“That’s for my mom,” she said. She pulled the trigger again. “And that’s for my dad. Both of them.”
Still he didn’t go down. Raine took a step toward him, pulled the trigger again. “And that one’s for Roane, you son of a bitch.”
He went down. Bailey heard the scream of sirens. Raine must have, too, but she crossed to stand directly over him. His eyes were open. Each shallow breath he took made a gurgling sound.
“Stop, Raine,” Bailey said. “He can’t hurt us now. Please just put the gun down. Please.”
Raine shook her head, adjusted her aim. “He’s a monster. He deserves to die.”
“Raine—”
“And that’s for August,” she said, squeezing the trigger. “And these … are for me.”
She fired again and again, emptying the chamber, then let the gun slip from her fingers. It hit the floor with a thud just as Rumsfeld, Carlson and a half-dozen other sheriff’s deputies burst into the room.
EPILOGUE
Thursday, December 25
11:59 A.M.
Bailey came awake to a tiny, insistent whimpering. She cracked open her eyes. The bright light stung them and she blinked, moving her gaze. Taking in the bed with its stainless steel rails and scratchy sheets. The hospital, she remembered. She’d come in last night.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
Logan in the chair by the bed. A pink bundle in his arms.
“Merry Christmas.” She smiled. “How is she?”
“They just brought her in. Hungry, I think. Rooting around for something I can’t help with.”
Bailey raised the bed and held out her arms. A moment later he carefully laid Lizzie in her arms, then bent and kissed her. “Best Christmas present ever.”
She was. Pink and perfect. They’d named her Elisabeth after his mother; if she’d been a boy, they’d have chosen his father’s name.
Bailey gazed at her as she nursed, only able to drag her gaze away to look at her husband. To drink in his joy.
In the months since Paul’s death, there had been some dark days. Days so deep and black Bailey had worried he might not emerge.
As the bodies had been unearthed. When they had realized most of their questions would never be answered: Why those young women? How had Paul killed them? Had Paul strangled them, the way he had Nicole Grace? Had they fought for their lives, or had the tranquilizers he’d administered stolen their ability? Had Abbott Farm been the scene of the crimes or simply a place for Paul to bury his dead?
The sheriff’s office had found traces of blood, revealed by Luminol, in the washtub and dryer in the barn; and in the medicine closet every equine sedative available. And ketamine. Bailey had wondered, that late night she went looking for Logan at the barn, when Paul had acted so strange about that room, had Paul been disposing of evidence?
Another thing they would never know.
The darkest day had come with True’s remains being identified. Then, her funeral, which all of Wholesome had turned out for. When Billy Ray had given his statement in court, never apologizing, still blaming Logan in his own twisted mind.
Ironic that Billy Ray had been right about so much. Everything but the guilty party. The victims, Logan’s mother’s death, the location of the bodies. Everything but the guilty party. His hatred of Logan—and his own troubled past—had blinded him to the real destroyer.
Then Logan had cried out to her, heart stripped bare, begging to know how to forgive, how to move on and start over. Her reply had been simple: one day at a time.
So that’s what they all had concentrated on. Not on Paul, who had been a dark force destroying their lives from within, but on the moment. The song of birds and rustle of leaves, burgeoning baby bumps and the smell of cookies baking. Silly dog antics and long, drugging kisses. Every so often the darkness still descended, though the times between such episodes grew longer.
At the tap on the door they both looked up. Raine with a huge teddy bear and Stephanie with flowers. Both beaming with happiness.
“Can we come in?”
In the next minute, the room was filled with exclamations of joy. While the two women cooed over Lizzie, Bailey met Logan’s eyes. In them she no longer saw shadows of the past. Instead, she saw the future. Their future, bright and beautiful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author ERICA SPINDLER has written thirty novels, including Justice for Sara, Watch Me Die, Blood Vines, Breakneck, and Last Known Victim. She lives just outside New Orleans, Louisiana, with her husband and two sons. Sign up for email updates here.