Into the Devil's Underground (11 page)

“So she’s a gossip blogger?” She stared at the copy, suddenly feeling as if it might bite her.

“Yep. She interviewed your parents and ex-husband.”

Her stomach dropped faster than a roller coaster and then jammed her throat. No. Not Evan, and definitely not Claire. Claire, who would revel in Emilie’s failures. She coughed and nearly threw up the bagel she’d forced down an hour ago. “Excuse me?”

“Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank”

Emilie skimmed through the details of the hostage situation and the man’s attempt to take her. She didn’t need to relive the night in print.

Her eyes stopped on two words. “The Subterranean Stalker? Really?”

“It’s ridiculous. Nothing but sensationalizing a terrible crime get hits.”

Emilie read further. The female blogger was in awe of Creepy’s scheme. Paragraphs of the blog were devoted to his brilliance.

The paper rustled in Emilie’s shaky grip. The blogger had spoken to her mother.

The victim is the daughter of Claire and Sam Davis, an upper-middle-class family from
Portland, Oregon. She and her husband haven’t had a relationship with their daughter since
Emilie Davis ran away sixteen years ago with her now ex-husband, Evan Randall.

“He was her high school guidance counselor,” Claire Davis said.

“For six months during her senior year, she snuck around behind our backs with him. Of
course, we eventually found out, and the news was mortifying. I immediately put my foot down,
but Emilie couldn’t handle that. She always was a difficult child. One morning, she just ran off
with him.”

Red spots clouded Emilie’s vision. Just ran off with him? Was that how Claire remembered it? Had she forgotten the reason Emilie had decided to leave? Or pushed the incident to the back of her mind just as she had her daughter?

“That’s not how it happened.” She needed Ronson to know her mother lied. “Claire never did anything but put me down. I had no self-esteem. He was a new counselor and young, and I told him about Claire. He used that to manipulate me. And my mother only cared about what the relationship did to her reputation, not me.”

“You don’t have to justify anything to me.” Ronson looked embarrassed. “This is nothing but gossip. I just thought you should be aware.”

Eyes stinging, Emilie went back to reading.

Speaking by phone in California, Evan Randall stated that he hasn’t communicated with his
ex-wife since the divorce. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt Emilie,” Randall said.
“She’s a kind person. A little needy but very caring. I hope they find the person that did this
soon. Emilie doesn’t deserve this.”

Hypocritical, lying bastard. Leave it to Evan to play the charming ex-husband card before Emilie could taint his reputation.

When asked about his relationship with a high-school-aged Davis, Randall said that while
Davis had been at the age of legal consent, in retrospect his marriage with her was a “foolish
decision.”

Emilie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She stood and stuck the paper in her bag. “Thank you for showing this to me. I’ve got to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t have the voice to tell the agent it wasn’t her fault. “Please. Just find this man.”

“Remember the safety precautions,” Agent Ronson urged as Emilie moved toward the door. “Your building has a good security system, and you have designated parking behind the bank. There will also be a patrol in your neighborhood, but you need to stay in touch with us and make sure you carry mace or pepper spray. Be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Call me if you remember more details.”

“I will.” She rushed out of the office. Her face flamed with embarrassment and rage. Evan had been her guidance counselor, but the relationship wasn’t scandalous—not the way Claire made it out to be.

She stumbled into the ladies room and leaned against the counter.
It wasn’t my fault
. Emilie repeated the words the therapist had drilled into her head.
Claire drove me to Evan, and he
manipulated me. She never gave me the foundation to love myself.
Tears dripped onto the countertop.
It wasn’t my fault
.

She stared in the mirror and watched the tears fall. So many shed over Claire and Evan. But Emilie had locked that old pain away a long time ago. She would not allow it to resurface.

She snatched a tissue out of the dispenser and hastily cleaned her face.
Claire is a vindictive
shrew. This was her chance to lash out at you for disrupting her perfect life. Don’t let her win
.

Emilie examined the ugly bruise on her cheek. Her pale skin was more flushed than usual. What was it Creepy had said about her skin? And something about children and how precious they were? About how important it was children were protected?

Her lungs constricted. Her breath came in quick, painful gasps. Creepy had said she should know what he meant about the sin of mistreating children, as though he knew about her family misery, something she hadn’t spoken of since leaving Portland.

How did he know? How deep into her life had he dug?

How long has he been following me?

Her vision began to blur. Disoriented, she felt along the textured wall until she reached the metal door handle.

Dark shapes loomed in the hallway. Emilie cowered against the door. One of the shapes approached. It reached for her and called her name. The words were muffled by the roaring sound in her ears. Her chest ached with fear, her lungs tight.

“Leave me alone,” she cried.

“I can’t do that.” The blob was directly in front of her now. “Let me help you.”

A hand reached out, its fingers coming to rest on the arm that was now pressed in front of her face.

Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. A bloodcurdling scream tore through the hallway—her own.

Fight or flight.

She wrenched the hand off her arm, her fingernails digging into flesh.

“Ouch! Emilie, stop. You know me.” The voice was masculine, husky, and tinged with emotion.

“It’s Nathan. Remember me?”

She knew him, didn’t she? She searched her cloudy mind, dredging up the man with blue eyes and a gunshot wound in his arm. “Nathan?”

“Yes. You’re safe. You’re at the police station. Open your eyes.”

Emilie cracked one eye open. Nathan’s features came into view: broad shoulders; a scruff-covered, angular jaw; striking blue eyes.

He stood in front of her, worry etched on his handsome face. Behind him, several officers gawked. She’d drawn a crowd.

Emilie took a step forward. Dizziness threatened to overtake her, and she stumbled. Nathan caught her by the arms. His hands were warm and rough with calluses.

She spoke into his broad chest. “I need to get out of here.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve calmed down.”

“I just want to go home.” She pressed her hands against her ringing ears.

Nathan touched her shoulder. “Please sit and calm down first.”

She didn’t have the energy to refuse him. Nathan steadied her as she wobbled to a nearby wooden bench.

“I’m not crazy.”

“Of course not. You’re traumatized.”

Emilie hated that word. It made her feel like a victim. “I don’t know what happened back there.”

“Take some deep breaths,” Nathan said. “Focus on that for a minute.”

She obeyed, counting her breaths.

Nathan patted her back. His hand was warm and steady. “You looked like you were having a flashback.”

The significance of Creepy’s words sent her reeling again. She clutched the edge of the bench to keep from falling face-first onto the floor. “He knows about my past, about my parents. He knows me.”

9

N
ATHAN STRUGGLED TO
think of the right response as Emilie rocked back and forth on the bench. He was afraid she’d tumble off if he let go of her arm.

“Did you hear what I said?” Emilie demanded.

She looked worse than she had last night. The bruise on her cheek had darkened into a vibrant purple. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she had gotten little rest. A tear clung briefly to the edge of one of her long eyelashes before losing its grip and slipping down her cheek. The moisture landed on her full upper lip, but Emilie didn’t seem to notice.

“What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

Another tear, this one trickling through the smattering of freckles across her nose. “My mom, the way she treated me. That I left home when I was eighteen and haven’t spoken to her since. He knows.”

A printed copy of the city’s rag blog stuck out of her bag. Nathan had read it over stale coffee this morning. Emilie’s history had been a sad surprise. Her mother’s cold indifference toward her daughter was easy to see in her malicious quotes.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of what I just remembered,” Emilie said. “Creepy talked about my wearing white and how only kids were innocent enough to wear white. Then he talked about protecting them and how there’s no worse sin than mistreating a child.”

“And you think he was referring to you?”

Color rose in her cheeks. “Listen, you have no idea the kind of person my mother is and what she did. She resented me and spent most of her life pretending I didn’t exist.” Emilie’s tone changed. The vibrating sound of fear was replaced by a raw timbre of pain.

“Is that why you left?” He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help himself. The cop in him wondered if her stalker was somehow tied to her past.

She finally met his gaze. Surprise and then mortification flickered across her face. Emilie crossed her arms over her chest and twisted her body away from him.

“Doesn’t matter,” she backtracked. “I found out enough to open my eyes and send me packing.”

“And you think Creepy knew?” Nathan refused to use the stupid name the blogger created.

“Isn’t that what he meant about mistreating a child?”

“Maybe, but he could have been talking about himself too,” Nathan said. “Many people with psychoses had bad childhoods, and that’s what fuels their problems
.” Or fuels them to do stupid things like offering themselves up as a hostage.

“But I thought his voice sounded familiar.”

“Really? Could it have been your ex?” Nathan’s instincts told him Evan Shaw had preyed on a vulnerable young girl. That kind of man could be capable of anything.

“Evan?” Emilie’s eyebrows knitted together. “Hell no. He’s not smart enough to pull off an escape like that, and I would have recognized him in an instant.”

“One of his friends?”

“I suppose it could have been. But I doubt Evan shared my past with them. He wanted everyone to think he had the perfect little wife.”

“Do you think,” Nathan began, fully expecting his question to be rebuffed, “that because of the information in the blog, you’re projecting? If you hadn’t read that post, would you still think the partner was talking about your family?”

She stuck out her chin, obviously offended. “That post has no relevance to my thoughts.”

They both knew that was a lie. But asking any more questions would only cause her to retreat further into her own mind.

Nathan tried another tack. He didn’t want to lose her trust. “Well, you need to tell Avery what you remembered so he can look into that angle, but I have a feeling the partner was talking about himself.”

“Avery.” A sneer flitted across her face. “He’s an asshole.”

“You still need to tell him.” Part of him wanted to laugh, but he wondered what Avery had done to set Emilie off.

A smile played at the corners of Emilie’s mouth. “I notice you didn’t deny he was an asshole.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Nathan couldn’t tell her how right she was. “Deal with Agent Ronson as much as you can. She’s very good.”

Emilie leaned against the wall, some of the tension draining out of her shoulders. “You know her?”

“SWAT worked a case with her a year ago.”

“Avery said police couldn’t go into the tunnels very far. The police don’t know the tunnels that well. Is that true?”

“Unfortunately. It would take days to search the entire system.”

“But if he’s in there—”

Nathan shook his head. “We’d end up going in circles.”

“So he just sits back and laughs while the police chase their tails and I freak out. Is that it?” Emilie slumped back against the bench.

“I’m sorry.” He hated not having anything good to tell her, especially after the blog. Avery would latch onto that and make Emilie’s life miserable, especially if she insulted his fragile ego.

“Not your fault. If it weren’t for you, God knows where I would be.”

“Right.” If Nathan had done his job, Emilie wouldn’t be here right now. “Let’s go find Ronson.”

“She thinks there’s an insider helping him,” Emilie said as they approached the squad room. “Someone with knowledge of the bank.”

“It’s very likely.”

“But that’s dozens of people. How is she supposed to find the right one?”

“By doing her job and narrowing down the suspect pool. Trust me; Ronson is one of the best.”

The agent was nowhere to be seen, but Avery sat at his desk stuffing a candy bar into his mouth. He glared at Nathan as they approached. “What are you doing with my victim, Madigan? Your job ended last night.”

“Lay off.” The sooner Nathan got away from Avery the better. “This isn’t the time or place for your issues. Emilie’s got something to tell you.”

Avery’s eyes glazed over as Emilie spoke. “So? He could have been talking about his own childhood. Or just babbling. You’ve got nothing else?”

“You said to tell you everything.” Emilie’s shaky tone from the hallway had been replaced by firm control and unconcealed annoyance.

“By everything, I meant pertinent details from last night. I didn’t mean for you to waste my time playing detective. Let the big boys do the real work, please.”