unprotected. So he’d just have to work a little harder to lure her to a place of his choosing.
And if you don’t manage to lure her far enough away? If she comes back here? If she tries to come in?
Then he’d have to kill her here, which might bring the cops.
They’ll take my things.
He drew a deep breath, let it out. Refused to allow the panic to overwhelm him. He would not lose his things. If he had to, he’d move them. All of them.
Nobody will ever take my things again. Not now. Not ever
.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 6.20
P.M.
Once Faith had reached the paved road, she began dictating a new to-do list into her phone. Her lists had helped her stay sane, enabling her to accomplish everything she’d needed to do to leave Miami as Faith Corcoran, leaving Faith Frye behind in an insanely short period of time.
She’d learned the magic of lists after her mother died and her father began turning to the bottle for comfort. She’d had to run their little household back then and she’d only been nine years old. Lists were her salvation.
Tomorrow she’d contact her grandmother’s attorney to get the correct house key, and then call the utilities to have the power and water turned on. She’d need a landline, too, because cell service was spotty out—
Oh no.
Her heart sank as she realized what she’d forgotten.
Cell service. Dammit.
She stared at the phone she held clutched in her hand. She’d changed her name, her address, her driver’s license and credit cards, but she hadn’t changed her cell phone number.
Irritation swept through her. How the hell had she forgotten about her phone? Not only was it still in her old name, it was a damn homing signal.
She stopped the Jeep in the middle of the road and pulled the chip from the phone. She’d get a new one tomorrow. An untraceable one, just like some of her former ex-con clients carried.
Then once she got all her ducks in a row, she’d return to the house to begin what was sure to be a massive clean-up job.
Correction. It’s not
the
house. It’s
your
house.
Get used to saying it, and going inside next time will be a lot easier.
Relax. You left Peter Combs in Miami. No one is stalking you. No one is trying to kill you. There’s nothing to be afraid of here
.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 10.15
P.M.
Arianna Escobar came to with a gasp, then held her breath, listening hard. She heard nothing. If
he
was in the room with her, he was holding his breath as well. She waited until she could hold her breath no longer. Air rushed out, and with it, a moan. She’d tried so hard to suppress the moans.
He loved her moans, she’d learned. He loved her agonized screams even more.
At the beginning, she’d been determined to give him neither. To give him no satisfaction.
But he’d hurt her. A whimper escaped her pursed lips. With knives and . . . Another whimper escaped. She’d gritted her teeth and bitten her tongue until she couldn’t take the pain another second more. She’d screamed then, delighting him.
She’d screamed and screamed until her throat was raw. And then, he’d abruptly stopped, backing away with a muttered oath. He’d left; she’d heard the door close. When had that been? She didn’t know. She could only see a bit of light through the edges of her blindfold. She thought she’d seen lights flashing overhead just before he stopped and swore.
He’ll be back
. He always came back. At first she’d prayed that someone would save her. But no one had. Now she prayed for death to come quickly.
It didn’t seem like that was his plan. Whoever he was. He seemed intent on stretching this out. On making it last. He’d said so, several times. That he needed to make it last.
But worst of all, she didn’t know if he had Corinne too. The last thing she remembered was him shoving Corinne into the back of a van, but Arianna had heard no other screams since waking. Only her own.
Please let Corinne have gotten away.
But she didn’t think her friend had escaped. Corinne had been limp when he threw her in the back of that van. Like she was dead already.
The door closed quietly and she tensed.
Lemons.
She smelled lemons. It was the girl. Again.
‘Help me,’ Arianna begged, her voice raspy and broken. ‘Please, help me.’
A damp towel patted her cheeks, cleaning up what was probably sweat and blood. And tears. Arianna had shed all three.
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’