the cashier’s desk, she turned to see them pull her car out to the front curb. Pocketing the receipt, Kate nodded to the woman behind the counter. “Thanks.”
A man held the driver’s side door open and Kate stepped inside. At least they cleaned it , she thought.
“Have a good day, ma’am.” He closed the door.
On the drive home, Kate knew she would have to make some decisions—and soon. The date was fast approaching and the mere thought of it sent her to near panic. She wasn’t ready to face the anniversary of Marshall’s death. Perhaps it was the car trouble that was the catalyst for her current train of thought. Remembering all that had happened in the time she’d owned this little Toyota that, up until now, had been a pretty good car.
But how long could she financially sustain her current situation? Renting a home in an expensive neighborhood and now potentially facing the need to purchase a newer vehicle. These things seemed so mundane and benign in the face of her losses and in light of her current investigation. Nevertheless, an inevitability was approaching.
More than one hundred thousand dollars was sitting in a savings account, profits from the sale of Marshall’s apartment in San Diego. Money she had refused to acknowledge, much less spend. And then there were still the occasional publishing offers, although it seemed they were waning, noting her previous rejections to write about her experiences with the notorious Joseph Hendrickson and the case that followed, bringing about the murder of her fiancé.
Yes, they were all interested in the tragic deaths that had followed Kate around for most of her life, setting her on a path she still followed today.
Marshall had never wanted her to write the story when the publishers first came calling and neither had she. So, to consider it out of financial necessity seemed most indecent. Not only that, she would have to reach out to Jarrod, Sam’s widower, and while she had spoken to him a few times since leaving California, he’d moved on. Pulling him back into her nightmares—the same nightmares that caused the death of his wife—would be cruel.
The house was just ahead now. To leave this place would send her world spinning once again and Kate was hesitant of her ability to handle such a disturbance. It had taken her months to feel comfortable living here, no longer feeling as though she should look behind every door and walk around the perimeter, gun drawn, to be sure no one was waiting for her behind the trees.
Kate turned off the engine and sat in her car, now parked on the driveway. For a brief moment, she considered going home to see her parents for a few days, the few days that would be the hardest for her to face. But loneliness and grief were things that must be faced alone if she were to conquer them. She wasn’t the naïve Katie Reid anymore, clinging on to dreams of a husband and children. For in this life she led, the monsters turned those dreams into nightmares.
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The twisted smile on Arlen Tucker’s face turned grotesque as he slammed his hand over Lizbeth’s mouth. “You’d best shut the fuck up now before I get really upset, you hear?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she nodded her compliance. No one would hear her screams anyway and certainly not this far into the nearly deserted neighborhood that had never been fully rebuilt after the big fire. “Not enough money,” they said. “Economy’s in the tank,” they said. Never mind that it was now a place for bad people to do bad things.
“Now I’m gonna take my hand away, but if you make a sound, it’ll be your last.” He pulled his hand from her mouth, having pressed hard enough to leave finger marks behind. “See? That’s not so bad, is it?” He stroked her hair, still pulled back in a ponytail. “Shhh. It’ll be all right.” He pressed his hands against her shoulders to slow her trembling. “I want to show you something.” Arlen reached
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