“Say you’re sorry, Sonny,” she demanded coldly. “Right now.”
Say you’re sorry. Sorry? She should be sorry, not me. She’s ruined everything. She always ruins everything. I’m going to get caught. I’m going to lose everything.
His anger began to grow, overshadowing the fear, the panic. “You say it,” he snarled.
Her face blanched and she took a step back. “Sonny,” she snapped. “Watch your tone with me.” She softened her voice, but he could hear the fear in it. “Just apologize and it’ll all be fine.”
“No.” He shook his head, advancing on her, step by step, watching comprehension fill her eyes. Watching her shrink back as his good hand shot out to shove her backward. She stumbled, falling onto the bed when the backs of her knees hit the frame.
And then he was on her, holding her down with his left elbow and one knee, pounding into her face with his right fist. She screamed, long and loud, and he slapped her.
She fell back, her mouth open in shock. “Sonny,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
What I should have done sixteen years ago, he thought, but he said nothing because he was gritting his teeth, his hand tight around her throat. Watching her eyes grow wide, then bulge. Watching her mouth fall open as she tried to suck in air.
Watching her die. Finally.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 10:50 P.M.
What if she leaves? What if she’s gone when I get there? Gideon bit back what would have been a snarl for Agent Hunter to drive faster. The man was already speeding and the last thing they needed was to have a traffic accident.
Agent Hunter had been pretty cooperative, all things considered. He’d balked a little at having Frederick carrying a weapon in the front seat with him, despite the fact that he still had a valid California concealed carry permit—until Frederick had put him on the phone with one of his friends in the Baltimore field office. Special Agent Joseph Carter had personally vouched for Frederick’s character and marksmanship. After Carter had bitched about being woken up at one fifteen in the morning.
All that had taken precious time they could have been using to drive to Rafe’s house, where Mercy—hopefully—still waited, but Frederick had made his presence a requirement for Daisy’s. And I need her here with me.
Gideon’s initial response had been no way in hell was she coming with him, but he was grateful she hadn’t listened to him. She sat quietly in the seat beside him now, holding his hand.
No one had said much as they’d sped down the interstate, and now that they were turning onto Rafe’s street, all Gideon could think was that Mercy had come.
She’s here. She came. She really came.
Hunter slowed as they approached Rafe’s old Victorian and Gideon frowned. A blue sedan was parked on the curb, but the driver’s-side door was open. Hunter pulled the SUV into Rafe’s driveway and Gideon was out before the vehicle had fully stopped.
Mercy was here. She was still here. She was . . . kneeling on the ground near the curb in front of the blue sedan. A dog sat next to her on the sidewalk.
SUV doors opened behind him, Frederick barking at Daisy to be careful.
“Oh my God,” Daisy whispered from behind him. “Is that . . . ? Yeah, it is. That’s George, the dog from Saturday. His dog, Gideon.”
Both Gideon and Frederick grabbed her arms, keeping her from walking to the dog. The dog showed no fear, leaping up to run to Daisy, tail wagging.
Mercy’s head whipped around. She was on the phone, giving someone the address. Her eyes met Gideon’s and it was like looking in a mirror.
Like looking back thirteen years when he’d found her in foster care. She hadn’t changed that much. Her face was fuller, her hair longer. But it was her. Here. For me.
“I called 911,” she said, forgoing any greeting in true Mercy fashion.
Releasing Daisy’s arm, Gideon moved to Mercy’s side, where a woman lay on the ground, curled into the fetal position. “Who is she?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know. I was sitting here, waiting for you, when she kind of staggered down the sidewalk. I thought she was drunk or homeless or both. The dog kept running a few feet ahead, then running back to her, all the way down the block. And then the dog just sat in front of your house. She caught up, and when he didn’t go any farther, neither did she. I think she was trying to ask me for help. She’s alive, but not making sense.”
Gideon knelt beside the woman, whose face was bruised and battered, her lip split. She was somewhere in her twenties with dirty blond hair. She was shaking uncontrollably and muttering under her breath.
“She’s not wearing any shoes, Gideon,” Mercy murmured.
Mercy was right. The woman’s feet were cut and bleeding. It wasn’t cold enough to freeze her extremities, but it wasn’t warm enough to be barefoot.
Hunter appeared with a blanket and covered the woman carefully. “Why does she have the suspect’s dog?” he asked.
“Damn good question,” Gideon said. He sensed Daisy behind him and looked over his shoulder. Frederick stood behind her, shielding her as his gaze constantly searched for danger. “Are you sure that’s the same dog from the adoption clinic, Daisy?”
She stood next to Gideon, her leg pressed against his uninjured shoulder. “Well, pretty sure. He seems to remember me.”
Mercy looked up at Daisy. “You’re the one who called me.”
Daisy nodded once. “Yes.” Then she smiled at Mercy. “And you came.”
Mercy nodded and dropped her eyes back to the muttering woman. “I can’t figure out what she’s saying. It sounds like names and places, but it doesn’t make sense.”
Gideon dipped his head, angling his ear closer, trying to listen.
“DeVeen, Rosamond,” the woman muttered. “Minnesota.”
Gideon sucked in a breath, instantly recognizing the name. “Oh my God,” he murmured.
Daisy dropped to her knees. “What?”
“Listen to what she’s saying,” he said, his heart beating harder. “Names, Daisy.”
“Borge, Delfina. California,” the woman continued. “Oliver, Makayla. New York.”
Daisy’s gaze jerked to meet his. “Makayla Oliver was one of the women with letters carved into her body. She lived in Niagara Falls.”
Gideon nodded grimly. “Delfina Borge owned the beige sedan. Her body was never found.”
They bent low to hear more just as the woman muttered, “Danton, Eileen. Oregon. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.”
“Oh.” Daisy’s hand was over her mouth. “Trish. And Eileen. Gideon, I’m sorry.”
He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He’d known chances were that Eileen was dead, but . . . he’d still hoped.
Daisy frowned. “Wait. Kaley Martell. That’s the prostitute who went missing Thursday night. Rafe’s case, remember? I read the report Nina Barnes did on her after I talked to her Friday.”
“The one with the sick little girl,” Gideon whispered. “Holy hell.”
“Gideon?” Mercy asked hesitantly. “What about Eileen? What’s going on here?”
Gideon turned to find his sister’s eyes wary. “There’s so much to explain here, Mercy, but . . . I’m pretty sure that she’s dead.”
“Shh.” Agent Hunter had his cell phone next to the woman’s face. “Hold this. She’s talking again.”
Daisy did as he asked while Hunter rose, on full alert. Frederick, to his credit, didn’t need to be brought up to speed. “The names are his victims?” he asked softly.
Gideon nodded, standing when he heard sirens. He held his hand out to Mercy, who stared at it as if it would bite her. Finally, she took his hand and let him help her to her feet. He led her to the sidewalk, so that Daisy could record the woman’s utterances without their interference.
“I have a lot to tell you,” he said quietly. “But . . .” He swallowed hard. “I’m so damn glad you came.”
She dropped her gaze to her feet. “I should have come a long time ago.”
“No should’ve’s, okay?” He touched her cheek briefly. “Will you stay for a little while? I need to try to talk to this woman.”
She nodded, glancing up for only a second before studying her shoes again. “Yes.”
He squeezed her hand awkwardly. “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave, okay?”
“I won’t.” One side of her mouth lifted. “I promise.”
“Okay.” He returned to where Daisy was handing the phone back to Agent Hunter.
“She was just saying the same few names again,” Daisy explained. “I recognized some of them. Gideon, where did she come from?”
“That’s my question.” He bent closer. “Ma’am, what is your name?”
She blinked at him, her eyes empty. “Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.”
Daisy gently touched the woman’s shoulder through the blanket. “Hey,” she said softly, her husky voice like a caress. “You’re safe now. We won’t hurt you. These men are with the FBI. We’ll keep you safe, and an ambulance is coming. Will you tell us your name?”