Aftermath (34 page)

Cold and calculating. Detached and dispassionate. Or the chilling and less frequent, interest. Where would it lead? Hopes built for nothing.

The solid rap of knuckles, on her table, had her heart launching into her throat at speeds well beyond any a human body should withstand.

As if he
’
d been present for hours, Dexter stood at the edge of the table, proving she
’
d lost her ability to send her facilities in two different directions.

Curiosity didn
’
t kill the cat. Its twin, complacency, had.

Beth resisted the urge to stand as if she were a puppet on tight strings. Stamped down the high-anxiety steam-rolling through her body. Instead, she raised her gaze to his, no easy feat with his height and her prone position.

A blank expression left little for interpretation. The firm line of pressed lips brought out the scar at the corner. From this angle, it looked more jagged than she
’
d originally thought. Something sewn together in a hurry.

As if he
’
d had more pressing wounds.

“Hello, Chaplin Knight.” The old woman pasted a smile on her face as if they were all at a church social.

Dexter nodded. “Mrs. Vera. Mrs. Markel.”

Beth rolled her eyes. Blew out a discreet breath. Were they in some sort of historical novel? Next he
’
d be bowing and asking one of them for a carriage ride in the flippin
’
park. And, why did he always insist on formality? Why not shout out cell block numbers like everyone else?

Mrs. Vera beamed up at him. She folded her hands on the table. A flick of color caught Beth
’
s notice as the other woman adjusted.

What the...

“Mrs. Markel, you
’
ve got visitors scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

Shock filtered through her. The words were rare.

She started to shake her head. Color peaked out, again, from Mrs. Vera
’
s fingers. The clear blue, of the standard prison-issued toothbrushes, contrasted with her pale skin.

The end had been filed to a sharp point and was pressed against her wrist, tight enough it might leave an imprint. Her eyes were centered on Dexter, a gleam that counteracted every prim bone in her old body.

While he remained focused on Beth. His lips moved, but she couldn
’
t make out the words. The tips of two fingers rested on the table.

Thing One
and
Thing Two
, behind him, stole furtive glances as if they knew something was up.

Which could mean nothing. Those two had never made a secret about how they’d like to ruffle the Chaplin’s feathers and get they’re rocks off.

Beth swallowed back the foul taste in her mouth. She knew better than anyone how far careful words could go in producing vital smoke screens.

Did they all have weapons fashioned out of everyday items? Even if they managed to overpower the three men and one woman in this room, they wouldn
’
t get far. Escape was impossible. Running was futile.

She’d done it. Lived through it. Come out the looser on her fifteenth birthday.

The girl still paced. Was she a distraction?

“There
’
s no other option.” Dexter
’
s voice filtered in, deep and smooth.

Mrs. Vera shifted. Sent a wink in Beth
’
s direction.

No.

Her heart hammered like the drums at a heavy metal concert. Adrenaline pumped through her veins in jittery waves. Hadn
’
t felt the rush in such a long time, it made her dizzy.

And her stomach swirl.

One well-placed hit and he
’
d go down. Would it be life-threatening? Possibly. Either way, he might be incapacitated for at least a few moments. At least one of the CO’s would come to his aid. Leaving the remaining two outnumbered by inmates.

She sucked her bottom lip inward. Wet it with the tip of her tongue. This wasn
’
t her deal. Whatever happened would happen.

The sentiment wouldn
’
t cover the screaming voice in her head. Or the gentle urging coming from a place she couldn
’
t identify.

It didn’t mean anything. And the air trapped in her lungs? Normal.

The old woman
’
s fist rose, the blue dagger in Beth’s line of sight. A creepy smile lifted one corner of the older woman’s lips.

The CO
’
s didn
’
t move. Didn’t seem to sense the sudden shift in the air around them. Why didn
’
t they do something?

Mrs. Vera’s arm headed toward Dexter in a downward thrust—aim headed straight for the spot
Thing One
and
Thing Two
dreamed of using in sweaty, naked situations.

Beth flung herself across the smooth surface of the table. Dexter hopped away from them, his back toward the door. She grabbed Mrs. Vera’s wrist.

The weapon was clearly visible as Beth
’
s weight threw the older woman off balance. They hit the floor with a solid crunch. Pain flashed across Mrs. Vera
’
s face, but she didn
’
t release the weapon. Gripped it harder.

A whirl of activity fluttered around them. Beth kept her focus on the older woman, who jabbed the weapon up toward her face. Missed by a football field. Tried again.

Beth twisted her arm so the pointy end was aimed at the floor. Her vision narrowed to the woman beneath her. “Drop it.”

“So you can use it?” The words grazed past clenched teeth. A bit of spittle punched through. Sweat appeared on her upper lip. That pristine bun was a mess of wild hair beneath her head. “Go to Hell.”

Beth twisted farther, the bones groaning against the strain. A little further and...

“Stop.” The command made everything inside Beth still. And the tunnel vision disappear. It brought the entire room in focus. One CO stood near them, baton raised. The other two had the other three inmates in cuffs and against the outer walls.

“Let her go, Markel.”

Beth didn’t move or release the other woman. Couldn
’
t. Wouldn
’
t until Mrs. Vera no longer had the shank in her possession.

Couldn’t trust the old woman wouldn’t still try to get her fix of gore.

As if he understood that, Dexter knelt next to them, his movements slow and sure. A chorus of objections fluttered nearby, indiscernible. One warm hand circled both of their wrists in a firm hold, while the other tugged the device from the old lady
’
s grip.

“Get up slowly, Markel, hands on your head. You.” He pointed a stern finger at Mrs. Vera. “Don
’
t move.”

Beth hazarded a glance at Dexter as she did as he asked.

His face wasn
’
t blank anymore. Shock resided in its place. Not the kind that bespoke a flabbergasting, unforeseen situation, but honest stupefaction. As if he would never untangle the biggest, most mysterious knot to ever land in his way.

And all of it was aimed at Beth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LILLY AND ROBINSON had been outside the one bedroom door, in Amanda
’
s apartment, for the better part of two hours. First pacing in front of it, each of them going in opposite directions as if they were on some sort of security detail.

Amanda had stood nearby for the first twenty minutes. Listened to calming pleas for Ariana to come out turn to demands that she do so. And then threats to break the door. At some point Lilly had sat down beside it and rested her head in her hands. Robinson had long since given up trying to unlock a door his niece had jammed from the other side.

Like the resourceful kid she was. And all because they
’
d wanted to get to the bottom of the picture they
’
d found in her locker. To figure out what was going on.

Instead of the slow approach Amanda would have used, both brother and sister had started asking the teen rapid-fire questions. Thinking with their panicked parent-like brains. Acting out of fear and shock. And anger neither had kept out of sight.

All while anxiety crept into Ariana’s stance with every second.

What if the things that had happened to Paige Jurik hadn
’
t been an isolated event? Hadn
’
t been the truth played out by a curious or promiscuous young girl, but something darker. Something that wasn
’
t over. And Ariana had stumbled into it.

Nobody wanted to think of their daughter or niece doing things no young woman had any business starting with someone...

How had Camelia Jurik put it?

Best left to a married, loving and committed relationship. Not just the married aspect, but all three combined. And there
’
d been conviction behind her words. Not the judgmental kind. The type that left no doubt on where she stood.

Or what she
’
d do to get her daughter back. The file the other woman handed over was full of notes. Whereabouts checked into. Names of teenagers she
’
d casually questioned about her daughter.

Amanda scanned the names and dates as she moved from the kitchen to the living room and sat on the couch. Right next to Robinson and the same irritated look he
’
d kept in place since they
’
d left the school.

She couldn
’
t blame him. And still hadn
’
t figured out the best way to help. Not with more questions than answers.

Sam had been as open as a triple locked diary. And then class had ended, the hallways crammed full of students. The shuttered expression on Robinson
’
s face, as he scanned each kid, hadn
’
t been lost on her. Had he wanted to line them up and question them one by one?

She had.

The legalities there were innumerous. If questioning occurred on school grounds, they
’
d need a plan to head off angry parents and pray for a judge who wouldn
’
t throw any evidence gathered, out of court.

And willing teenagers.

Captain Dentzen was never going to condone the resources. It had nothing to do with homicide. And, from his perspective, no direct correlation to what they were working on.

Any way she viewed it, looking into Paige
’
s disappearance was a direct violation of his specific rules. No Jonas. No Paige. Plain and simple.

For someone else, maybe.

A shampoo commercial flashed across the muted TV. And then the news was back with the same loop they
’
d been reporting all week. Almost as if they were in Bethany Markel death countdown.

Amanda grabbed the remote and turned it off before Robinson noticed the headlines. Started in on another round of
twenty reasons this was a bad idea.

She took a breath in and let it out slowly.

She
’
d disconnected her landline days ago when every reporter, newspaper and magazine columnist in Charlotte had tried to get an exclusive on whether or not she
’
d received word from the infamous serial bomber.
People
had even called, sure she
’
d want to drop everything for an exclusive.

Not happening.

Robinson shifted, his gaze steady on the neat piles of teenagers she
’
d arranged in hopes of finding a pattern. The notes they
’
d both taken after interviewing a handful of the missing teens parents. He picked up the picture of a smiling young girl, both forearms braced on his knees as he sat on the end of the couch.

“We could sit here all day looking for something out of the ordinary.” He tossed the sheet aside. It landed atop the coffee table mayhem, slightly askew. “What I
’
ve got is twenty-one missing teenage girls and two dead ones.”

“Pretty safe to say they’re related. Rice in their stomachs. No malnourishment. Almost perfect hair and nails. It’s like he scrubbed them clean before he killed them. For all we know, they could have been murdered in another country.”

He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, one jean-clad leg bouncing to an inaudible beat. “Jonas remembers being in the house on Thursday, remembers talking to Sandra, but no dead body. My guess is this guy never intended for us to find Tara. Would explain the difference in location and lack of artwork.”