The Last Straw (The Jigsaw Files #4) - Sharon Sala Page 0,45

pulled down her pants at the toilet and felt more glass in her knees, she stayed seated and by feel alone, began picking it out. She could feel blood on her fingers and on her knees, and got back up and washed herself off again, shaking from exhaustion.

Once she got back to her mattress, she crawled back into the corner, then sat with her knees pulled up beneath her chin, and her back against the wall. Her belly growled. From the rumble in her stomach, she guessed it had been more than twenty-four hours since Sonny’s last visit.

She knew she’d hurt him.

She hoped it was permanent.

And then she closed her eyes.

In time, her fever turned to chills, waking her again. She needed to find the blanket and began crawling around the mattress, trembling and shaking, and found the knife instead.

The feel of it in her hands gave her courage and strength of purpose, and so she tightened her grip and kept crawling and patting the mattress top until she felt the fuzzy warmth.

Clutching it to her as if she’d just found the Holy Grail, she wrapped the blanket around her, then curled up, making herself as small as she could, with the knife clutched tightly in both hands.

* * *

The leftover lasagna from Wyrick and Charlie’s dinner had long since been put away, and the dishes were done.

He was back examining the blueprints, and she was in the office. Except for the wind and rain blowing against the windows, the old mansion was quiet.

All of a sudden, Charlie heard Wyrick’s footsteps running up the hall toward him. Before he could react, she was standing in the doorway.

“You will not fucking believe what I just found!”

Charlie blinked. “I cannot believe you just said fucking.”

She shrugged. “I know more curse words. Do you want to hear them, or would you rather find Rachel Dean?”

“Sorry. It was just a surprise. Talk to me,” Charlie said.

“Rachel Dean is not the first woman to go missing from Detter House. She’s the fourth. Over a period of eleven years.”

“Holy shit! Why didn’t the police—?”

“I don’t think anyone’s connected the dots yet,” Wyrick said. “The first one who disappeared had no family. Same story, more or less with two more, and neither one of them had family who would have been concerned. But here’s the kicker. There hasn’t been any activity on their social security numbers since. Not job-wise or otherwise. Rachel Dean is the only one with a living family member who is raising a fuss.”

“Were they reported as missing persons?” Charlie asked.

Wyrick nodded. “Initially, yes, and then the cases were closed later after the women were supposedly accounted for.”

“We call Detective Floyd first thing tomorrow,” Charlie said.

“We also need to go back to Detter House tomorrow. Have you found anything on the old blueprints?” Wyrick asked.

“No, but that only means that if passages were built into the structure, they just didn’t want it known,” he said.

“Okay, then. We’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’m going to wash my hair and go to bed now,” Wyrick said and strode out of the room as abruptly as she’d arrived.

Wash her hair. Charlie sighed. She was the most aggravating, most intriguing, most brilliant woman he’d ever known. And she made him crazy, so there was that.

* * *

Preston Davis was resting easy now. The man he’d sent to Raver’s house had completed the task without issue. But Raver’s death also presented another problem. Now he was going to have to find another avenue to funnel his excess cash besides through his own bank. Compared to a lot of others in the business, Preston was small-time. He didn’t deal in military weapons, or anything in large quantities. Just weapons taken in robberies that needed to be fenced. He knew people. He’d figure it out. But for now he was backing off.

As it was nearing sunset, he poured himself a double shot of whiskey, picked up his handgun and carried them out onto the veranda. He liked rural Louisiana, just not the swampy parts, and he’d lived out here on his grandpa’s land for almost ten years now, ever since the old man’s passing, but there was always a snake somewhere waiting to be dispatched, and he hated snakes.

The old antebellum house was smaller than a mansion, but far grander than the simple houses in the surrounding area, and he’d spent most of his youth working for a stockbroker in Charleston before retiring here. He often missed the conveniences of the