It told him Hank was raised to hate women and treat them like dirt. Patrick learned he had treated Ellen that way, too. It infuriated him.
He gnashed his teeth together. Anger once again flared in his chest.
And to hell with his so-called alibi. Hank could have easily hired a hit man to do the job on Ellen. His motive?
After one too many beatings, Ellen had enough. She called the cops, and they forced Hank out of the house. Ellen had filed for divorce.
All of that of course would have humiliated and enraged someone as chauvinistic, arrogant, and proud as Hank; he wouldn’t let her get away with it.
He’d make her pay. He’d punish her.
He’d see her dead.
Patrick was certain that was what happened. Richard and Jane Barrett believed it, too.
Hank had Ellen murdered.
But would he really do something to put his daughter in danger? The little girl had suffered during the tragedy. Did Hank hate women that much? Would he harm Ellen if that meant harming their only daughter as well?
Patrick couldn’t say for sure, but anger could definitely drive a man to unspeakable acts. He had seen that proven time and time again. Anything was possible.
Outside the window the light of day was dying, and twilight was settling in.
Patrick looked at his wristwatch. It was past time to head home to the wife and kids. He’d just have to tell Meghan he was working late. He was always working late.
He hated going home. Hated his life with Meghan. Hated that he had to settle for it after hope of a relationship with Ellen was shattered.
Patrick wondered if Richard had already looked at the file. He wondered what the poor man was thinking. What he had on his mind. Revenge?
That had been on Patrick’s for mind quite some time, but he had never let his anger reign supreme over his ethics.
Until today.
Chapter 9
Hank was watching the local news when he heard a knocked at the living room door.
“It’s Layne,” Amy called from her room. “I’ll get it.”
Sitting back in his recliner with a bag of Doritos, Hank watched his daughter scurry to the door. Reaching for his beer on the side table, he glowered at the outfit she wore.
Tight blue jeans and a black blouse that showed off too much cleavage. She looked almost identical to her mother the night he first met her.
Hank shuddered and took a swig of beer. He remembered what happened that night and cringed.
He remembered trying to get into Ellen’s pants. He remembered succeeding. And he remembered what it led to.
Amy opened the door for her friend, who looked like a grunge rock star from the 90s with his shaggy hair, loose-fitting flannel shirt and baggy cargo pants. Hank frowned as he thought about unprotected sex.
If his mother weren’t around to knock sense into his head with a frying pan, he would have abandoned Ellen the moment he found out she was pregnant. The prospect of fatherhood scared him shitless at the time.
What did he know about being a father? His own was a sorry excuse for one. He wanted nothing to do with being a parent. He didn’t want kids. But his mother would not give him peace about it. Neither would his conscience.
In the end, he was thankful for Amy. She was the light in the darkness of his life. He loved her so much.
But if she made the same mistakes as Ellen…
Thinking of the potential trouble having a pregnant teenage daughter might bring, Hank developed reservations about letting Amy go out tonight, and with a boy he hardly knew.
A boy who looked up to no good. Hank could see the mischief in his eyes.
“Bye, Dad.” Amy waved to him before stepping out.
Hank had nothing to worry about. Amy had said Catherine’s parents would be at the house during the party.
At least he hoped.
After dinner, he’d tried calling the Adairs for more details on the party but no one answered the phone. He’d call again later.
“Don’t be late gettin’ home, now,” he said before Amy closed the door.
Hank returned his attention to the local news. There was a story on about the three missing teenage girls. He hoped Joe took him seriously about what was happening in the county and was checking on his crazy theory.
Feeling a swell of dread in his stomach, he thought about the killer from years ago named Bubba Ray Busby and a cult of religious fanatics. He hoped his suspicions about a reemergence were unfounded.
He hoped his gut was wrong this time, and that his theory was indeed crazy.
He hoped Joe found nothing at the old, abandoned compound, and that his daughter would be safe from a past he had tried his damnedest to keep buried. A past he had tried to forget.
But the ghosts wouldn’t let him forget. They reminded him every chance they got, and they never let up on their torment.
Hank sensed a couple of them lingering about the shadows. They were in the room with him right now, watching. Waiting.
He felt Ellen among them. She was always there.
So was the guilt.
Keeping his eyes away from the dark corners of the dimly lit room, Hank finished off his beer and crumpled the can. He needed another.
Alcohol had an amazing tendency to chase those nagging spirits away.
Chapter 10
As Layne turned onto Catherine’s street, Amy rolled her eyes and groaned in irritation.
There were cars lining both sides of the street. “So much for the last time being the last time,” she said.
“You’re surprised?” Layne parallel parked between a Honda Civic and a Dodge Ram.
“I shouldn’t be, should I?”
Once Layne killed the engine, she popped the passenger door open and climbed out.
Unlike Amy, Catherine lived in an upper-middle class suburb where street lamps beamed brightly on every manicured lawn, and all the fancy brick houses were lit up like jack-o-lanterns.
Amy looked nervously up and down the street. The lie she told her father weighed on her mind. So much so that she even wondered if he followed them to the party.
“Everything all right?” Layne asked.
She didn’t see her father’s truck anywhere. She decided she was just being paranoid. “Yeah, come on.”
The sidewalk was strewn with fallen leaves. They crunched beneath their feet as they made their way to the front of Catherine’s house. Amy noted two round pumpkins with wickedly painted faces arranged on both sides of the green door. An autumn reef hung from the brass knocker. She smiled, glad to see someone else still got into the Halloween spirit. Not many of the neighboring houses were decorated. .
What was wrong with these people? Didn’t the holiday excite anybody anymore?
Amy shrugged, opened the door, and was assaulted by a heavy blast of hard rock music. Above the din, she heard Catherine call out, “Birthday girl’s here!”
Amy maneuvered through the crowd of unfamiliar bodies and approached her friend. “Even at the last minute, you’re still able to invite everybody under the moon,” Amy said.
“Yeah, sorry.” Catherine shrugged. “Once word got out, there wasn’t much I could do. Is that a new jacket? Very nice. Hey, we got drinks in the kitchen. Come on!”
Amy slipped out of her jacket and handed it to Layne. “Can you take this up to Cat’s room for me?”
“Sure thing, your highness,” Layne said with a bow.
“Thanks, dear servant.”
Layne headed upstairs. Catherine leaned in to Amy and said, “I swear, you two should go to Homecoming together. It’s your last chance to go.”
“No.” Amy allowed herself be taken by the wrist and pulled through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Going with Layne would be like going with my brother.”
“Don’t be silly. Oh, speaking of brothers, mine’s staying over with a friend tonight. Thank God for small favors, right? And Layne came through with the booze.”
“Of course he did.” In the kitchen Amy bypassed the booze. Given her father’s drinking problem, alcohol didn’t interest her.
Instead, she grabbed a Coke and followed Catherine down a short hallway that led into the den. A hard rock song tore through the air, and a girl in high heels danced on a pool table. Drunken idiots cheered her on.
“Kari!” Catherine hollered, pushing her way through the gyrating mass of bodies. “You’re going to fuck up the felt and my Dad’s going to kill me!”
Looking for a place to sit among the smoky, smelly throng of strangers and mere acquaintances, Amy found a spot on the L-shaped leather sofa next to a portly, pimple-faced skinhead who wore a heavy metal T-shirt and raggedy camouflage pants. Warily, she wedged herself between him and the armrest.
There was something disturbingly familiar about the skinhead, but she couldn’t place her finger on just what.
He flashed a crooked grin. His teeth were yellow and his breath reeked of stale chewing tobacco and liquor. “S’up?” he said, tilting his chin. His eyes were flat and lifeless.
“Hi.” Amy offered the best smile she could and shifted uncomfortably. She averted her gaze to the big screen TV.
It was tuned to professional wrestling. Taking a sip of her drink, she watched two beefy titans pound the mess out of each other.
“This here’s the shit,” the skinhead shouted over the blaring music. “You watch wrestlin’?”
Amy shook her head, growing increasingly uncomfortable. In the back of her mind, Dr. Massie’s voice spoke about projecting her fear of the Nightmare Man on others. How she had a tendency to do that. Amy wondered if she were doing it now and that’s why she felt so unsettled.
The skinhead belched loudly. “So, what’s your name, cutie?”
She didn’t take her eyes off the TV screen. “Amy.”
“I’m Billy Brown. You a cheerleader? You look like one. Got a hot body. Nice tits, too. Wanna go have some fun upstairs?”
The sound of shattering glass snatched Amy’s attention.
“Asshole! Look what you did!”
Across the room, Catherine was chastising a drunk who had shattered one of her mother’s prized Elvis collectibles.
Shaking her head regretfully, Amy lifted her cup to her lips and took another sip of Coke.
“Hey, you listenin’ to me?” Billy jabbed Amy’s side with his meaty elbow, making her spill her drink down the front of her blouse.
“Shit!” She sprung to her feet, dripping cold soda. “Thanks a lot!”
Billy shrugged. “You stuck up or somethin’?”
Amy spun around in a flash of humiliation and nearly collided into Catherine.
“Who invited these people,” Catherine asked. Her eyes widened as she noticed Amy’s soaked blouse. “What happened?”
“The jerk over there.” Amy gestured over her shoulder
“Sorry,” Catherine said. “Some of these freaks are Michael’s friends and I’ve never met them before. Swear I’m going to kill him for inviting them. Go to my room and pick something out of my closet. I’ll wash that for you tomorrow. Where is Layne?”
“I don’t know.” Amy slammed her cup down on the coffee table. “I’m going to change shirts.”
As she shoved her way back through the crowd, she heard Catherine yelling at Billy Brown, a friend of Michael’s.
Should’ve known.
She remembered when Catherine started dating Michael last spring. Amy was shocked. The guy gave her the creeps.
He resembled a member of the trench coat mafia and acted like he’d show up to school with a shotgun and pull a Columbine. Amy wished she knew what Catherine saw in him other than sex.
Catherine talked to her often about the sex. Amy really wished she didn’t. It disgusted her.
So did Billy Brown, but for reasons she couldn’t define.
She made her way through the kitchen to the foyer, and climbed the winding staircase to the second floor.
The hallway was dark, empty and quiet. She entered Catherine’s room and turned on the light switch.
Closing the door, she peeled off her wet shirt and thought about Billy Brown. Her embarrassment returned. Anger followed.
The whole situation was humiliating, and it ignited a flame of fury in her chest. But the more she thought about Billy, the less angry she got.
And the more disturbed she became. He seemed so familiar.
His face, his cold blue eyes, gave her an inexplicable sense of dread. His crooked grin unnerved her.
Why? Was it simply a matter of projecting her fears? Did she do that with all men, and not just her father?
No, she didn’t with Layne. Besides, she felt she had seen Billy— or someone like him— somewhere before. She just couldn’t say who or where.
Probably nothing. Stop obsessing.
But she couldn’t. In her mind, Billy’s eyes still leered at her like a predator, and gave her a chill that sunk straight to the bone.
Amy opened the closet doors and shifted through Catherine’s clothes, looking for something to wear.