Tony moved to the side of the bed, careful of the bloody rug on the floor. He touched the vic’s neck. No pulse. The body was cold, the blood coagulated. Lividity confirmed that he’d died right where he lay. Judging by the stage of rigor Tony estimated he’d been dead eight to ten hours, which put time of death between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. The lack of blood in the area of his pelvis, as well as the mess on the bedside rug, suggested someone had been straddling him when he was stabbed, and then cleaned their feet or hands on the rug.
Arms were stretched toward the headboard, colorful silk scarves secured his wrists there. All signs indicated the victim had sex just before his death.
Surveying the floor carefully before each step, Tony moved around the room. The killer had apparently taken the murder weapon with her—or him.
“It’s him.”
Joanna took a step toward the bed.
Tony held up a hand. “I told you not to move.”
She pointed at the victim’s face. “He’s the man who talked me into meeting him at that bar.” She shook her head. “We had a drink, and then I don’t remember anything else. It’s him.”
Tony backed up a couple of steps, pulled out his cell and took a pic of the victim. “It’s been eighteen years. How can you be sure? You told the police you went to a bar alone.” He studied her face for tells. “You said you didn’t know who drugged you.”
“I lied. I didn’t want my family to know what I’d done.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I was afraid to tell anyone the truth about what happened.” She stared at the dead man in the bed. “It’s him.”
“Go back outside. Get in the car and stay there. I have to call this in.”
When she’d done as he asked, he moved back into the hall. Only a couple of droplets of blood but those few indicated the unknown subject was headed for the bathroom.
Had his murderer also attempted to destroy any evidence that might have been on those hard drives?
Tony stared back into the bedroom at the dead man on the bed. “Fuck.”
His cell vibrated. He heaved a weary breath, dragged it from his pocket and checked the screen. The text message from Chief Phelps was a pic of the sketch artist’s rendering of the man Riley Fallon had seen with Tiffany. Tony looked from the screen to the dead man on the bed.
Damn, he had needed this guy alive.
15
Day One
Eighteen years ago...
I made a terrible, terrible mistake.
I only wanted to be like everyone else. To fit in. What was so wrong with that?
I made a mistake.
The room is dark. I can’t see a thing. It’s so cold. I can’t stop shivering. I don’t understand what happened. Beer and wine tastes awful to me so I rarely drink. I didn’t overindulge last night. No way. I remember the one drink, a cosmopolitan. I shouldn’t have a hangover like this. I feel disoriented. My mouth is dry and I feel so sick. There was something wrong with that drink.
This is wrong—a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.
Don’t fall apart, Jo.
I feel my way around the dark, cold space on my hands and knees. My clothes are missing and so is my virginity. I hurt inside and down there between my legs. There’s something dried on my thighs. Don’t know if it’s semen or blood. Maybe both.
I made a terrible, terrible mistake.
I crawl over the dark place, back and forth, back and forth, until I’m as sure as I can possibly be that there are no holes or traps to step into, so I stand. My father taught me this. He’s always working on that old house we call home. The leaky roof or the sagging floors. I remember him moving slow and cautious over the place he needed to repair to make sure there were no surprises before he set to the task. He laughed and said, “I fell through a floor once. Don’t have no desire to repeat the indignity.”
I’m so sorry, Daddy. I really screwed up.
I have to find a way out of here. I can do this. I’m smart. Just focus, Jo. The walls feel smooth and cold like the floor. I walk around and around the black space. It’s completely black. Not even a hint of light. Strange.
There is no one or nothing else in the room or whatever it is. Only me. Me. Not the same me who stupidly flirted with an older guy I didn’t even know but a bruised and damaged me.
Joanna Guthrie, you are in deep trouble.
My family will be so disappointed.
I made a terrible, terrible mistake.
That’s when I start to scream for help.
16
2:00 p.m.
Cops were everywhere.
LeDoux had told Jo to stay in the car. She had for a while, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. Digging her sunglasses from her bag to shield as much of her face as possible, she walked the length of the car to stretch her legs. Impatience and frustration had her nerves jumping. She needed to walk off the tension.
Stay close to the car, Jo. Too many reporters way too close for her comfort. If they thought there was a story—and clearly they did—they’d be going long for any shot they could get. She knew the drill. Though she had never worked a live crime scene, her research assistant had told her plenty of war stories.
Uniformed cops moved from door to door canvassing the neighbors. Apartment 216 was blocked off as best as possible considering the residents of the one occupied apartment beyond it needed to be able to come and go via the same stairs and corridor. A uniformed officer was posted on either side of the door to the victim’s apartment. A strategically placed patrol car and two more officers prevented anyone other than residents from entering the parking lot.
While Jo studied the fray the coroner’s van turned in from the street running parallel to the building. She leaned against the car and watched the coroner and his assistant hop out of the van. They pulled the gurney from the van, placed a medical case and body bag atop it and headed for the stairs. Neither was wearing a white lab coat or scrubs or even uniforms for that matter. The two men, one midfifties and black, the other early twenties and white, were dressed in everyday clothes. Wash-and-wear trousers, dark in color, and polos. She couldn’t say for sure but a small logo might have been embroidered on the left front panel of their shirts where a pocket would have been.
A forensic unit as well as two suits, no doubt feds or maybe GBI, had joined the party. The chief, Ed Buckley, from Georgia College security, had arrived. Jo had seen his picture on the website. She figured the two other guys with him were from Milledgeville PD. So far none had questioned her or really even noticed her for that matter.
Suited Jo. She had what she wanted.
Miles Conway was dead.
She had wished him dead a million times. She’d learned his identity and kept tabs on him via the internet all these years the same way she had Madelyn Houser until she seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. Now Jo knew why. She had become Hailey Martin.
The one issue with Conway’s death was the unfortunate detail that Jo didn’t get the name she needed.
There was still Madelyn. She wasn’t innocent in this. She knew things. Jo had seen it in her eyes when she realized Jo recognized her from back in the day.
Oh yes, she was as guilty as sin.
Jo should have come back here and done this ten years ago or even five like she wanted. For the first few years after their escape, release—whatever it had been—she hadn’t wanted to think about it much less talk about it. Neither she nor Ellen then had been mentally capable of breaking their silence. Jo had hidden from life, burrowed deep into nowhere. Eventually though, the guilt had started to gnaw at her. How could she let the people who did this over and over get away with it?