A perfect time for killing.
A thrill curled down his spine. He recognized this new, fresh snowfall as an omen, a sign that things were nearly in place.
He waited a few more minutes, surveying the parking lot and icy streets, assuring himself that the sheriff hadn’t assigned another patrol to the theater. Finally, assured that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he returned to his work.
Shouldering the kid’s backpack, he started his descent, his steps quick and stealthy as he hurried ever downward. The musty, skeletal interior of the belltower sheltered him from the weather, its rickety, circular stairs groaning softly against his weight.
He didn’t stop until he reached the basement. It was an area he knew well.
He crept past old scenery stacked against a wall, down an aisle where makeup mirrors and lights were now darkened, and around a corner to a nearly forgotten storage area, hidden deep beneath the stage of the floor above.
His pulse pounded in anticipation as he reached the closet he considered his, a small, compact, dark space where he’d hidden behind a rack of folding chairs as a child. From this secret spot he’d heard the minister giving his loud sermons, felt the shuffle of feet overhead, listened to piano music, beautiful, tinkling notes of each hymn’s introduction before the choir or congregation began to sing so loudly he covered his ears.
This was his own private sanctuary, a cold, dim place where he could sequester himself, unknown to anyone. His closet. Rarely disturbed.
Now, wi
th his key, he opened the closet door, the musty air filtering out as he shined his penlight over the few boxes, crates, and trunks that had been stored and long forgotten. He flipped through his keys again, and finding the smallest on his ring, he unlocked one of the large trunks, a dusty crate no one seemed to notice.
He pushed.
The rounded top creaked open.
Electricity sang through his blood as his gaze landed on the barely breathing body stuffed inside. Unconscious. Unaware of her fate.
Just as he’d left her.
One small hand was visible, and he stared at her fingers. Not unlike Zoey’s, if he found the right rings to decorate them…He fixated on her ring finger and frowned when he noticed the wedding band and gaudy engagement ring. They would never do. Zoey was a single woman. He’d remove the band immediately, but as he stared at the finger, he imagined what he could do with it. A shiver of adrenaline swept through him, caused a tightening in his crotch.
Oh, yes. The finger was perfect.
“Come on, Zoey,” he whispered gently, dragging the small woman from her cramped confines. “It’s curtain time.”
CHAPTER 33
“…I was hoping that we could have dinner sometime,” Travis was saying as Jenna held the phone between her ear and shoulder. Forcing the corkscrew into a bottle of wine, she tried not to think about Shane Carter. From her rearview mirror, she’d watched Carter follow her home and hoped he’d turn into her driveway, but as the gates to her house had swung open, he’d driven past, his Blazer disappearing into the ever-worsening snowstorm. Disappointed, she’d come into the house, talked a few minutes to Turnquist and the kids, then finally, reluctantly, returned Travis Settler’s phone call. He hadn’t answered, but had called her back within ten minutes.
Dinner with him had suddenly lost a lot of its appeal.
Because of a country sheriff who doesn’t care about you when this man does? This smart, good-looking, single father who has a great sense of humor? And you’re pining for the lonesome lawman? Come on, Jenna, wake up!
She suggested, “Maybe you and Dani could come over once the roads are cleared. I could even cook, though my repertoire is pretty limited.”
“When the roads are cleared?” He laughed and again, because of the connection, she had the sensation that he was driving somewhere in this hideous storm. He hadn’t called her back from his house, but his cell phone. “When will that be? In May?”
“I was thinking more like a barbecue in July,” she joked back, relaxing a little as she stared out the window and worked on extracting the cork. Long icicles hung from the eaves and gusts of wind blew against the house, rattling the windows and sending the barely visible windmill slats spinning crazily. The wine cork popped and she poured herself a long-stemmed glass. “How about the Fourth?”
“I’ll check my calendar.” He paused, then added, “Looks good. You’re on. Remember, we already discussed hot beaches and drinks.”
She’d forgotten about the conversation. “That’s right.”
“So what about sometime sooner? Seriously, Jenna, I’d really like to see you. Without the girls. I was hoping that Cassie would babysit and you and I could go in to Portland. There’s a restaurant in the Hotel Danvers that’s supposed to be excellent.”
He sounded closer now, but that was probably a trick of the weather. She tasted her wine, then asked, “Where are you?”
Was there just a beat of hesitation?
“In my truck, trying to get home.”