Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) by Lisa Jackson Page A
Authors: Lisa Jackson
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you?”
“It’s about my daughters. They’re students here. Zoe and Chloe Denning,” Selma said. As the priest listened, she explained about the twins’ disappearance, her worries for her girls, and her fears that a monster serial killer was at large in Louisiana.
As her story went on, the dean’s cocked head rose to alert, and his ruddy face clouded. “Murder?” Caution flared in his eyes. “Here?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Selma answered. “All I’m sure of is that my daughters are missing.”
“But a serial killer?” Father Crispin glanced at Brianna for verification. “We had a situation—” He caught himself. “There was a time when students were at risk here, but that was years ago. We’ve had no trouble since then. And your daughters, they probably are just late; you know how kids are when they turn twenty-one.”
It was time for Brianna to step in. “Father, we believe they may have been targeted by a killer.”
The priest’s dark brows drew together as he listened to Brianna’s account of 21 and her theory that the killer was still at large. His expression of concern was heartening, until he spoke again. “That’s a frightening account, but if this is true, you ladies need to speak with the police. This is a matter beyond our campus.”
Brianna’s heart sank in disappointment. This was a waste of time.
“Of course, there will be full cooperation on our end,” he said, glancing pointedly at his watch. “We’ll do everything we can. I assure you, All Saints is a safe haven for all students.” Then he stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Please, try not to worry,” he suggested while opening the door and effectively ending their discourse. “LA’s a long way from here and, as you said, the police think they’ve got their man. These other. . . incidents are disturbing. Unfortunate. But your daughters are adults now, ma’am. It’s time to let them make their own choices and hope that they choose wisely. Now, come along, walk with me. The afternoon workshops are about to begin and they’re on the other side of campus. Can’t keep our guests waiting.”
Selma and Brianna kept up with his long strides as he crossed the grassy quad where a few students were sprawled, books open, iPhones in hand. The sky was a silky blue, not a breath of wind, the day filled with the warmth of summer. And yet Brianna felt a chill as cold as all of December. As each hour had passed without a word from Selma’s daughters, her own fears had increased.
At a juncture in the paths, Father Crispin stopped and touched Selma lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “God be with you.” He turned on his heel toward another cathedral-like building facing the manicured lawns. Taking the steps two at a time, he rose up the stone staircase and disappeared behind a massive door.
“He’s not going to do anything,” Selma said in a hollow voice. “He thinks I’m a nutcase. An overprotective mother.” Her skin was pale, her demeanor laden with weariness.
“He’s passing the buck.” Brianna slid an arm around the older woman’s waist and propelled her toward the student parking lot. “But he was right about one thing. It’s time to talk to the police.”
“I told you I called them.”
“I know,” she said, guiding Selma toward her beat-up Honda. “But it’s time to see them in person.”
At the station, they encountered the same lack of concern they had sifted through all day. They found their way to an officer in the Missing Persons Division, Crecia Brown. A fit, African American woman, Brown gave off waves of self-importance and bureaucratic weariness. In her midforties, with clipped hair and a no-nonsense attitude, she listened somewhat impatiently to Selma, who stood with Brianna on the opposite side of a glass-enclosed counter.
“You called earlier.” Her lips flexed a frown as she checked her computer.
“That’s right.”
“I just have a
“It’s about my daughters. They’re students here. Zoe and Chloe Denning,” Selma said. As the priest listened, she explained about the twins’ disappearance, her worries for her girls, and her fears that a monster serial killer was at large in Louisiana.
As her story went on, the dean’s cocked head rose to alert, and his ruddy face clouded. “Murder?” Caution flared in his eyes. “Here?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Selma answered. “All I’m sure of is that my daughters are missing.”
“But a serial killer?” Father Crispin glanced at Brianna for verification. “We had a situation—” He caught himself. “There was a time when students were at risk here, but that was years ago. We’ve had no trouble since then. And your daughters, they probably are just late; you know how kids are when they turn twenty-one.”
It was time for Brianna to step in. “Father, we believe they may have been targeted by a killer.”
The priest’s dark brows drew together as he listened to Brianna’s account of 21 and her theory that the killer was still at large. His expression of concern was heartening, until he spoke again. “That’s a frightening account, but if this is true, you ladies need to speak with the police. This is a matter beyond our campus.”
Brianna’s heart sank in disappointment. This was a waste of time.
“Of course, there will be full cooperation on our end,” he said, glancing pointedly at his watch. “We’ll do everything we can. I assure you, All Saints is a safe haven for all students.” Then he stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Please, try not to worry,” he suggested while opening the door and effectively ending their discourse. “LA’s a long way from here and, as you said, the police think they’ve got their man. These other. . . incidents are disturbing. Unfortunate. But your daughters are adults now, ma’am. It’s time to let them make their own choices and hope that they choose wisely. Now, come along, walk with me. The afternoon workshops are about to begin and they’re on the other side of campus. Can’t keep our guests waiting.”
Selma and Brianna kept up with his long strides as he crossed the grassy quad where a few students were sprawled, books open, iPhones in hand. The sky was a silky blue, not a breath of wind, the day filled with the warmth of summer. And yet Brianna felt a chill as cold as all of December. As each hour had passed without a word from Selma’s daughters, her own fears had increased.
At a juncture in the paths, Father Crispin stopped and touched Selma lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “God be with you.” He turned on his heel toward another cathedral-like building facing the manicured lawns. Taking the steps two at a time, he rose up the stone staircase and disappeared behind a massive door.
“He’s not going to do anything,” Selma said in a hollow voice. “He thinks I’m a nutcase. An overprotective mother.” Her skin was pale, her demeanor laden with weariness.
“He’s passing the buck.” Brianna slid an arm around the older woman’s waist and propelled her toward the student parking lot. “But he was right about one thing. It’s time to talk to the police.”
“I told you I called them.”
“I know,” she said, guiding Selma toward her beat-up Honda. “But it’s time to see them in person.”
At the station, they encountered the same lack of concern they had sifted through all day. They found their way to an officer in the Missing Persons Division, Crecia Brown. A fit, African American woman, Brown gave off waves of self-importance and bureaucratic weariness. In her midforties, with clipped hair and a no-nonsense attitude, she listened somewhat impatiently to Selma, who stood with Brianna on the opposite side of a glass-enclosed counter.
“You called earlier.” Her lips flexed a frown as she checked her computer.
“That’s right.”
“I just have a
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