Bob had followed her inside and was sitting next to her. He was always a hard person to escape, even when they were standing in the rain. Obviously shaken by what he'd seen, he was more talkative than ever. "I was out walking my dog when I saw that someone had broken out the window of one of the cars in the lot,"
he explained. "So I went over to investigate." He leaned closer. "We've had some burglaries in the area," he told her as if she hadn't received the same notices he had.
"You can't leave anything in your car."
"I know," Jane answered, as though this was no different from any other conversation they'd had in the past. It was the only reaction she could muster. She wanted to follow Sebastian to the parking lot, but her legs wouldn't hold her weight. Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she took several deep breaths.
"And when I looked inside, there she was," he went on. "I've never seen anything like it. There was so much blood. I couldn't tell if she'd been shot or stabbed." He massaged the back of his own neck. "But I knew she was dead."
Was the victim one of Gloria's sisters, as Jane feared? The color of the girl's skin, the placement of the body, the timing--it was too much to be a coincidence.
What did that say about the man Sebastian was chasing?
It said he hadn't fled Mary's house when he was nearly caught. He'd waited around and watched the activity. Then he'd brazenly followed Sebastian. How else could he have found Sebastian's car?
Had he killed Latisha--or Marcie? And did that mean he'd eventually kill Sebastian, too?
That was the thought that finally brought Jane to her feet. She was still in her robe, but she didn't care. Leaving her neighbor in the middle of another rambling sentence, she walked out the door and, as her strength returned, started to jog.
"I don't think you want to see that," Bob called after her. "I'd stay here, if I were you."
He wished he hadn't seen it. That was clear. But Jane was suddenly desperate to know if this was true, if this was
reality,
because it felt so much like one of her bad dreams.
"Jane?" He'd come to the door to yell, but she could tell he didn't intend to return to the scene. He stayed where he was, as if just the thought of going back evoked images he'd rather forget.
201
She didn't answer. She was already turning the corner, where she could see the activity previously blocked by the building. There were six cop cars surrounding the Lexus--and two men were photographing the body of a young black woman in the backseat.
Latisha had been tied up for so many hours, she could no longer feel her hands or feet. And the headache that had started last night had only grown worse, since she'd been forced to lie in one place. But when she heard the front door open and knew Wesley was finally back, she could think only of her sister. He'd dragged Marcie out of the room when he'd left last night.
"Wesley?" she called. "Is everything okay?"
He didn't respond, but he must have heard her. The house wasn't that big, and his footsteps traveled past her door several times. She would've shouted again, but she didn't dare. The last time she'd bothered him when he didn't answer he'd entered her room with a loaded gun.
The shower went on in the master bedroom. Closing her eyes, she counted to a thousand over and over again, trying to endure the aches and pains. Usually when he tied her up, she could at least sit--but that was when he shackled her to her own stake in the floor. Last night, he'd chained her feet to her stake
and
tied her hands.
The added security measures suggested he had something big planned.
He finished showering and went outside. A few minutes later, she could smell smoke. Had he set the house on fire? Was he leaving her to die?
Helpless, she whimpered at the possibility. But although she strained to hear the crackle of wood or to see smoke creeping beneath her door, there was nothing.
The bang of the front door told her he hadn't left. She guessed from his movements that he'd gone into the kitchen. She heard the chime of the microwave, smelled coffee. He was making breakfast, which suggested he hadn't set the house on fire. So what
had
he done? Why didn't he come for her? Why hadn't he made her do the cooking?
And where was Marcie?
That was the question that frightened Latisha the most. Was her sister still tied up in the van? If so, why didn't he bring her in? It didn't make sense that he'd leave her out there alone. He had to keep an eye on her, couldn't risk letting her get free. She was the one who'd almost escaped the last time he took her from the house....
Something was wrong. Latisha could feel it deep inside. This wasn't 202
Wesley's normal behavior....
After what seemed like an hour, maybe two, Latisha couldn't take another minute of not knowing. Maybe he'd kill her for it, but she had to call out again, had to find out if Marcie was okay. "Wesley? You there?"
Finally, he approached. There was a click, then the hinges of the door whined as he pushed it inward. "You awake?" he asked.
The lightness of his tone told her he was pretending he hadn't heard her yell before. Latisha could tell he had, but she didn't bring it up. She was still trying to figure out what had changed. He had thick razor stubble on his jaw and chin, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were more pronounced than usual. Obviously, he'd been up all night. But why?
Glad she'd caught him before he fell asleep and left her chained up even longer, she sent him a tentative smile. "My--my head's killing me. C-can you let me up?"
"Sure. Then I'll get you some painkillers." He bent immediately to release her.
Could he see the tracks of her tears? Latisha wondered. Did he care? Her pain had never mattered to him before. But he was different today, nicer....
"Where's Marcie?" she asked.
He smiled as he finished with her hands and turned his attention to her feet.
"I let her go."
"You did?" Latisha could hardly believe it. Her hands were swollen. They burned as the blood flowed back into them, but she didn't care. Not if what he said was true.
"Really?"
"I told you I would, didn't I?" he said proudly. "You gave me what I wanted, and I returned the favor."
Latisha studied him more closely. She
wanted
to believe him, but what he said just seemed so...odd. He'd been worried they'd get free. Why would he suddenly let Marcie go?
"How'd you do it?" she asked uncertainly.
He shrugged. "Just dumped her on a street corner. I imagine she's home by now."
Latisha grasped for some hope in his words. If her sister had escaped, then a part of her had, too. There was also the hope that Marcie would bring help. But if Wesley had let Marcie go, wouldn't he be scared that she'd tell? Wouldn't he at 203
least act worried? Or maybe start packing up and moving them somewhere else?
"She doesn't know where this place is," he said as if he could read her mind.
"It's not like she'd ever be able to lead anyone here."
The crazy thing was, for all his fear that they might expose him, that was probably true. The day he'd kidnapped them, he'd tossed them in his van and cuffed them to a bar welded onto the floor. They couldn't see anything, and they'd been completely overwhelmed and confused, wondering why a police officer, even an undercover officer, would be acting in such a bizarre way. Latisha knew they were out in the country somewhere, but that was all.
Could she trust that he'd really let Marcie go?
His smile promised she could. Now alone and more frightened than ever, she so wanted to trust him.
"I'll get you some Tylenol."
He brought her two tablets. Then he freed her from her makeshift prison to clean the house. Movement was difficult at first, but once the pain in her hands went away, she began to feel encouraged. Maybe she wasn't at home, but her sister was, she told herself. Picturing Marcie falling into Gloria's arms made her so happy....
But while she stood at the window in Wesley's room looking out at the backyard, she saw the barrel that'd been the source of that burning smell. There were still wisps of smoke rising from it.
Getting as close to the glass as possible, she tried to determine what, exactly, he'd destroyed. He'd never started a fire before. He must've had a reason. What was it?
It could be anything. He was sick, weird. But that was partly what concerned her so much.
Turning, she went back to cleaning his room. But it wasn't long before she came across the shoes he'd worn last night and concern turned to panic. She picked them up from where he'd kicked them off and was about to place them in his closet when she spotted several flecks of a dark brown substance spattered near the sole.
Licking her finger, she rubbed one of the droplets. It smeared into a red blur that looked just like--she gulped--
blood.
Then it dawned on her what Wesley might have been burning in that barrel.
Was it the clothes he'd worn last night? She didn't see them in the room. Maybe they were so soaked with blood he hadn't wanted her to see them--or hadn't wanted 204
to deal with washing them.
But if he'd burned his clothes, why hadn't he burned his shoes?
Because he had fewer shoes. Because he liked this particular pair. Because he didn't see the blood or thought he could wash it off. There could be a lot of reasons. But if he'd really let Marcie go, why would he need to burn anything?
"You just about done in here?"
Trying to see through the blur of tears, she tossed his shoes into the closet and leaned down to straighten the bedding so he wouldn't see her eyes. "Almost."
"I've decided to move you in here with me." He said it as if she should be happy about it. She wouldn't have minded so much if she thought Marcie was really at home with Gloria. But Marcie wasn't. She was dead, and Latisha knew that if she didn't do something to save herself, she'd be next.
205
Nineteen
J
ane perched on the couch beside Gloria. With only one bedroom, one bathroom and a tiny kitchen and living room, the apartment was cramped.
Bookshelves made of planks and cinder block, spray-painted light blue, took up one whole wall. Each piece of tattered furniture bumped up against another, and cheap knickknacks cluttered most horizontal surfaces. But overall it was more of an organized mess than a disorganized one.
The smell of grilled onions permeated the apartment. After the blood she'd seen in Sebastian's backseat, the thought of food made Jane nauseous. But it was easier to focus on the sights and scents surrounding her than on Gloria, who was crying in her embrace. It had been hard enough to tell her that Marcie was dead, but it was even worse to say that her body had been found in Sebastian's car and her own parking lot. Fortunately, that didn't seem to make her blame Jane, but she was still brokenhearted.
"I was afraid of this," she cried. "I been livin' in fear for weeks. But I never really believed it....
Why Marcie?
Why
my
sister?"
Jane continued to pat and rub her broad back. She had no answers. She only knew that Gloria's sisters had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and, despite her best efforts and those of the police, Marcie was dead.
She prayed that Latisha wouldn't meet the same fate but couldn't help wondering if she already had.
Regardless of what happened in the future, she'd see Malcolm Turner behind bars if she had to dedicate the rest of her life to it. For Marcie. For Latisha. For Gloria. For Sebastian, too. But also for herself. Finding Malcolm had become a way to banish Oliver's ghost. She finally had the chance to defeat a man who was just as bad as the one who'd nearly killed her. She'd strike back.
"I'm so sorry." Even as she said it, she realized that phrase was inadequate, but she had nothing better to offer. David was still processing the crime scene.
He'd be arriving shortly, but they'd talked and decided it might be easier on Gloria if Jane visited ahead of him--to break the news. Sebastian was giving the police a statement. Since Marcie's body had been found in his rental car, they had some 206
questions for him.
"I can't live without her," Gloria wailed. "I can't do it."
Using her free hand, Jane wiped the tears sliding down her own cheeks.
"You can, and you will," she said. "I'll help you."
"And what about Latisha? She probably dead, too."
Jane couldn't promise otherwise. While she was searching for words that might comfort Gloria without giving false hope, the door swung open so hard it banged against the inside wall. Even Gloria jumped. She calmed the minute she realized it was Luther, but Jane grew that much more uneasy.
"What do ya know." A gust of wind whipped into the apartment along with him. "It's the charity worker who's too good to return my calls."
Jane had meant to call him. She'd told Jonathan she would. But, reluctant to deal with the force of his personality, she'd put it off. "The messages you left for me didn't deserve a response," she said. She couldn't let him know he frightened her. That would only encourage him to continue behaving the way he was.
"Because I'm not some white dude in a suit? Because I don't have the money to make a donation to the cause?"
Letting her arm slide away from Gloria, Jane stood. "Because your messages were antagonistic and abusive."
"My
messages
were abusive?" he scoffed with a laugh. "Bitch, you don't know what the word means until you've lived in
my
world."
"Luther, stop." If Gloria was intimidated by Latisha's father, she didn't show it. But, at the moment, she probably didn't care a whole lot about her own welfare.
She sounded fatalistic and just plain exhausted.
"She
ain't the problem. Marcie's
dead.
You hear what I'm sayin'? Dead. And you come in here cussin' at the one person tryin' to help us. What's the matter with you?"
Luther's bloodshot eyes had widened at the word
dead.
Jane was pretty sure his brain hadn't registered much beyond that. "What'd you say?"