Torn (31 page)

Matthew just shook his head and gave her a confused glance. “I'm certain I have no clue about Flynn or his visit or anyone who
understood
him . . .”

“Liar.” She called him out on it.

His eyes narrowed.

“The police searched Flynn's house. It seemed he liked to keep mementos of things that interested him. He had . . . a scrapbook, of sorts. Clippings—­old newspaper accounts of my father's trial.”

“Guess that's why he was obsessed with you.”

“
That's
why he came up here to visit Troy, actually. To learn more about my father. He interviewed Troy on and off over the years. Seems they even talked about doing some kind of book on my dad. ‘The Monster Next Door,'
” she murmured.

That had been the title the cops found scribbled in Flynn's scrapbook.

“We need to leave,” the lawyer ordered.

But Matthew wasn't leaving. Arrogant, cocky Matthew. “All I'm hearing,” he said, “are links between Troy and that Flynn guy.”

“There were a lot of links there,” she agreed quickly. “They were both psych majors, back in the day. But Flynn couldn't handle the master's program. He flunked out. Troy didn't. He excelled. Because he was doing so well, Troy was the one who got to attend my father's trial, not Flynn.” She lowered her voice. “Between you and me . . . I think that really pissed off Flynn. He didn't like thinking he was second best, and his college roommate proved—­every single time—­that he was better than Flynn.”

A flicker of worry passed over Matthew's face. Just for the barest moment, and then it was gone.

But I saw it.

“A scrapbook?” Matthew asked.

“Matthew,”
the lawyer called.
“Now.”

She nodded. “Very interesting photos were in there, too.” Now she lifted the file that she had carried into the room. “Photos of Kennedy, before her death. Photos of her being taken off a jogging trail . . . photos of her abductor.”

Matthew brushed past her. “Well, her abductor is dead, so that's one case that is closed.” He stalked past his lawyer and grabbed for the door.

Victoria glanced over her shoulder. When the door opened, she saw Wade and Asher standing there outside the room, perfect shields blocking Matthew's exit.

“Get out of my way,” Matthew muttered.

They didn't move.

Even Moore looked nervous.

“Don't you want to look at this picture?” Victoria asked him softly. “It's a rather good picture. Gets the abductor's face so well . . .
your
face so well.”

Matthew's shoulders stiffened. “I'm not in that picture.”

“Flynn saw you, didn't he? Such a chance encounter. But
he
was an avid jogger, too, and he happened to be on that trail the morning you took Kennedy. And that was the moment everything changed. For you. For him. He knew what you'd done, but he didn't go to the cops. Somehow—­you and Flynn connected. Monster to monster, I guess. Which one of you had the idea to keep Kennedy alive so long?”

He glared at her.

“Was it you?” Victoria asked.

His jaw hardened. “Do your fucking job, Bob!” he yelled at his lawyer.

His lawyer's mouth opened as if he was about to start to argue. Sarah didn't give him the chance, as she fired out, “Or was it Flynn?”

Moore reached for the photos. “I need to see—­” He broke off as his gaze scanned the images. “Ph-­Photos can be faked.” He began thumbing through them.

Victoria knew exactly what he'd see in all those terrible images. Kennedy—­being tortured. Kennedy—­being held captive. Kennedy—­and her abductor.

Matthew Walker.

“Flynn took the pictures. You did the crime.”
No, both men were just as guilty. Both sick, twisted men.
“Do you think they'll hurt you?” Victoria asked him, cocking her head to the side.

“Who?”

“The men in prison.”

He lunged forward and grabbed her. “You cunt, I'm not going to prison! Flynn was the sick bastard who dug her up! I didn't even
know
he was doing that shit! He did it because he knew
you
were coming to town. Wanted your fucking LOST self to
find
her. But he couldn't have you leaving town too soon. No, no, he liked the game. Thought it was his turn. I'd taken Melissa. I'd waited, I'd planned, then he swooped in and he fucking
killed
her! After he'd taught me the value of keeping prey alive—­he killed Melissa! He took her away before I—­”

Still gripping her shoulders, Matthew broke off, but she knew what he'd been going to say. “Before you had any fun?” she finished, feeling sick.

“Get your hands off her.” Wade's voice was low and lethal. “Or I will fucking break them right now.”

Matthew blinked. He shook his head. “I—­” His hands fell away.

“My client is confused!” the lawyer sputtered. “His attack and his pain medications have made him . . . they've made him . . .”

For the first time since Victoria entered the room, Dace spoke. “They didn't make him anything. He's a murdering bastard who just confessed to his crimes, and I'm going to see to it that he rots in jail.”

He had confessed. He'd
confessed.

Matthew stared at her—­stared. Glared. And she knew he was going to attack even before the snarl ripped across his face. He lunged at her.

She punched him in the face. His lip busted under her fist and he howled.

In the next instant, Wade had grabbed Matthew's hands. Wade twisted hard, and Victoria knew that Matthew's bones had just snapped.

He fell to the floor, screaming.

“You can't do that!” Moore yelled. “Police brutality! You can't—­”

“We're not cops,” Victoria said.

“And from where the
cop
sits,” Dace added, “that was self-­defense.”

Matthew was on the floor in a fetal position.

A grim smile curved Wade's lips. “They are going to love you in prison.”

Matthew whimpered. “My hands . . . my hands . . .”

The hands that had brutalized Kennedy . . .

“Matthew Walker,” Dace said, voice sharp and hard. “You're under arrest for the abduction and murder of Kennedy Lane.”

Victoria took a deep breath. Her racing heartbeat eased.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

Matthew was crying.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

He'd already said plenty.

Enough to seal his fate.

“Let's see how you like being prisoner,” Victoria said. And a cold smile curved her lips. Justice, finally.

Maybe both Kennedy and Melissa would be able to rest in peace.

“T
HANK YOU,”
D
ACE
said as he offered his hand, first to Victoria, then to Wade. “The case just wasn't sitting right with me. I
knew
I was missing something, but my captain was yanking back. Telling me to close that shit down.”

“The case is closed now,” Victoria said, giving a quick nod.

Dace glanced toward the interrogation room. Matthew had already been taken out. “Sometimes, I wonder if I'm in the right place . . .”

Asher joined their little group. “Plane will be ready to leave within the hour.”

Dace's brows rose. “Another case?”

Asher slanted a quick glance at Victoria and Wade. “According to the boss, those two get a vacation. Maybe a honeymoon.”

Because I said yes.

“But my sister and I are about to get a crash course on all things LOST,” Asher added. “Time for us to jump in with both feet.”

Dace shook Asher's hand. “Good luck to you.”

The case was closed. The plane waited. Time to go, but . . .

“We could always use another good team member,” Victoria said to Dace. Because he hadn't given up on Kennedy. Or Melissa.

And he hadn't revealed my secrets, either.

Surprise flashed in the detective's eyes.

“If you ever think about getting into the private sector,” Wade added, “you should give us a call.”

Dace laughed, but his gaze held speculation. “I'm not a freaking Navy SEAL. I doubt I'm the kind of guy your boss would want to hire—­”

“Actually,” Wade told him, “you're exactly the kind of guy LOST needs. Think it over.”

Dace's head tilted down and he stared at the floor as he said, “Don't see how I'd be any good. I didn't find Kennedy. Didn't help her—­”

“You didn't give up on her,” Victoria said. “That's what matters. And maybe next time, you
will
bring the missing home.”

She felt Wade's gaze on her.

“Hope,” Victoria explained simply. “That's what this is about. Not just closing a case, but finding those victims. Giving the family hope.” Hope could be such a beautiful thing.

Wade had taught her that.

It was a lesson that she would never forget.

Her fingers curled with his and they walked out of the police station. Asher was right. They had a vacation coming. Maybe someplace tropical. And maybe . . . maybe while they were there, they'd even get married on a sunny beach.

Life was full of hope now. She saw it—­everywhere she looked.

Wade squeezed her fingers, and she knew, finally, that there would be no more desperate searching for her. No more fighting to keep her secrets hidden. She was safe. She was loved.

She was home . . . with Wade.

Exactly where she was supposed to be.

Are you addicted to the sexy and suspenseful novels

from
New York Times
best-­selling author

CYNTHIA EDEN?

Then you won't want to miss the next LOST novel!

TAKEN

Coming soon from Avon Books!

Read on for a sneak peek . . .

PROLOGUE

B
AILEY
J
ONES DIDN'T
want to die. Not tied up, tortured, and all alone in that damn little shack.

She couldn't feel her fingers. That should have scared her—­that terrible numbness—­but she was long past the point of being afraid. She was mad now. So fucking angry—­why had this happened? Why her? And, why,
why
wouldn't the jerk who held her just let her go?

Her face slid over the rough wooden floor of the cabin. She jerked at the rope that held her wrists, but it wouldn't give. She was sure she'd been bleeding from her wrists earlier, but had that stopped? Or maybe she was still bleeding—­from her wrists or from the slashes on her body. Bailey didn't know if the wounds still trickled blood.

She only knew . . . she'd been in that cabin for nearly three days. Light had come and gone, spilling through the window. Her lips were busted and raw, and her throat was sore—­scratched from screaming and bone dry because the bastard who'd taken her had only given her the tiniest sips of water. And no food, no food at all. No bathroom.

Just pain.

She inched across the floor, moving like a worm. If she could just get across the room, she'd be able to get out of the door. If she could get to that door, she could escape.

Her captor had made a mistake. After his last time using that knife on her . . . he'd thought that she passed out. Bailey had learned fast with that freak. He only liked to hurt her if she was awake. If she was unconscious . . . well, there must not be any damn fun in the act for him. He liked to see her suffer. Liked to make her beg.

Eleven slices of his knife . . . he'd been counting. He'd stopped after eleven, his breathing heaving, his body shaking. And when he stopped . . .

I just pretended to pass out. And that freak in the ski mask stormed out of the room.
In his haste, he'd left the door open. Oh, hell, yes, he'd left the door open. She'd gotten off the bed, fallen onto the floor—­and now—­she
was
getting out of this place. Her rage gave her the energy to keep moving. She'd get to the door. Get out and . . .

Her shirt snagged on a nail. Bailey froze. She hadn't even seen that nail but when she moved her body, she felt the head of that nail—­round and big—­sticking up from the floor. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs as excitement pumped through her blood. Bailey twisted her body and put the ropes that bound her wrists against that nail top. She jerked and sawed, moving as frantically as she could. Her breath keep rushing out in too hard pants, burning her lips and making her tongue feel even more swollen in her mouth.

I'll get out. I'll get away.

For the first twenty-­four hours, she'd thought she was trapped in a nightmare. That there was some mistake. She couldn't have woken up, tied and gagged in a dirty cabin. There couldn't have been some sick freak in a black ski mask who kept coming at her, slicing with his knife and laughing while she screamed.
None
of that could be happening, not to her.

Not . . . her.

She'd seen the stories on TV in the last few weeks. About women who'd vanished in the mountains of North Carolina. Their stories had been tragic. Their families pitiful as they begged for clues. She'd watched them and felt sympathy. Sorrow. But . . .

Those women had been strangers. Because things like
this . . .
stuff like this only happened to people you didn't know. Unfortunate people you saw on the news.

Not me. This can't happen to me.

But it had.

And I don't have any family to beg for me. No desperate parents to plead for my return . . . I lost them long ago.

Bailey was very much afraid she'd be losing her own life in that small cabin.

One minute, she'd been heading out of her Wednesday night freshman history class at the local college. It had been the last class she had to teach before spring break. She'd been at her car, her keys gripped tightly in her hand, and then—­

Then he hit me. Took me. I woke up in hell.

The ropes around her wrists gave way. Bailey choked out a sob as feeling surged back to her fingers—­pain. Burning, white hot pain. But as soon as that sob slipped from her mouth, she immediately bit her lower lip, terror clawing at her. Blood dripped down her chin from that busted lip.

Had he heard her cry?

Would he come back?

Bailey's whole body went tense as she waited. Waited. She heard the creak of footsteps, a sound that had her heart squeezing.

He's coming. He heard me. He's . . .

A scream seemed to echo all around Bailey. A woman's scream. Loud and long and desperate. Full of pain.

Bailey bit down harder on her bottom lip. She wasn't the one making that scream. Someone else was. Dear God, that freak in the ski mask had someone else in the cabin.

I'm not alone. He took another victim.

And when he'd stopped having his fun with Bailey, when she'd played possum with him, he'd turned his attention to that someone else.

Bailey jerked upright. Her fingers were slow and fumbling as she fought to free her ankles from the rope that bound them.

The scream died away.

She broke her nails on the rope. Jammed fingers that weren't working right.

Another scream—­

And the rope gave way. Bailey immediately jumped to her feet and tried to stride forward, but her legs collapsed beneath her. She crawled then, dragging herself toward the door. She had to get to that other woman. Had to help her. Bailey grabbed the door, prying it open a little more with her right hand. Every breath she took seemed incredibly loud to her, and she was afraid he would hear her.

I guess I'm not over the fear after all. Maybe I'll never be over it.

A peek in the hallway showed two other doors. One was shut. One open.

The screams were coming from behind the shut door.

He's in there with her.

Bailey rose again, shakily. She kept a hand on the wall as she inched toward that closed door. She had to find a weapon. Had to get something to use against that bastard.

Another scream had her wanting to cover her ears. It was so loud.

“
Help me! Please, help me!
”
the woman yelled. Begged. Pleaded. “
Please, dear God, someone help me!
”

And then Bailey heard the laughter. That taunting, snickering laughter that the bastard had made when he drove his knife into her. At that sickening sound, Bailey stopped thinking—­a primitive instinct took over her body. She lurched forward and threw open the door. “Leave her alone!” Bailey bellowed.

His back was to her. A woman was on the bed in front of him. A knife was in his hand. A bloody knife. The same knife he'd so gleefully used on Bailey.

“Coming to save her?” he whispered, his back still to Bailey. When he spoke, he always whispered. “Ah, Bailey . . . is that what you're doing? Coming to help her?”

The woman on the bed didn't move.

Bailey lunged at him. She didn't have a weapon, and there was nothing in that room to use. No lamps. No tables. The only furniture was that old bed—­the woman was on that bed. So Bailey attacked with her body. She went straight for him with a guttural cry.

He turned toward her, slicing with his knife, but Bailey didn't stop. The slice went right across her left arm. She barreled into him, crashing hard and they both hit the floor.

The knife slid from his hand, sliding across the wooden floor.

“Beautiful bitch,” he rasped at her. “I'll make you pay . . .”

She was on top of him, and Bailey kneed him, as hard as she could. When he howled, she smiled, stretching her bloody lips. She was so glad he was the one who got to enjoy some pain.

But then he hit her, driving his fist right at her cheek. She fell back, her body rolling across the floor.

And footsteps thudded in that little room. The woman on the bed—­she'd gotten up and she was running for the door. She hadn't been tied up like Bailey. She moved quickly, easily. Bailey saw her long, dark hair, her pale limbs, the blue of her shirt as it flashed by—­

“Wait,” Bailey gasped out, the word a weak croak. “Don't—­”

Leave me.

For an instant, the woman turned back toward her. Hope burst inside Bailey. Yes—­

The woman ran out of the room. Didn't look back again.

He was laughing again. Her abductor. Her killer?

“Trying to stop me . . .” he whispered. “Oh, sweet Bailey, I'll teach you . . .”

His hands went around her neck. Glove-covered hands. She felt the leather against her skin. Oddly soft. So soft as he began to choke her.

“I can do this until you pass out . . .”

“H-­h . . .” She was trying to say
help,
trying to call that woman back, but she couldn't get the word out. Not with his hands so tight around her.

“Then I'll tie you up again. I'll sharpen my knife . . . get it so that it can slice right through your skin . . .”

From the corner of her eye, Bailey saw the glint of the knife he'd dropped. Her right hand stretched for it. The knife was close. So very close . . .

“Still glad you tried to save her? Was she worth
your
life?”

The other woman had gotten away. Bailey couldn't hear her footsteps any longer.

“I'll take care of you,” he promised as black dots danced in front of her eyes. “
And her.
”

The knife. It was right there. She just had to reach it . . .

He squeezed harder. No air. No hope. No damn knife.

She couldn't reach it. But Bailey's right flew up toward him, and with the last of her strength, she ripped that mask off his face.

He stared down at her, as shock widened his eyes.

“No, Bailey . . .
no . . .
” And he almost seemed sad . . . as he kept choking the life right out of her.

B
AILEY'S EYES FLEW
open. She sucked in a desperate gulp of air, one, then another. Another. Her lungs burned and she coughed and choked.

I'm alive. I'm still alive.

Her hands flew out, and she touched—­dirt. The scent of dank earth filled her nostrils and she sat up fast, feeling pain cut through her—­her arms, her stomach and—­

Dirt is all around me.
Her grabbing hands closed around soft dirt and when Bailey looked up, she saw the glitter of stars above her. A thousand freaking stars.
I'm not in the cabin any longer.

But she didn't remember escaping. Didn't remember getting away from that bastard. He'd been choking her. The other woman had run, but Bailey hadn't. He'd caught her.

And . . . he'd tossed her into a hole? She sat up, but couldn't reach the top of that hole. Too deep. Bailey tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't hold her up, and when she grabbed at the sides of that hole again, the dirt just rained down on her.

Dogs were barking. She heard the sound distantly, and fear pulsed through her. Were those his dogs? Was this another game? Were the dogs going to attack her?

Bailey put her hand over her mouth so she wouldn't make a sound. She tasted the dirt that was on her fingers. Her tongue was so thick and swollen in her mouth. The nightmare wouldn't stop. Everything just kept getting worse and worse.

The barking was louder. Closer. The dogs were going to get her. Would they rip her apart? Bite and tear into her skin?

She curled into a ball in the middle of that hole, trying to make herself as small as possible. If she didn't move, if she didn't make a sound, maybe the dogs would leave her alone. They'd go away, and then she'd find some way out of there. She'd escape.

The other woman . . . where did she go? What happened to her?

But the dogs weren't going away. They were getting louder and louder. So close.

“Something's over here!” a man shouted. “Dirt. Oh, hell! A pile of it! Could be a body!”

Her head lifted.

“Get the lights!” Another voice. Another man. “Follow the dogs!”

The dogs . . .

Maybe they weren't there to hurt her. Maybe they were there to find her. Maybe the other woman . . . maybe she'd gotten away and sent help back to Bailey. “H-­help . . .” she whispered.

No . . . no sound had come from her lips. She'd tried to whisper but couldn't. Her throat was too raw. Her mouth too dry.

The lights were flashing over her hole. Not
in
the hole, but flying over the top of it. People were up there. She needed them to look down at her.

“
H-­help . . .
” Another voiceless whisper. Inside, she was screaming. Roaring for help. But she couldn't talk. She tried to stand up again, but her body wasn't listening to her, not anymore. Too long without water? Without food? Too much blood loss?

Her hands curled around fists of dirt.
Look down here. Look at me. Look!

A bright light hit her, falling straight into her face. It blinded her and she turned away.

“She's—­she's alive! We've got a live one here!” Excitement burned in that voice—­a voice with a heavy southern accent—­and then a man was there before her. He'd jumped into the hole, and he was reaching for her.

She flinched away.

“It's okay,” he told her quickly. “I'm a deputy. Deputy Wyatt Bliss. You're safe . . . we're gonna take care of you.”

Bailey wanted to believe him.

More lights fell on her. So bright. She looked up and she saw the shadowy figures of other people—­men and women. They surrounded the top of her hole now.

“Can you tell me your name?” He took his coat off, held it out to her. Was it cold? Was she supposed to take the coat?