Chapter 9

Jenica

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a rundown gas station off Old Route 12 and like most things in these parts, what money did not favor, time forgot. The place looks like it hasn't seen a customer in years. Its faded red gas pumps look like they have been dry for eons, and the glass behind the boarded up windows are broken.

Once upon a time this place must have done good business, back when this road was the only one that connected the swampland to the highway towns. But that was when small towns were the heart of the state. Now, they were nothing more than a dot on a map. Places to stop for gas and a cold drink when you were between where you'd come from and where you were going.

I forgot there was anything out this way, until the directions I scribbled using the folded up map in the glove box reminded me. As I drove, resting stops with picnic tables and boarded up fruit stands stirred memories of camping and fishing trips with my Daddy and brothers. Moments not lost, but forgotten over time, waiting to be discovered again.

Looking back down at the card, however, I can't help but wonder if I'd gotten the directions wrong because the once vibrant station is eerily quiet. I haven't seen a car for miles, and there are no birds in the sky. Even the bugs seem to have abandoned this place.

After double checking my directions and seeing I have everything right, I get out of the car to look around. Pebbles crunch underfoot as I place both feet on the ground and when I push up from the driver's seat and close the door, I'm hit with a wall of heat.

The temperature is different inland than it is by the coast; the air steamy and hot, even though it's mid-February. "The swamp makes its own weather," Daddy said once during one of those trips, long ago. "Don't find yourself out here alone, sugar."

He was right. It was easy to become dehydrated out here, and without the right clothing, you could get bit or stung by something, which could be catastrophic. Just last year a couple went hiking, only to be found days later on the brink of death because the dummies were in shorts and forgot to carry water.

I may have been a bit of a rule breaker, but I always remembered his warnings. When taking a road trip I always brought a thermos of water and kept extra layers in the trunk. But today, driven by a burning curiosity, I found myself out here with nothing more than a windbreaker and questions and I wanted to kick myself.

Stuffing the card in my back pocket, I take off my coat, tie it around my waist, and look down at my feet. Thank goodness I'd come from the store because I was in jeans and Docs. At least my legs and feet were protected.

I make my way toward the station, passing an old pay phone under the portico, and coming to a stop in front of the boarded up door with the word CLOSED etched into one of the wood slats. When I peek through a small opening and can't see a thing, I walk along the side of the structure and crawl up onto an old ice box with a cracked Coca-Cola logo and try to get a better look.

Leaning in, I cup my hands on either side of my face and look through a still in-tact piece of glass. Judging by the state of things inside, the station's been closed for some time. The shelves are empty, there are wood crates turned over on the floor, and the area around the register has been picked dry like it was looted during an apocalypse. Even a possum scurries across the floor in search of a better place.

Hopping down, I go around to the back, and when I reach a door that has not been boarded up, I grab the screen and pull it open. As I check the doorknob, I hear a shrill whistle in the distance. Whipping my head around, I scan the horizon but don't see anything. As I turn my attention back to the door, I hear it again.

Turning around slowly, I scan the horizon carefully, and in the distance spot a man in a suit, standing under a grove of trees at the edge of the swamp.

"What…do…you…want?" I yell, saying each word slowly so they carry.

"He's…waiting!" he shouts back.

"Who?" I throw both hands in the air.

"Rich…er…son," he says with a wave. "Come on!"

It's a relief to know I'm at the right place, and at the same time, annoying. Why the hell would he bring me all the way out here, and summon me into the swamp, nonetheless? And who is this dude in the suit?

I take a couple of steps, then stop. What if he's a hitman? What if Richardson was taking up the mantle of his son and preying on young girls and this guy was here to do his dirty work and dispose of my body? The idea wasn't all that crazy if you think about it. Apples tend not to fall far from the tree.

Then again, Langston Richardson is a narcissist. He is all about self-preservation. It's why he went on the run when the stories of Elmhurst hit the news. If he were a crazed killer like his son, he wouldn't have left any kind of a trail, and coming into the store would have done just that. Surely someone saw him and at minimum, the security cameras my parents installed a few years back would have captured his visit.

"Where…is…he?" I shout.

The man points toward the trees.

"Oh, hell no," I shake my head. "If he thinks I'm going in there, he's…"

My thought falls short when I spot a building beyond where the man is standing. It's painted the same color of the trees, blending in like camouflage. It's a strange place for a dwelling. Then again, the swamp was a world of its own. Secrets could be trapped forever under fallen trees and sludge filled water ways. If Richardson wanted a place to hide, the swamp would be the perfect place to do it.

Hoping karma doesn't bite me in the ass and I don't wind up like some dumb bitch in a horror movie that ignores all the warnings and heads into the woods alone, I start down a trail that leads away from the station and toward the swamp.

I hold my hands at my sides, ready to defend if needed. One good thing about having brothers was they taught me how to protect myself. I know how to grab a snake before it strikes and how to get out of a man's hold by stomping down on their instep and slamming the back of my head into theirs.

Hoping it doesn't come to any of that, I walk carefully, my attention alert, and when I reach the edge of the swamp, I'm enveloped by a suffocating humidity. With the sun disappearing above the thick canopy of vines and leaves, the air has nowhere to escape to and I feel like I've stepped into the belly of a furnace.

"Take your sweet time, did ya?" the man says impatiently, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

Now that I'm closer, I can see him more clearly, and wish I couldn't. He gives off classic creeper vibes, with a gap in his front teeth and a scar over one eye, and he is sweating enough for the both of us.

"Where is he?" I reply, not dignifying his question with a response.

"Inside." He jerks his head toward the structure. "Come on. Time is money."

I flick my eyes to the building in front of me and now that I can see it more clearly, it appears harmless. But so did the farmhouse in Texas Chainsaw Massacre and I could be walking into a trap.

But as I look back to the man, any reservation and hesitation fades, as an eerie calm settles over me. Like the moment you reach the top of the lift on a rollercoaster before the car plunges down the tracks. Whatever waits for me I'm ready.

When you run from something as long as I have, there is always that kernel of a possibility it will one day catch up with you. If it is time for me to be held accountable for what I did last summer, and I walk into that building and never come out, then so be it. It's better than a lifetime of looking over my shoulder.

I make my way toward the steps, keeping a safe distance from the gap-toothed man, and when I reach the top, bright lights and cool air greets me. A tall, bald man, worked out to the point of absurdity greets me, and motions for me to come inside.

I cross the threshold and when I do, my mouth falls open as I take in the space around me. A black lacquer floor, polished to an impossible shine, extends as far as the eye can see, and the ceiling is made up of mirrors, cleaned to an impossible clarity. A gentle bassline drifts out of a speakers mounted and the smell of cigars and whiskey linger in the air. It's a club. All be damned.

"Come on," gap-tooth creeper snarls as he leads me past a sleek bar, coming to a stop at a booth with black leather seats. "Sit, Richardson will be out momentarily."

As I sink down in the booth's smooth seating and look around, I'm reminded of a rumor I'd heard once in high school. About a place whose location no one could pinpoint, yet details of what went on inside were whispered as if witnessed first-hand.

A red velvet curtain that ran along the back wall was the backdrop to a stage in the shape of a horseshoe where girls danced and money rained. While a sleek infinite bar, with bottles lined up like jewels, was staffed by bartenders that poured drinks freely.

This had to be the place because what I'm seeing is those whispers brought to life. But who owned it, and furthermore, how on earth did a place like this exist in the middle of a swamp without anyone knowing?

"Ms. Miller," Langston Richardson's voice curls around my curiosity. "Glad you could make it."

I turn around quickly, surprised to find him standing next to the booth. But the man I see now, is a contrast to the one who came into the store earlier. He's wearing black slacks, button up shirt, and a gold Rolex, and his hair is slicked back. It's a far cry from the Elmhurst dress code of polo shirts, chinos, and deck shoes.

Sliding into the booth across from me, he drapes one hand along the back, while tapping the index finger of his other hand on the table. "How was your drive?"

"Long," I reply crisply, wanting to cut to the chase. "Why did you bring me all the way out here?"

"Now, Ms. Miller, I did not bring you out here. You came, willingly, of your own volition."

"Screw you," I bite out. "You know what I mean."

He dips his head back and laughs. "Such fire," he smiles when he brings it back up. "You will do just fine here."

"I won't take that as a compliment, seeing as I do not plan to be here long."

Richardson looks up at the gap tooth man, who is standing next to him at attention. "Dane, please fetch the folder I requested?"

Toothy flashes him a broken grin. "You got it, boss."

"Dane?" I laugh. "Isn't that a dog?"

He narrows his eyes and starts to respond, but Richardson holds up a hand, stopping him. "Now."

He nods but says nothing, and I think about what toothy called him. "Boss?" I arch a brow. "So you run this place?"

"I own it." He looks around admiringly.

"A club owner?" I roll my eyes. "How novel."

"It is not just a club," he corrects, turning his attention back to me. "It is an empire."

I press my lips together, unimpressed. "And it's all the way out here why?"

"Discretion," he says matter of fact. "Our clientele requires the highest level of caution and security."

The way he says it makes my skin prick. I look around again, taking note of the gleaming barware and lush fabrics. This is a place for those who like the finer things, including those who grace that stage in front of us.

"A gentleman's club," I say with confirmation.

He snaps and points. "Give the girl a prize."

This man is a louse. Scratch that, this son of a bitch is a piece of shit, just like his son. I push up, ready to tell him as much, when Dane the Dick returns, holding a folder.

"Sit down," Richardson orders like I am some kind of child.

"You can't tell me—"

"Now!"

Too stunned by his audacity to raise his voice at me, I sink back down, eyes narrowing. "Make it quick."

"I have been waiting for this moment," he cuts me off, placing a hand on top of the folder.

"Payoffs feel that good?" I ask snidely.

After Richardson left the store earlier, I thought long and hard about his invitation. What could he possibly have to offer me? There was only one answer—money. He wanted to pay me off to keep me from speaking out about his son. Well screw that.

Royce Richardson would not rest in peace for what he did to those girls and my best friend. His son's memory would never know peace. Not as long as I was alive.

That is why I came. Not for money, but my best friend and the families of those girls. Their memories would not fade like the news stories. I planned to whisper it to anyone who listened.

"Payoffs are a necessity," he smiles. "But paybacks, necessary." I tilt my head, his comment curious. "Tell me Ms. Miller, what payback do you think my family is owed?"

"Your family?" I scoff.

"Yes," he leans in, cologne permeating my lungs. "My family. We are the ones after all that lost a son."

"A son that was a murderer!" I fire back.

"So," his eyes flash. "That's the way it is, then? An eye for an eye?"

"What?" I shake my head.

"My son," he growls. "That is why you killed him, isn't it? Because he took a life, so you felt justified in taking his."

My stomach drops and the temperature in the room skyrockets. Suddenly it feels like it is one hundred degrees. My mouth goes dry and a bead of sweat rolls down my back. "I don't know what you're—"

"Please," he cuts off my protest. "Spare me the denial, Ms. Miller. I do not wish to hear your lying tongue. You murdered my son and I have proof."

"Proof?" I repeat, my heart starting to race as the room tilts. The conversation had just taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn and I was no longer in control.

"Tell me," he eyes me curiously, "while your friends were covering up what happened that night, did you think to ask them if they checked for security cameras on the surrounding properties? Or were you so arrogant playing God, that you did not worry yourself with the details?"

As the beating of my heart picks up, slamming hard against my ribs like a toddler kicking its feet during a tantrum, the memory of that night flashes in my mind. Did the guys think about that? I don't remember. I don't remember anything about those first hours, my mind was practically catatonic by what I'd just done.

If Jake or Cruz hadn't thought about it, how was it the man peering down at me like a shooter on a firing squad had, and more importantly, when?

"CCPD may be run by bumbling fools, but they were smart to subpoena the security footage of the surrounding homes where that body was found," he says as if reading my mind. "I don't know what it was that told me to look at that footage. Perhaps it was the police report from the night Royce went missing and statement of a homeless man on the beach, who said he heard an argument that night."

"That's why we're here?" I ask tightly. "You have a theory—"

"I have the truth!" He slams his fist down on the table, and leans in, eyes dark like the Devil. "You murdered my son, then your friends rolled his body into the ocean like he was nothing. You made it impossible for his mother to mourn him. For me to mourn my only child!"

"Your son was a monster." I grip the edge of the leather seat, needing something to hold onto. "He killed five girls and if I hadn't stopped him that night he would have done the same to my best friend."

"It was not your right to decide his fate," he seethes. "But providence has seen to it that I now get the chance to decide yours."

Tears fill my eyes as the very fear that sent me running up to Highland last week becomes my reality. The other shoe has just dropped, and with it, the world crashing down around me.

With the overpowering smell of Drakkar Noir churning my stomach, I bend over and throw up. Only no one is here to hold my hair and rub my back. I am all alone in this fucking nightmare, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Richardson snaps and a moment later, a scantily dressed girl is standing next to the booth with a mop and bucket. When I finish emptying my stomach, I pull my head back up and watch in disgust as he rubs his chin and eyes her lasciviously as she cleans up my vomit while swaying her hips.

"Now," he clears his throat. "Would you like to hear the terms of our deal?"

"Deal?" I repeat, mouth gummy with tears and vomit.

"I have drawn up a contract that asks for one year of service. After that year is up, I will turn over the footage that proves you shot my son. You will be free to go about your future, with my word I will not pursue charges."

"And my friends?" I ask shakily.

"With each subsequent year of service, the evidence that implicates your friends will also be destroyed."

I count the years in my head, vision blurring. "Four years?"

He smiles at me viciously. "Seems fitting, given the crime, no?"

He removes a piece of paper from the folder and pushes it toward me, then sticks up his hand and gross Dane hands him a pen.

"Sign the agreement," Richardson says simply, placing it on the table between us. "Work for me, and your future is secure."

"Work for you?" I ask with a shake of my head.

"Why do you think you are here?"

I flick my eyes to the girl cleaning the floor. She has to be my age, maybe younger. "You want me to clean your floors?"

"No," he sits back with a smile. "I want you to dance."

"Dance?"

He nods toward the stage. "My clientele is growing and I need help keeping them happy. I have no doubt you can help me do that," he says with a smile. "You are, after all, a pretty girl, just like your mother."

The idea of dancing for bored husbands and lecherous old men makes me sick to my stomach. "And if I don't?"

"You owe it to your friends, Ms. Miller. They have futures to protect. Don't you want to protect them, the way they did you that night?"

His words prick my skin and the way he's looking at me sends a shiver down my spine. "If I do this," I look down at the paper and swallow, "I have your word you will leave them alone?"

"I won't touch any of them, including the golden hair on Ms. Butler's head. But if you do not sign this deal, I will not only hesitate to bring that evidence to my very good friend the Governor, but also make sure a copy is sent to every newspaper and TV station across the country."

I eye the paper nervously, eyes filling with fresh tears. "You're a bastard."

He laughs. "That I am not, I can assure you. Unlike Ms. Butler and so many others in Cherry Cove, I am a blue blood, and we always come out on top. So sign the agreement, Ms. Miller, because this is one fight you cannot hope to win."

Grabbing the pen, I draw in a breath to steady my shaking hand, then sign. When done I set the pen down, and he rips the paper out of my hand. I can't help but feel as if I have not only sealed my fate but sold my soul to the Devil. At this point, they're one in the same.