“You’ve been my rock, Chris. But—don’t tell Ivy you knew from the beginning. I told her once that we didn’t have secrets, but I don’t think she processed that I shared everything with you.”
“She doesn’t have to know when I knew.”
Jocelyn mumbled something, then Chris said, “If Sara makes a statement about her father, no court would place her with him. I don’t want you getting in trouble for being an accessory after the fact.”
“Stop sounding like a lawyer. Kirk Edmonds is a powerful, wealthy man with people who will support him. Powerful people get away with unspeakable crimes. You know that, Chris.”
“And you don’t think that Ivy has been lying about him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You have more faith in that girl than I do.”
Maddie bit her hand to keep from crying. Men with pretty faces were just as mean as ugly men.
Her head felt light, but she was so sad. She took one more pill, wanting to bury the sorrow.
She slid into the water. It was still hot, but tolerable. She didn’t want to listen to any more talk, she didn’t want to hear any doubts.
Ivy had saved her over and over again. Without her, Maddie would have been dead long ago.
She put her earbuds in and listened to Evanescence, the soulful, heart-wrenching sounds soothing and comforting.
Slowly, she relaxed, forgot the Taylors, forgot her pain, forgot that someone wanted her dead.
* * *
When Ivy walked Sara into the church, peace touched her heart and she knew immediately she’d done the right thing. Why hadn’t she come to Father Paul right after the fire?
She found it ironic that the only person she truly trusted with Sara was a man of God. Father Paul had given her hope when she had none, and for that, she owed him her life.
Sara walked through the small, old church with a sense of awe. Ivy watched her sister relax, comfortable and safe.
Father Paul stood next to Ivy. He was a diminutive man of seventy whose presence belied his stature. The first time she saw him, six years ago, she thought she’d seen a halo over his head. She’d dismissed that as a hallucination from anger and fear, but an she looked at him now, his serene expression gave her a rare glimpse of true peace.
“I’ll watch over her,” he said.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t—”
“Shh, child.”
Ivy walked down the empty aisle to where Sara stood in front of a statue of a saint. “Listen to Father Paul,” she told Sara.
Sara hugged her tightly. “It’s going to be okay, Ivy. God’s going to protect us. He answered my prayers and brought me to you, and I’m going to pray every minute that you’re safe.”
Ivy didn’t have the heart to tell Sara that God didn’t care about them. If he did, he would have thrown a lightning bolt through the heart of Kirk Edmonds the first time he raped his oldest daughter. But if her beliefs calmed Sara, that gave Ivy some relief.
Father Paul caught her eye. He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t need to. She left without looking back.
St. Anne’s wasn’t far from where Ivy had lived, but the two neighborhoods were vastly different. Father Paul’s church was in a depressed area northwest of the Capitol center while Ivy’s house on Hawthorne was in a pocket of well-kept homes surrounded by businesses that still managed to keep their doors open.
Marti North was the pastor of His Grace Church, a small church and preschool wedged between two larger buildings. Growing up, Ivy had never known there were female ministers, and maybe that’s why she was drawn to the small, struggling church. His Grace was the opposite in every way to her father’s opulent worship center, from the gender of the pastor to the size and quality of the structure to the color of the parishioners.
Ivy didn’t like to dwell on the fact that the people she trusted the most were in the same profession as her father. As Marti would say,
it is what it is.
That simple, clichéd sentence had helped Ivy many times when she wanted to scream that life wasn’t fair.
Ivy stared at the dark building and realized she didn’t know where Marti lived. It was in the area, but it wasn’t at the church. It was after midnight, she didn’t want to wake her up. Nicole had trusted Marti with Mina, and so did Ivy. Maybe it was better this way, to let her sleep and Ivy would handle the police on her own.
Ivy turned the car around and drove the four blocks to the burned remains of her house on Hawthorne Street.
She parked down the street and walked half a block. Even though the fire had been extinguished forty-eight hours ago, the scent of charred wood hung in the still, hot air. As she neared, she thought the house looked particularly dark because of the shadows; when she stood across the street she realized that the house was simply gone.
It had burned almost completely to the ground, only the shell remaining.
Everything she owned, everything she’d saved, thousands of dollars in cash, passports, identification, and the video that would have yielded her another ten thousand to give them a jumpstart in Canada … gone.
By the time she returned to Jocelyn’s car, the tears were falling.
* * *
Ivy smelled death the moment she stepped into the hotel room.
Bile rose in her throat, the sickening scent of blood mixed making her gag.
Blood sprayed everywhere. Jocelyn’s husband was on the floor closest to the door, his throat slit. Arcs of blood slashed the puke green walls and sickly gold carpets. His eyes didn’t look real anymore, clouded and lifeless. How long had he been dead?
It’s my fault.
Jocelyn’s body was curled into a ball at the foot of the bed. Ivy went over to her, squatted, tears burning her eyes when she saw what the killer had done to the person who’d tried to help her.
She was unrecognizable.
“Joce—” Ivy closed her eyes, breathed through her mouth so she wouldn’t throw up.
How had the killer gotten in? The hotel was supposed to be secure! Wouldn’t he be on tape? Why didn’t they scream? Why didn’t anyone stop this insanity?
She should never have brought Jocelyn into this mess.
You’re next. He’s going to find you and kill you.
Who, dammit? Who was killing everyone who helped her?
Ivy rose to her feet and realized that she was standing in blood. Her plastic flip-flops made the damp blood pool around the edges. Her hand went to her stomach and she turned and ran to the bathroom, but didn’t make it. She threw up in the garbage can next to the desk and realized at the same time that she didn’t see Maddie.
Ivy spun around the room, didn’t see Maddie.
The bathroom door was closed.
Ivy pulled her gun from her backpack. With shaking hands, she reached for the doorknob. Slowly turned the knob and pushed the door in with one movement. She jumped back, both hands on her gun, ready to fire at the first threat.
No one hid in the bathroom. But it wasn’t empty.
Maddie lay in the tub, filled close to the top with water so red it looked fake. But it wasn’t fake, it was Maddie’s blood, leached from her arms that floated just beneath the surface. Her eyes were closed, thank God her eyes were closed. Ivy didn’t know if she could handle the accusation had Maddie stared at her. Her head was slumped to the side, as if she’d fallen asleep.
Ivy turned around and saw the mirror.
In blood, someone had painstakingly written
Run, run, as fast as you can
Ivy ran.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday
What disturbed Lucy the most about the ornate suite in the historic Hotel Potomac wasn’t the blood soaking into the plush gold carpet; it wasn’t the familiar, coppery scent of blood, decomposing flesh, and fresh latex; it wasn’t even the bodies that had yet to be removed.
What caught Lucy’s eye and would continue to haunt her was the blood spatter arcing over the avocado green walls, dried drops sprinkled over a painting of a famous American Revolutionary battle, giving a vivid depth to the tragic scene. The spatter covered the heavy, patterned damask drapery, and sliced across the window. Except for one overturned chair and a two-liter bottle of soda spilled on the carpet—adding a stale, sweet scent to the closed room—nothing else appeared disturbed, at least on the surface. Odd and disconcerting, considering the violence that had been done inside.
Two bodies lay dead in the main hotel room and one in the bathroom. The suite was an oversized hotel room, with the “living” area consisting of a couch, chairs, desk, and meeting table for six. The sleeping area was up a step and included a dresser and king-sized bed. Jane Doe had bled out in the adjoining bathroom. The difference between yesterday’s crime scene and this was stark: the cheapest hotel in DC versus one of the most expensive.
Lucy stood aside while Detective Genie Reid issued orders laced with profanity. Mentally, Lucy added up how much Genie owed her grandson. She was at two-fifty now and no sign of slowing down. The task soothed Lucy’s frayed nerves.
Though the crime scene was disturbing, it wasn’t the source of her angst. What bothered her was that this was the work of the same killer.
Genie hadn’t spoken of the connection, but when Lucy walked into the hotel room she saw a similar blood pattern as had been in the Red Light Motel. How many left-handed throat-slashers were there in one city?
“Well fuck me from here to Jersey,” Genie said from the bathroom.
Two dollars, seventy-five cents.
Lucy had already put on gloves and booties. She carefully walked through the room and looked over Genie’s shoulder.
The floor was covered with pink water from the naked female victim who had bled out in the tub. One stab wound to her chest, plus her left wrist cut so deeply her hand had nearly separated from her arm.
The victim’s body disappeared into water darkened by her blood.
Lucy had to close her eyes, just for a moment. The violence in the main hotel room was disturbing, but Lucy had seen crime scenes like that before.
The body in the bathroom was a whole new level of gruesome.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Genie demanded, her voice cracking.
Lucy opened her eyes and looked at the mirror. The killer had written another message on the mirror.
Run, run as fast as you can
“You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man,” Lucy whispered.
“What?” Genie spun around, pushing Lucy away from the door.
“I was finishing the rhyme.”
“He’s taunting us. He thinks I won’t catch him? Watch me. I’m going to nail the bastard.”
“It could be a taunt, or it could be a message to the others.”
“What others?”
“One of the six,” Lucy said.
“You’re talking Greek. Six?”
“From his message yesterday.”
“So we have three more victims today, he’s going to kill two more?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you just said—fuck it. I don’t want to know. Taback! Where’s the security? The manager? Has someone gotten me the damn ID on our vics? Anything?”
Three dollars.
Genie stormed out of the room. Lucy stayed while DC forensics photographed the scene. The coroner hadn’t arrived, so no one had touched the bodies.
Lucy walked the scene, starting at the door.
Without more information, she couldn’t figure out what exactly had happened—if the male victim had been followed into the room, or if someone was waiting inside. Or if he had known his attacker and let him in.
The male victim had his back to the door. He was of average size and build, approximately five foot ten, lean, dressed in beige slacks and a button-down shirt that had once been white. His shoes were leather loafers, the soles worn but the tops polished. A man who walked outdoors frequently as part of his job, common in the Beltway.
A hotel card key was next to his body, a small overnight suitcase next to the door. She closed her eyes, pictured what she would do if she had an overnight bag. Unlock the door—push the key in, wait for the beep, open. Put the bag down, particularly if it was heavy. Close the door. Bolt it.
The door hadn’t been bolted. The maid had come in and found the bodies.
The male vic had been killed quickly—his throat deeply slashed just like Nicole Bellows’s. Grab, slash, drop. The blood spatter indicated the attacker grabbed him from behind, used his left hand, slit his throat hard and fast, showing the killer was not only as tall or taller than the victim, but also physically strong.
It took both strength and a good knife to slice the neck so deeply.
No sign of hesitation, no sign of struggle.
Why hadn’t anyone screamed?
The woman was fully clothed and near the bed, her body huddled in a protective fetal position. Castoff left the ceiling dotted with arcs of blood. Lucy couldn’t even count the multitude of wounds on the victim, and she was only looking at her back. Her head was buried in her arms and Lucy was relieved she couldn’t see her face.
Man—quick death. Woman—brutally murdered. Young woman in the bathroom—possibly quick. Lucy hadn’t been able to tell what came first, the chest wound or the wrist.
Except …
She went back to the bathroom doorway and pulled the door closed. Opened it. The door swung toward the bathtub, but the killer would have been visible in the mirror—unless the mirror was foggy with steam.
The girl in the bathtub may have jumped up—which would account for the water on the floor sloshing over. He had to stab her to keep her from screaming. To pull her up out of the tub to slit her throat would have caused a mess, an opportunity for the girl to scratch him or scream for help.
Lucy looked at the angle of the wound. She pretended to hold a knife. Adjusted her hand to throw the knife. The doorway was approximately six feet from the entry wound. He stepped, threw the knife into her chest—that’s why the wound was more horizontal than vertical. It was the angle at which he threw it, because he was left-handed, standing, while she was reclining in the tub—possibly trying to get up.