Last Girls Alive (Detective Katie Scott #4) - Jennifer Chase Page 0,97

the staircase, she caught a whiff of stagnant air mixed with mold. It was a shame that they were going to demolish the house and not keep it for historical purposes—maybe a museum, or even a bistro. It was too late now.

There was a thud, so she stopped. Her first instinct was that something in the house wasn’t sturdy—but her footing was solid and, glancing around, nothing appeared to be falling in on her.

She grabbed the ornate wrought-iron railing and continued upstairs. When she reached the landing, it was vacant. There were several pieces of odd beige paper scattered on the floor.

“Shane?” she said. “Hey, where are you?”

Katie scanned the room suspiciously and slowly bent down and picked up one of the papers. It was a journal entry, dated 1897, in fancy cursive handwriting.

Abigail has now joined her sister Greta in the garden. I don’t know why God needed these two children, but they are in better hands now. May my sweet, precious girls rest in peace. I love you forever, Mommy.

“Wow,” said Katie. “This is amazing.” It appeared to be the journal of Emily Von Slovnick.

Another entry:

We rarely look at one another. I know he doesn’t blame me for the stillborns but his eyes never look into mine. I don’t know how much longer I can take this…

“How sad,” said Katie. She gathered all the papers together, wondering why they were on the floor if they were so valuable, and then decided to take some photos first.

Someone walked up behind her.

“Oh, these are fantastic, Shane, but I don’t know if it will help in the investigation,” she said and stood up.

“Don’t move, Detective,” the stern voice ordered.

She turned to see Jerry Weaver, the social worker, pointing a gun at her face. “Drop your weapon.”

Katie shook her head to indicate she didn’t have one. She was stunned by the change in appearance of the fumbling, goofy social worker she met just days ago. His eyes were steely, hardened, and his movements were deliberate. Hundreds of questions flooded her mind—all while she was trying to keep her wits about her. Her thoughts raced in fast forward.

“Do it,” he said. “I know you have a weapon.” He walked to a closet. “Let me make this easier for you.” He opened the door and inside was Shane, his body doubled over to his side, tied with his hands behind his back, and he appeared to be unconscious. “I will put a bullet in his incompetent brain if you don’t relinquish your weapon… Detective,” he said with hate-filled venom.

“Okay, take it easy,” Katie said. Slowly, she opened her jacket, revealing her Glock in its holster. She unsnapped it. At first, she thought she could overpower Jerry Weaver, but after watching him, she decided it wasn’t a good idea.

“Do it, Detective,” he said again, never changing the tone to his voice.

She dropped her gun but made sure it was still within fighting distance. “You know it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Like what?” he said. “It’s going to be what I say it is.” He picked up the gun.

“Where’s Tanis?”

“Safe.”

Shane began to stir and expressed low moans. There was blood seeping from his scalp from where he had been struck.

“Look, let him go. He doesn’t know anything about what I know,” she said, testing him.

Laughing, he said, “You’re not going to analyze me, convince me, change my mind, relate to me, or walk away alive. Is that clear enough for you?”

Trying to ignore the rage that was simmering just below the surface in Jerry, she said, “Oh, I get it. It’s very clear to me now. Thanks for clearing that up.”

Jerry scaled back his anger slightly and took two steps from Shane and then back to Katie. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what, Jerry?” She knew that she was walking a very thin line with his psychological disturbance, but some things were becoming quite clear.

He stopped moving but the gun was still aimed at Katie’s head.

“Go ahead and mock me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Why don’t you tell me,” she said trying to decipher his movements and the intent behind them. “Or maybe I’ve heard it all before. Bad home life, mommy didn’t love me, I’m so misunderstood.”

He twitched. She’d touched a nerve.

“So maybe you just decided to make up a world where you are important? You immersed yourself in a fantasy about being in charge, about taking care of yourself and being a hunter-gatherer. But why did it have to be in