Her Darkest Nightmare

 

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PROLOGUE

Kill one and you might as well kill twenty-one.

—MARK MARTIN, BRITISH MURDERER

When she came to, Evelyn Talbot could hear nothing. She couldn't see anything, either. Darkness had fallen, and the shack, where she lay on the cool dirt floor, didn't have electricity.

Or … was she no longer in the shack?

Her thoughts were fuzzy.…

Maybe she was
dead
. She'd been expecting death, been thinking that, unlike most people, she wouldn't live long enough to graduate from high school. If she was alive, there would be pain. There'd been plenty of that in the three days Jasper Moore had held her captive in this place. Yet, in this moment, she felt … nothing.

That made no sense.

Unless she'd dreamed the whole thing. Was it all just a terrible nightmare? Would she wake up and go to school to find Jasper hanging out near her first-period class, lounging against the wall along with some of the other guys on the baseball team, talking about where they should eat dinner before prom?

She imagined telling him that she'd dreamed he killed Marissa, Jessie and Agatha—all three of her best friends. They'd have a good laugh, blame it on the horror movie they'd seen together not long ago, and he'd sling his arm around her neck and draw her in for a kiss, which would fix everything, put her world right.

But the brief flash of hope that shot through her didn't last. Her own bed didn't feel like the lumpy, hard-packed earth. Even the old mattress they'd dragged out here when they first found this place and made it their secret hideaway didn't feel
that
uncomfortable. As soon as she inhaled, she could smell smoke and remembered Jasper tossing a lighted match on some kindling he'd gathered from the forest. He'd sat there, on one of the stools they'd also brought to this place, for what seemed like forever, smoking a joint. He'd never smoked weed before, at least not around her, and they'd been together for six months. But
this
Jasper Moore wasn't the boy she'd known;
this
Jasper Moore was a monster.

While he studied her, she hadn't dared to so much as twitch. She'd kept her eyes closed, couldn't see what he was doing. But she'd had the feeling he was watching her carefully, waiting to be sure she was dead.

Since he'd released her from the rope he used to tie her up, she'd had the use of her hands. It had been all she could do not to use them to staunch the blood pouring from her neck. She could hardly keep from gurgling as she breathed—and the smoke that thickened the air made those shallow breaths even more difficult. She'd thought she might suffocate if she didn't bleed to death first. But gut instinct had told her that her last and only chance depended on convincing him he'd finished the job he set out to do when he slit her throat.

“That'll teach you to mess with me, bitch,” he'd muttered when, at long last, he walked out, leaving her to the fire he'd started to destroy the evidence.

Once he was gone, she'd tried to get up, but she must've blacked out. It had been light then, light enough that she'd pictured him hurrying home so he wouldn't be late for baseball practice. He'd attended school while keeping her out here. When he returned each night, he'd laugh and tell her how frantic the whole community was to find her and her friends—even what various kids and teachers were saying at school—as if he found it quite thrilling. He'd talk about the prayer circles, the yellow ribbons, and the anxious news reporters who were hounding everyone she knew for the smallest detail. When she asked him how he was able to keep slipping away to come back to the shack, he'd explained that he told everyone he was going out searching, too. The worried boyfriend was a part he claimed to play well, and she had no doubt of it. He could play
any
part.

He'd certainly fooled her.

If only someone would realize he wasn't sincerely upset and take a closer look at him! But that would never happen. With his chiseled face, athletic body, sharp mind and rich parents, he was so convincing, so believable, so unlikely a killer. No one would
ever
suspect him of committing a crime like this.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she struggled to staunch the tears that welled up. That he could betray her love in such a terrible way was the worst of what she'd suffered. But she couldn't focus on the heartbreak. That would only make her situation worse. She had to concentrate on
breathing
or maybe she'd simply … stop.

The fire must've burned itself out. She had no idea why it hadn't consumed her
and
the shack, as Jasper had intended, but below that acrid scent she identified the sweet, cloying smell of decaying flesh. The stench had been getting worse, more stomach churning every day. Jasper had said it made him hard to have her friends watch, with their sightless eyes, what he did to her. He said they were all just hanging out together, having fun like old times—except her friends had finally shut their big mouths.

What he'd done to them made her skin crawl. How he talked about it, with such relish, was almost as bad. She couldn't escape the vision she'd seen when she'd come looking for him—and surprised him while he was posing their bodies like mere mannequins. He'd said he killed them because they tried to make her break up with him by telling her he'd hit on Agatha at a party a week ago—as if their loyalty somehow made all of this
their
fault. He'd said he wouldn't allow
anyone
to cause trouble for him.

He'd claimed he hadn't been planning to kill
her,
but he certainly hadn't acted as though he minded, as though she was any different or more special to him than they were. As a matter of fact, the more pain he caused her, the happier he became. The torture had ignited something in him, changed him. She'd never imagined anyone could be like that.

But she wasn't dead yet. If she could smell what she could smell and feel what she could feel, the darkness was simply that—darkness. And her muddled thoughts? Whose thoughts wouldn't be muddled after what she'd suffered? She had to fight the heaviness that dragged at her limbs and seemed to slow her heart, fight for her life. At least she didn't have the fire to contend with. Good thing she'd been on the floor, below the smoke, or she probably would've died.

If she could make it to the highway, maybe she could flag down a passing motorist.

Lifting a heavy, unwieldy hand to her throat, she felt the stickiness of her own blood. She was lying in a pool of it. But the gaping slash in her throat wasn't her only injury. She had a broken leg—it was crooked, which left little question—and had various other injuries. She could see out of only one eye and, in three days, hadn't eaten anything except the gross substances he'd forced down her throat while enjoying the humiliation he caused.

Did she have even half a chance?

It was too late, she decided. No one could be expected to survive what she'd endured. She should use her last moments on earth to scratch a message into the dirt so that her family would know it was Jasper who'd killed her. At least then he wouldn't get away with it.

But the thought of her parents created such a tremendous longing—and empathy for how they would feel to find her so badly used and broken—that she managed, with massive effort, to sit up. When she didn't pass out again, she took heart and, feeling for something solid, grabbed Jasper's stool to help drag her to her feet.

That was when the pain started. Why it suddenly rushed upon her out of nowhere she couldn't begin to guess. But the moment she came upright, her entire body screamed out in protest. And when she put pressure on her leg—oh God! She nearly lost consciousness.

Focus! Keep standing! Push the pain away! Think of only one thing—what to do next!

That was getting out of the place where her friends had been murdered—where he'd asked them to meet him so they could have a “private talk.”

She feared Jasper would somehow realize the shack hadn't burned and come back to investigate. But if she was going to live, she had to move
now
. In five minutes, or less, she might not have the strength or the presence of mind.

Considering the agony of every footfall, Evelyn had no idea how she managed to stagger through the rain-drenched woods. She wasn't even sure she was moving in the right direction. It didn't matter that she'd traversed the small path to the shack at least a hundred times. There was greenery everywhere, and it all looked the same. She could be going in a circle, but she had to keep moving, keep struggling—had to find someone to help her.

Not until she was in the road did she realize that she'd reached her goal—and then it occurred to her only because a car horn sounded as a vehicle came at her. The blast was intended to get her out of the way, but she couldn't take another step, couldn't even raise her arms to signal her distress.

She heard the brakes squeal as the driver swerved to miss her, heard the crunch of gravel as the car came to a stop. Then she crumbled and would've died right there on the dotted yellow line separating the two lanes of pavement if not for the man who came rushing toward her, shouting, “Oh my God! What
happened
to you?”

 

1

We are all evil in some form or another.

—RICHARD RAMIREZ, THE NIGHT STALKER

Twenty years later …

He'd kill her if he could. He'd attacked her once before. She had to remember that.

Dropping her pen on top of the notepad she'd carried in with her, Dr. Evelyn Talbot slipped her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night; she'd had another of her terrible nightmares. “The plexiglass is there for a reason, Hugo. It will always be between us. And we both know why.”

This wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for. Impatience etched lines in his handsome face, with its wide forehead and innocent-looking brown eyes, but he was careful not to raise his voice. In fact, he did the opposite: he lowered it in appeal. “I won't lay a hand on you, I swear! I just have to tell you something. Come over to this side so I can whisper. It'll only take a minute.”