Chapter 67

SIXTY-SEVEN

A shadow appeared at the back door. It creaked open and a man squeezed through it. He was as tall as Turner but thick, round, and wide. A moving wall that swallowed up all the space in the room. Beady eyes glimmered from his round face, aglow with hunger. An apex predator about to pounce on its next meal. Josie recognized him from the day at the Cooks’ house and the photos from the case file that had been taken in the hospital.

Simon Cook.

Without thought, her fingers unsnapped her holster. Her palm wrapped around the pistol grip. He sidestepped the table and advanced on the two of them. From her periphery, Josie saw Vicky visibly tense. Her fingers scratched at the bruises on her throat.

Simon stopped a few feet from them. He wore long pants and a white T-shirt. On the side of his abdomen, a strip of red bled through, staining his shirt. He looked sick, feral. His fingers twitched at his sides. Eyeing Josie, he addressed Vicky. “Why did you text me?”

What the hell was happening? Josie’s palm tightened around the handle of her gun. She wanted to see Vicky’s face, but she dared not take her eyes off Simon.

“You know,” Vicky said quietly.

Simon licked his lips. Josie’s stomach roiled. He wasn’t armed, as far as she could tell. He wasn’t wanted in connection with any crimes. Not yet. The DA’s office was still reviewing the Cook file to see if there was enough to charge him with his family’s deaths. He was, however, wanted for questioning. “Mr. Cook, I’m Detective Josie Quinn. Denton PD. We’ve been trying to locate you. We need you to come to the police station to answer some questions.”

Simon’s expression darkened. “Is she serious?”

Vicky’s voice cracked. “Yes.”

“I am serious, Mr. Cook,” Josie said firmly. Slowly, she angled her body so that she had a full view of him and Vicky. “My colleague is outside. We’re prepared to give you a ride to the station now.”

She would be annoyed that Turner hadn’t come back in, but he had no reason to think Vicky Platt was a threat and he wouldn’t have seen Simon enter through the back door.

Simon’s fists flexed at his sides. “You didn’t tell me she was a cop. You tricked me.”

Every cell in Josie’s body screamed danger even though Simon hadn’t done anything to pose a threat to her—no matter that his words implied otherwise. She couldn’t pull her weapon on him without reason. Still her fingers twitched, desperate to have her Glock in her hands.

There was a tremor in Vicky’s voice. “I didn’t.”

He pointed a finger at Vicky, and she flinched. Josie had no doubt the bruises on her throat and hand had come from Simon Cook. Fresh blood leaked from the wound under his shirt, spreading across the fabric. It seemed to have no effect on him. “What are you trying to do? What is this?”

Vicky rubbed at her throat. “You know what this is. We made a deal.”

Simon fingered the blood on his shirt. “The deal was that I take care of some bitch—not a cop—and you give me what I want. Whenever I want it. Not just once.”

Vicky visibly shuddered. Her thighs clenched.

“Both of you need to come down to the station to talk with us,” Josie said.

Simon edged closer to Vicky. “Oh what? You didn’t like it? Give me a break. You came looking for me. I know you liked it. Besides, it was the least you could do after you tried to kill me. Maybe I should tell your friend here about that, huh?”

“Maybe I should tell her what you did to your own family.”

Simon took another step, crowding Vicky. “Maybe I should tell her what really happened that day. How you told me Roger was coming to take Miranda away from me. How you said she lied about not wanting to be with me and I hadn’t misread all the signals she’d been sending. Remember? You said she just didn’t want to do things while we were in my parents’ house. You told me I would lose her to Roger if I didn’t do something.”

Vicky pressed her body against the edge of the sink, recoiling from him. “I meant you should talk to your parents to make sure Roger didn’t have access to her. I didn’t tell you to kill Miranda and your whole damn family, you sicko.”

Josie wasn’t sure she believed Vicky. She’d wanted Roger for herself. Her infatuation with him had lasted fifteen years, through her own marriage to someone else. She’d manipulated Stella Townsend into getting Simon’s new name because Roger wanted revenge. There was no way in hell Vicky didn’t know what he was planning. Obviously, Simon had had issues back when his family and Miranda were still alive. He’d frightened Miranda so badly she’d pushed furniture against her bedroom door to keep him out. She’d been willing to run off with an older man to escape him. Simon clearly wasn’t living in the same reality as the people around him—then or now. Vicky had used that to drive a wedge between Miranda and Roger. Maybe she hadn’t understood how unstable Simon had been or that he was capable of unspeakable violence, but she had manipulated him, nonetheless.

That was why she couldn’t tell Roger where to find him.

Roger was already haunted by what happened to the Cooks. She couldn’t risk the man she loved finding out that she’d had a role in it. But she’d made contact with Simon again, and clearly things hadn’t gone as planned.

What was Vicky’s endgame right now?

She had to know Josie would shoot Simon if he tried to attack her. Even Simon had figured that out. She’d try to manipulate him again. Make a deal with him she had no intention of keeping. Summoning him here while the two of them were alone. He must have been stalking her to arrive so quickly. She’d banked on him being crazy enough to try to kill Josie even though she was armed. Death by cop. Vicky would be free of him. Her secrets would be safe.

“You lied to me again,” Simon snarled.

“And you just ran your mouth, you stupid shit. What are you going to do now?”

As every process in Josie’s body went into overdrive, time slowed. Simon lunged for Vicky, wrapping his meaty hands around her throat and driving her backward until her body slammed into a freestanding glass china cabinet. One of the panes shattered as the back of Vicky’s skull smashed into it. Simon lifted her until both her feet dangled off the floor, kicking wildly. One of her heels flew off. Her eyes bulged and her nails dug into his forearms, scratching deeply enough to draw blood. Josie moved in on him, pistol aimed at his side, the pad of her index finger already on the trigger. She was a good shot, but it was still a risk to Vicky in close quarters. She shouted commands at Simon. When he didn’t obey any of them, Josie took the shot.

The concussive boom echoed through the small room. Simon’s body jerked and then froze before falling to his knees and then his back. Blood bloomed along the side of his shirt, under his rib cage, spreading fast. As Vicky fell onto her hands and knees, wheezing, Josie holstered her Glock and squatted to flip Simon onto his stomach. It was no easy task, given his weight. She was out of breath by the time she secured his wrists with zip ties.

She sensed Vicky lurching to her feet. Then something flashed. Before Josie could process what was happening, her arm flew up, blocking her face. Pain seared through her forearm. Some part of her brain registered the large shard of glass embedded in her skin as Vicky Platt tried to pull it back out to stab again. A savage anger twisted her features.

Josie managed to get to her feet as Vicky tore the shard away. Blood poured from the gash, but her body felt nothing. Adrenaline blocked out everything after the initial pain, including the wild, uneven beat of her heart. It blotted out any shock or fear she might have felt, narrowing her focus to one thing: survival.

She reached for her pistol again. Vicky raised the bloody shard over her head and flew at Josie. A shot rang out. The deafening blast rang in Josie’s ears, making it temporarily impossible to hear. The glass dropped from Vicky’s hand. Blood, hers and Josie’s, dripped from her fingers as she placed them on her abdomen, probing the hole in the waistline of her skirt. Turner appeared, forcing Vicky facedown on the floor next to Simon. His mouth moved as he zip-tied her wrists.

Turner tore paper towels from the roll over the sink and then stepped over Vicky and Simon. He thrust them at Josie. His voice was faint as her hearing began to return. “I already called additional units and a medic. Pressure on that wound, Quinn.” When she didn’t take the towels immediately, he took her arm and pressed them against the gash. Pushing her elbow up, he said, “Keep this above your heart.”

As her hearing improved, she became aware of Vicky, cheek pressed to the floor, crying and screaming with everything she had left in her body. “You bitch! I hate you! I hate you! You ruined everything.”

Turner squatted down and let his head hang so it was almost level with hers. “Hey, sweetheart, you have the right to remain silent?—”

“She’s already been Mirandized,” Josie said.

Vicky’s eyes were glazed over with rage. “You were on the list! My Roger was supposed to kill you and then come back to me. You were the last one! The last one! We were going to run away together. Instead, he decided to spare you if you could figure out what happened. He’s dead because of you! You ruined my life!”

Turner shook his head. He pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from his inner jacket pocket and snapped them on. Kneeling next to Simon, he rolled him over easily and checked the wound.

“The last polaroid,” Josie said when Vicky paused for breath. “That was you.”

“Yes, it was me!” Vicky’s voice started to lose steam. “Who do you think drove him to that house? I snuck in after he left with that girl. If Roger wasn’t going to kill you, then I would! This sick bastard was supposed to do it for me but then you came here, and we were alone. I could have gotten rid of you both.”

Turner pressed two fingers to Simon’s neck and then shook his head. He was already gone. Moving over to Vicky, he flipped her, too, and put pressure on her abdomen. “Let me guess. Quinn kills him. You kill her. Then you come running outside to me like some kind of damsel in distress with a convenient story about how they killed one another. Quick thinking, I gotta say. You know who’ll be real interested in this little story of yours? Your prison roommate.”