“What did your wife tell you about the night Gina vanished?”
He moved past the bloodstain into the living room, flipping on lights as he moved through the space. “Like I said, she didn’t like to talk about it.”
“She must have mentioned it once or twice,” Quinn said.
“She was eaten up with guilt. She felt if she’d stayed behind instead of leavi
ng, Gina would still be alive.”
“You think Gina’s dead?” Adler said.
“After all this time, how could she be alive?”
“It’s been known to happen,” Adler said. “Where were you the night Gina vanished?”
“At my parents’ house. I was waiting for Erika, but she never came.” He shook his head. “The Kaitlin Roe I remember was always good at manipulating people. She convinced her aunt to take her in and pay for her tuition. If there’s anyone who knows what’s going on, it’s Kaitlin Roe.”
“Ms. Roe has no memory of the attack,” Adler said.
Crowley clenched his hands. “Don’t believe her,” he said. “She’s a fucking liar.”
Dear Kaitlin,
You are lucky. You escaped your punishment. The plan wasn’t to stab you but to take you. I have a special room for you, and nothing will make me happier than to lock you in it and then set it on fire. You are a witch. You deserve to burn and to suffer. I am coming back for you, and remember when you are drawing your dying breath, you asked for this.
The words in the note felt inadequate. They didn’t begin to tap the rage he felt toward Kaitlin. Jennifer he could forgive. She’d never been strong. Even Erika would be forgiven. But Kaitlin was the one who’d had a real chance to save her friend, but literally turned her back on Gina.
He balled up the letter and threw it on the floor. He had been so careful with his planning. He’d driven Erika’s car to a Route 1 gas station, bound her hands and feet with tape, and transferred her to his truck. After dumping her off at his place, he’d returned to her house to wait inside for Kaitlin. But the plan had gone to shit when Kaitlin had set off that alarm. He’d panicked and lunged with the knife, hoping only to make the noise stop.
A wave of frustration churned in his gut. Kaitlin was supposed to be here, and he wanted to snatch her now. But for the next few days, she was out of his reach. Shit! The agitation crawling under his skin was going to drive him mad.
He grabbed keys and unlocked the basement door, then flipped on a light and descended the rickety staircase. Another lock secured the last door.
Erika had been in the dark for forty-eight hours. No food. No water. Essentially entombed alive. It was a hell of a way to go. He wanted to leave her down here until she died of thirst and deprivation. It was another of the horrible ways he’d imagined Gina dying.
However, he no longer had the patience to kill her slowly. He had to do something to calm his nerves. Today she would be Kaitlin’s proxy, and her death would ease the tightness in his chest. Give him enough relief to prepare once and for all for Kaitlin.
He slipped on a white hazmat suit and gloves before opening the door. The light streamed into the small room, illuminating walls filled with dozens of pictures of Gina. The acrid smell of urine made his nose wrinkle.
Erika struggled to sit up and raised a weak hand to shield her eyes. A person could go a long time without food, but lack of water took a much faster toll on the body.
He gave her a moment, wanting her eyes to adjust clearly enough to see the walls papered with Gina’s beautiful face.
She didn’t have the strength to rise. “Gina.”
“That’s right.” Seeing Gina’s smiling face always made him angry. That girl had died too young, and her death could be laid at the feet of her faithless friends who’d abandoned her. “Do you ever think about how she died?”
“What?”
Lack of water had left her lightheaded. That was unfortunate. He wanted her fully aware. “So many horrible ways she could have died. I’ve imagined each and every one of them.”
He pulled the knife from his pocket and unfolded it. “I wanted you to die cold, abandoned, scared, and desperate.” He took a step toward her and raised the knife, imagining what Kaitlin had felt.
She flinched and rolled on her belly, ready to crawl. Her fingers scraped against the stone floor. There was nowhere for her to go.
He approached her from behind and without a word cut her throat with one swipe. She flinched and then raised her filthy hands to the blood spurting from her neck. Adrenaline surged through him as he held her close. Feeling her life ebb was a release. He craved more.
Her body went limp with her last breath. He didn’t move immediately, hoping the high would linger. It didn’t. It evaporated almost immediately, leaving him feeling empty and angry.
He gently brushed the hair from her pale, now-angelic face. “I forgive you, Erika.”
She’d gotten off easily, but Kaitlin would not.
INTERVIEW FILE #16
DESPERATION: PSYCHICS AND MEDIUMS
Monday, February 5, 2018
The pungent scent of incense clings to the red velvet drapes hanging behind a hand-carved wooden chair and matching table. Tarot cards and three lit candles are the center of attention. Crystals dangle from the ceiling, catching the morning light and flickering rainbows of color on dark indigo walls. The Old Country feel of the room stands in stark contrast to the bright-orange neon lights blinking PSYCHIC and OPEN.
Madame Solinsky wears a full-length duster with bell sleeves embroidered with stars and moons. Her hair is dyed ink black, and heavily penciled eyebrows arch in mild surprise. For a while, she was quite the media sensation after Gina vanished, even appearing on a national talk show to share her mystic visions for the lost girl.
“You said you wanted to talk about Gina Mason,” Madame says.
“Yes. You worked with the police during the months after she went missing. You offered your services to the police.”
“I did.” She reaches for the deck of tarot cards and begins to shuffle.
“What was it that prompted you to call the police?” Madame Solinsky isn’t the only psychic who called the police, but she garnered the most airtime from local television. Steven Marcus has interviewed her four times.
“I knew she was gone, and I had to tell the police.”
“You had gruesome theories about her fate.”
Madame lays out four cards facedown one by one in a spread resembling a cross. “In my dreams I see a man with two faces.”
“Two?” The clown mask was reported to the media.
“Two.”
“But the man is not important now. It’s Gina who’s beckoning me. She looks worried.” Madame taps a ringed finger on the first card and then slowly, with the flourish of a performer, turns it over with a snap. “The Nine of Wands.”
The medium wafts her hand over the card, as if conjuring the truth from the ether. “Her spirit is strong, but she needs the police to find her so that you will know peace.”
“Me?”
“Yes. She’s worried about you.”
That churns the guilt I always carry. “How did Gina die?” I paid fifty bucks before the Madame would talk to me. I’m not expecting the smoking gun, but I want to see how far she will take this show.
“She was stabbed.” Madame presses ringed fingers to the base of her neck. “She died very quickly.”
“You’ve also said she died in a dark room and in a fire.”
“I can only report what I see. Sometimes a spirit gets confused.” Madame turns over the second card and studies it. “The Hanged Man. Time to reflect. Some of the knife wounds were near her throat.”
She turns over the third card, which portrays a man and woman embracing. The card is upside down. “The Lovers card in reverse. Betrayal and loss.”
I have to hand it to her. She puts on a good show.
Madame waves bent fingers over the three cards and then turns over a fourth. It is a castle being struck by lightning. “This is the Tower. Turmoil. You’re facing a great upheaval in your life.”
I close my notebook. The fifty bucks I’ve spent here could have gone toward a week’s worth of pizzas. “Thank you for your time, Madame.”
As I rise, Madame looks up, her gaze spearing me. “The killer knows what you’re doing. And he doesn’t like it. Beware.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
&
nbsp; Monday, March 19, 2018; 5:00 p.m.
Kaitlin could stand, and though she couldn’t cross the room quickly, it was now possible. Her limited mobility was frustrating, but she remained focused on the progress she’d made.
Now sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, she studied the list of people she’d yet to interview. At the top of the list was Steven Marcus, the reporter who covered Gina’s story. He was no longer with the paper but now operated a website and wrote freelance articles dedicated to solving cold cases. According to her research, his reporting had helped police across the country solve a dozen different crimes.
His last piece on Gina had appeared four years ago at the ten-year anniversary. Of all the reporters, he was the most prolific. Several of his articles on Gina had won literary awards.
With her laptop beside her and a pad and pencil close by, she dialed his number. He picked up on the third ring.
“Steven Marcus.” His voice was deep and clear.
She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Marcus, this is Kaitlin Roe. I am—”
“I know who you are,” he said. In the background a chair squeaked as if he had leaned forward. “Talk about a voice from the past. I don’t know how many times I left you messages when I was writing those earlier articles on Gina. You never called back.”
“I know.” Maybe an apology was warranted, but she couldn’t bring herself.
“And then you dropped off the radar. Where’d you go?”
“Texas, but I’m back in Richmond now.”
“So why the call?” Curiosity vibrated in the tone.
“I’m making a podcast about Gina’s disappearance. I’m hoping to draw attention back to her case.”
“Good luck. The more time passes, the harder it gets for people to care.”
“I’m hoping that’ll change. I’ve managed to stir the pot some, and it might lead to progress in the case.”