Chapter 11

Friday, March 12

6:00 p.m.

It'd been a mistake setting foot in Katherine Garrison's home.

Leigh was still vibrating. All those memories of that little boy, shoved into the back of his mother's mind. Kept secret. Out of sight. What was it about this town that made people think ignoring the hard truths would produce a better life? That if they closed their eyes, the monsters weren't really there? That they could be happy?

The old family couch that'd gotten more use than any other piece of furniture in the house creaked beneath her weight as she spread Gresham Schmidt's autopsy report—courtesy of Dr. Jennings—in front of her across the beaten coffee table. There was a corner missing from the family heirloom from when she'd tried to do a handstand in the living room. Her foot had slammed down and taken a chunk out of the antique. Not to mention she'd broken her big toe. There hadn't been any Xena: Warrior Princess marathons allowed for at least a month after that. She traced the break with the tip of her finger. Funny how random moments could turn into the biggest memories.

Diagrams inside the report sharpened. Gresham Schmidt had been stabbed twenty-two times, just as Dr. Jennings had recalled. Same as Michelle Cross. Physical injuries and identification marks had been noted in the diagram of the adult male outline, right down to his circumcision. Every stab wound, every cut had been accounted for. An entire life detailed in scars, distinguishing characteristics, and final moments.

She read through an inventory of clothing as well as physical attributes and conditions and the weight of each organ, but her attention kept going back to that diagram. Not even the feet had been saved from the killer's attention.

This kind of torture would've taken hours. The killer would've had to have known not to stab too deep. Not to cut too many times. At least, not until he was finished. He would've listened to hours of screams and pleads and sobs. None of which he'd given into. It took a special kind of evil to do this kind of work. Sociopath wasn't quite the label she wanted to use. Psychopath fit, possibly with a heavy dose of anti-social personality disorder, but with the slight differences between her brother's death and these two recent victims, she had the distinct impression this unsub wasn't ruled by some internal regulator that'd gone bad. This almost felt like an agenda. A to-do list that kept pulling her back to Chris Ellingson. The question was had Ellingson let go of his perfectionism after twenty years of living outside of Lebanon, or were they looking at someone else responsible for these deaths?

Leigh shuffled through the photos taken by the medical examiner. A close-up detailed Gresham Schmidt's face in all its final horror. Gray hairs peppered through a thick but well-kept beard. Same with the man's hair. He'd been in good shape for fifty-nine. Most detectives on the job that long didn't bother trying anymore, but Schmidt did. Because he hadn't really retired? Or had facing dozens of murderers and criminals over three decades engrained the need to stay prepared? Her attention went to the lips. At least, what was left of them. That'd been the one element of Troy's case neither police nor psychologists had been able to interpret.

Cut cleanly. The edges of the wounds were smooth, continuous. Like the butcher had challenged himself to remove the flesh in one effort as others tried to remove an orange peel. It was the only thing the killer had taken from the bodies. Everything else—the toy soldiers included—had been left behind. The remnants of the victims' mouths hadn't been recovered either, which meant whoever'd done the cutting had either kept them as a trophy or disposed of them. Taking their lips had been important to him. But why?

Michelle Cross had publicly investigated the deaths of the boys from twenty years ago. The victim had been convinced she'd had something new to offer, and that she could find the truth for herself. But what had brought Gresham Schmidt into the equation? Leigh picked up the photo of former detective Schmidt, every cell in her body attuned to the way the remaining tissue clung to the victim's teeth. She angled it slightly, letting the overhead light block out most of the victim's face until nothing but his mouth showed through. A sinking sensation pulled at her stomach. "You didn't want them to be able to tell your secret, did you? Because they knew you."

A creak registered from the floor.

But she hadn't moved.

Leigh lowered the photo. Listening.

A thud followed.

She shot to her feet. Two steps. She drove her hand into her laptop bag and pulled her personal firearm free. The dual-colored 9mm pistol fit perfectly in her hand. Pressing the magazine release, she gauged the five rounds she'd loaded the night she'd arrived.

No other movement. No sounds of a break-in. Still, she pulled the slide back to load a bullet into the gun's chamber. The plywood she'd installed in Troy's bedroom had most likely come loose. She'd only ever watched her father handle power tools as a kid. Never brave enough to get the job done herself until a couple nights ago. She probably hadn't tightened the screws as much as she should have.

Leigh heel-toed as quietly as a house this old and her boots allowed. There wouldn't be any element of surprise. Maybe a critter had worked its way into the crawl space under the house as so many had done in the past. Without modern insulation, every sound the house made could be heard from any room.

The overhead dome light flickered then cut out. She tested the nearest light switch, gaze up. Not the right time for the breaker to overload. "Damn it."

A shadow crossed in front of the large picture window.

Air stalled in her chest. Someone was outside. Big, too. Or distorted by the streetlights—she didn't know. Her heart rate picked up. "Whoever you are, you're trespassing, and I am not in the mood to shoot someone tonight."

No answer. But had she really expected one? Intruders didn't usually announce themselves before breaking in. She had to get a grip. This house had been abandoned for so long, whoever it was most likely thought they could loot what was left. She could call Boucher, but if it ended up being nothing, she'd only add to the annoyance she saw in his expression anytime he actually looked at her. She needed to stay on his good side. She needed his help to solve this case.

Leigh ducked to get a better view through the two plywood panels blocking the large picture window. Tree branches rolled on invisible waves. That same wind howled through the cracks, and a bite of panic flicked long fingers through her stomach.

The sensation of being watched—trapped—cut through her. She was a target.

Another shadow raced past the window. Too fast.

Leigh flinched back, almost off-balance. A high-pitched hiss drowned out the sound of her breathing. She used her hands against the wall as a guide to shove through the front door and out onto the covered porch. "This is your last chance! Leave, or I'm calling the police."

The wind slammed the screen door against the house as she pushed outside. Her hair whipped into her face and blocked her view, but she didn't need to see to get to the electrical panel.

A metallic ping bounced off the driveway and rocketed her nervous system into overdrive. Too late to call Boucher. Heavy footsteps echoed off the aluminum garage door. The distinct outline of a man vanished into darkness.

"Hey!" Leigh pumped her legs as hard as they allowed in pursuit. Tree branches and pine needles scraped at the sensitive skin along her neck and hands. The forest closed in around her and pulled at her hair until there was nothing left but the sound of her own breathing. Trees seemed to exhale and shift around her. Alive. Knowing. Deadly. She hadn't been out here in years. Everything was different, overgrown. Foreign. Wind made it impossible to distinguish natural movements from man-made, but she pushed deeper.

"You don't belong here." The words were nearly lost in the leaves. Ghostly.

Leigh faced the direction she thought they'd come from. Only doubt crept in. No. It'd been from her other side. She raised her weapon, but it was no use. She couldn't see anything out here. Her boots caught on a rock and launched her forward. The ground rushed up to meet her and knocked the air straight out of her lungs.

"Go back to where you came from, Brody." The voice was clearer now. Closer.

"I'm from here, asshole." The smell of damp, rotting wood assaulted her nose when her lungs finally gasped for air. It was cold. Well below freezing already. Snow clung to her front and worked into her boots. This part of the world had gone into winter hibernation, but there were still plenty of unseen predators in these woods. Not to mention the chance of hypothermia. She took a careful step forward, gauging her footfall before leaning into her weight. "Is this the part where I turn around and run? You're going to have to do better than that."

A shadow solidified directly in front of her. "You've been warned."

A wall of muscle shoved against her.

Leigh fell back, throwing her hands back to brace herself.

There was nothing there.

The ground slipped out from beneath her. She pummeled down the incline. Pain spiked across her face as she rolled over a section of what she thought was dead shrubbery. The gun ripped free of her hand a split second before searing cold soaked through her. Ice sliced into her palms as she landed face-down in a few inches of water. Leigh ripped her head back in a slap of shock.

Her head hurt. Hot liquid spread across her hand. Blood? Leigh forced herself onto her back, successfully drenching her entire upper body in freezing creek water. A shift in the trees let moonlight slip through and outlined the top of the hill she'd fallen from. Not fallen. Was pushed. Someone had lured her out of the house, had threatened her. "Shit."

She felt for solid ground and grabbed on to a root to help her sit up. Hell, she had no idea how long she'd walked through the woods or where she was now. She'd left her phone in the house. She was on her own to get back. Anger expanded like a hot balloon inside her as the pain built. Clawing both hands into the frozen ground, she climbed onto all fours and lost everything in her stomach. Her head didn't feel right. Too thick. Dizzy. Shadows danced all around her. Or was that her imagination?

She had to get back to the house.

Leigh dragged herself to her feet with the help of a nearby tree. No use in searching for her gun now. It'd take all night. She'd have to come back in the morning. See if whoever'd attacked her had left anything behind. But right now… She fell forward into the next tree, legs shaky.

Over and over, she stumbled from one trunk to the next until a hint of light bled through the trees. Streetlights.

She fell from the tree line onto flat ground. Numbness had taken hold. She could see the house. She was close enough to reach it, but her legs were done.

Wind gusted hard, and a can—empty from the sound of it—rolled onto the flattened dead grass in the front yard a few feet ahead of her. The lid was missing. A nozzle stared straight back at her. Spray paint? Then she saw it. Leigh army-crawled toward it. A fetid smell of forest and chemicals eased into her lungs as she fought to focus on the large letters graffitied across the garage.

Her head felt foggy, as though she wasn't really lying there and was seeing all of this through some viscous filter. She'd managed to scrub off and paint over the obscenities directed at her father on the siding yesterday morning, but this…

Go back to where you came from.

The artistry was crude and stark, but the message came across clear as ever.

This was for her.

It would've been the first thing she'd seen when she'd climbed into her car in the morning. A sick cold leaked into her gut. Someone had come onto her property. They'd known she'd been home. They'd targeted her. They'd attacked her. This might've started with what'd happened twenty years ago and her family legacy, but now it was personal.

Her brain filtered through the rush of faces she'd met since coming into town as she lay back against the scratchy grass. Chris Ellingson, Officer Pierce, Tanja Carson, Katherine Garrison—none of them had wanted old memories or old cases brought back into the light.

But she wouldn't stop. Not until this killer was behind bars, and she proved her father hadn't killed Troy or Derek Garrison. She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to her feet. She screamed into the trees. "I'm not leaving! You hear me? Paint whatever you want on my house. I'm not going anywhere."

Her warning set off a light in the house across the street. Then another next door. Hinges protested as front doors opened, and Leigh turned herself to meet curious onlookers head-on. She was making a spectacle of herself. Just as she had as a teen, trying to get anyone who'd listen to see the truth. The police had it all wrong. Her father was innocent. A lot of good it'd done. Anyone she'd ever trusted had turned their back on her. Called her crazy. Worse. She was done. With them. With this town. With this case. "I'm not leaving."

The words left her mouth as nothing more than a whisper.

Right before the world went black.