“We know where Charles Lancaster is.”
My blood instantly heats. Charles is one of the adults who escaped Sweet Haven. His wife was one of the ones I killed that night. He was already gone with their eight-year-old daughter, Melody, when I made it to their house, or he would have suffered the same fate. Their daughter was never located, and we often wondered what happened to her. I have no doubt her abuse continued after they left. People like Charles don’t change just because they aren’t able to easily get away with it anymore.
“Where?” I growl, clenching my fists on my thighs. The key calls to me, but I ignore it.
“Small town in Nebraska.”
“Are you talking about Charles from Sweet Haven?” Rella interjects.
Trouble looks at her. “Yes. We’ve been hunting him for years. He’s a slippery fucker.”
“You got an address?”
He brings his eyes back to me. “Yes. JW’s supposed to be sending the address any minute now. You in?”
“Yes.”
“Wait.” Rella turns in her seat toward me. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Rella, these bastards need to be put down. God only knows how many people he’s hurt over the years and how many more he’ll hurt in the future.”
She nods, looking at Trouble. “I agree.” Her eyes narrow. “He had a daughter, didn’t he? Melody was her name.”
“Yes,” I answer, unable to hide the acrimony from my tone.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“No. She fell off the grid once he took her from Sweet Haven.”
She frowns. “Are you going to look for her?”
“We’ve been trying to find her already,” Trouble answers. “But yes, we plan to interrogate him to find out what happened to her.”
She nods solemnly. “Good.” She clasps her hands in her lap, looking from Trouble to me. “Do me a favor.” I tip my chin up. “Make him suffer.”
A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, Trouble and I approach the back door to the run-down house. I pull out my kit and start working on unlocking the door. It comes as no surprise that there’s no alarm on this piece-of-shit house. Hell, the structure is barely standing, just like all the other shitty houses on this street.
Apparently, Charles Lancaster has had shit luck since he left Sweet Haven all those years ago.
The door pops open, and Trouble quietly walks in first. All of the lights are off except the kitchen light. When we first arrived, we looked in as many windows as we could and found no sign of Charles. We know he’s here—his car’s in the driveway—so he must be upstairs.
Our steps are silent as we make our way across the kitchen and living room. We both stop at the bottom of the stairs. There’s no fucking way they won’t creak as we walk up them, which will probably alert Charles to our presence.
Having no other choice, I take the stairs two at a time, ready to get this shit started and over with. Reaching the top with Trouble beside me, I stop and listen. I glance at Trouble when we don’t hear a sound. There’s no way Charles didn’t hear us coming up the stairs. He should be barreling out of a room to find out what the noise was. Or maybe he’s a pussy and he’s hiding.
There’s only one way to go, so I lift my chin to the first closed door. Trouble takes point, grabs the handle, and pushes it open. It’s a small spare bedroom; the only thing inside is a bare mattress and box spring and a small dresser in a corner. No closet.
We move to the next door. My body tenses as I grab the doorknob and twist. Stepping inside, I come to a halt, my eyes fixed on the bed and
the dead body lying on top of it. Charles is face up, eyes wide open, with a bullet hole between his eyes.
“Shit,” Trouble mutters, walking over to the bed. He presses two gloved fingers to his neck, then shakes his head. “No pulse, but he’s still warm, so he hasn’t been dead long.”
“Fuck.” I rake my fingers through my hair and turn in place, looking around the room for any clues on what happened and finding none.
“There’s residue around the wound, which indicates close range,” Trouble states. “His eyes are open, indicating he was awake when the shot was fired, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Son of a bitch,” he mumbles and takes a step back from the bed, wrinkling his nose. “He shit himself, so either he had a weak bowel, or he was so scared he lost his shit. Literally.”