“Okay,” she said.
He kissed her forehead. “Thanks.”
She frowned when he turned and headed for the stairs. Ever since he’d come back into her life she’d been holding back, afraid to get too close too fast. Not having him around for the past six weeks, though, had made her realize that not only did she need him; she wanted him to be a part of her life. “Leaving already?”
“My night is only just beginning. Talk to Olivia in the morning—will you?”
“I will.”
“Lock up behind me.”
She followed him down the stairs. “Stay safe,” she told him before shutting and locking the door.
Erin woke up shivering again. It was dark. She could hear the sprinklers and droplets of water hitting the outside of the box.
Hot during the day. Cold at night. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
She was always thirsty. She couldn’t remember if she’d gone twenty-four hours without water or forty-eight. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She’d read somewhere that a person could live three days without water.
The smell inside her confined space was becoming unbearable. But that was the least of her worries. She dragged the coin against the decaying wood, back and forth, back and forth.
Scraping, scraping, scraping.
Crack.
Had that really happened?
Did the wood just crack?
It did. It did. It did. Be careful. Do not drop the coin.
Despite losing a few pounds since being thrown in the box, moving her arm from her side to the top of her stomach was still a tight squeeze. But she did it. Very carefully she placed the coin snugly atop her belly button, then moved her arm back to her side and used the tips of her fingers to push against the wood where she’d been working. One of her fingers poked through decayed wood.
She stifled a giggle.
Stop it.
She couldn’t allow herself to get overly excited. Not yet. Too early.
She pulled and dug at the wood until two of her fingers slid through the hole. The tips of dewy grass brushed against her fingertips as a lone tear slid down her cheek.
Early the next morning, Jessie sat at the kitchen table across from Olivia and looked through Zee’s Polaroid pictures, examining each one closely while Olivia read Zee’s journal.
“It’s says here,” Olivia said, “that Zee hears voices in her head. The voices even have names. Lucy is the most outspoken and is easily angered. Marion is the clever one, the one who knows how to make potions and put spells on people. And Francis is the troublemaker.”
“She has schizophrenia,” Jessie said without looking up. “You should be working on your report.”
“I am. This is research. If I can help you solve the case, then I’ll be able to relate with Sherlock Holmes, which will make it so much easier to write my paper. And since I’ll be helping you for the next few days, you can think of me as a consulting detective.”
Jessie rolled her eyes.
“Sherlock was known for his keen observation,” Olivia said. “We have to be sure to look at every detail. We must look at every word she wrote and every item in that box as a clue.”
Jessie ignored her as she examined the picture in her hand closely and then set it aside after failing to see anything unusual. She was careful with the dried flower petals as she sifted through the box. She put all the photos with scribbled, hard-to-decipher words in the margins to the side. At the bottom of the box were two pictures that were stuck together, image to image. Zee must have piled them together before giving the ink a chance to dry. She peeled them slowly apart, careful not to ruin the photos.
Olivia left the table to grab a snack and a glass of milk. When she returned she stood looking over Jessie’s shoulder and pointed at one of the pictures Jessie had put to the side. “Those are supercool sunglasses she’s wearing in the photo.”
Jessie looked closer. The cat-eye sunglasses were lined with tortoise shell. Zee definitely appeared to have a unique fashion style.
Olivia picked up the picture. “Look at that! You can see a reflection of a guy in her sunglasses. Do you think that’s Zee’s boyfriend?”
Jessie frowned. She hadn’t seen anyone but Zee in the pictures. “What guy?”
“The guy taking the picture. Here. Look.”
Jessie examined the photo. The man’s reflection was hard to see at first glance, but it was there. Her heart thumped inside her chest. Olivia was right. It looked like a young man holding the camera. “With the sun shining on him,” Jessie commented, “his reflection is sort of distorted, and his face looks kind of blurry.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“What is he wearing?”
“Looks like a pair of jeans,” Olivia said. “And a short-sleeved blue-collared shirt.”
“No, not a short-sleeved shirt, but long sleeves rolled up to his elbows,” Jessie amended, her face pressed close to Olivia’s as they both stared at the picture. “I’d say his hair is light brown and short.”
Olivia agreed. “He could be anybody,” she said. “I mean, there’s nothing about him that stands out. We can’t see his eyes or his nose. It’s almost impossible to tell how tall he is. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“It’s a place to start.”
“What do you do now?”
“I’m going to have this image blown up, and then I’m going to show it to people living in the Gatleys’ neighborhood and see if anyone recognizes him. But first I need to show it to Zee’s father.”
“Cool. Why don’t you make two copies? That way we can show twice as many people in the same amount of time.”
“We?”
“I want to go with you. I’ll have plenty of time later to work on my report. Please?”
Jessie thought about leaving Olivia at home, but then she was reminded of the look on Colin’s face the last time she’d seen him. Only a few blocks away, a woman had been taken from her home. Olivia was coming with her.
“Fine,” Jessie said. “I’m going to get ready. Then we’ll take Higgins for a walk around the block before we go.”
“I can take him.”
“No. I want to go with you. We’ll go together.”
TWENTY-FOUR
When Colin walked into the crime lab, Evelyn Klein, longtime friend and forensic pathologist, was waiting for him. They both wore blue, ankle-length, long-sleeve surgical gowns, shoe covers, and latex gloves.
On the steel table in front of Evelyn was Garrett Ramsey, his pale, ashy flesh stretched tautly over bone. His feet were swollen, blackening; his eyes were bulging, marked by severe trauma; and his throat stretched and circled with a reddish-purple welt.
“His expression says it all,” Evelyn said.
Colin nodded as he continued his own examination. The burn marks on Garrett Ramsey’s legs were easy to identify, same with the markings made from a whip or belt across his abdomen. He pointed to the bloody holes in the man’s hands. “Any idea what caused those?”
“Looks like nails.” She picked up a hand to show him that the hole went clear through. “This man was tortured in every way imaginable. These stab wounds,” she said, her gloved finger following the path along the length of his arm, “were made postmortem.” She sighed. “This is what I do every day. I thought I’d seen it all. But this nonsensical mutilation after a body has already begun to decompose is beyond comprehension. Plainly put,” she went on, “we’ve got one sick fuck out there roaming the streets, and I’ll be sleeping with one eye open.”
“What about the twins?”
“One of them was hung by the feet. That would have been a slow, painful death. The other girl looks a lot like this man. Poked and prodded, burned and mutilated with multiple objects. We’ll know more later, but it’s my opinion the twins have been dead over a month. Some of the injuries had time to heal; others were newer, which tells me, based on the dates they were reported missing, they were tortured continuously during their captivity. Once they passed, their bodies were preserved in cold storage before the final staging.”