the wind as Derrick pulled into Ellie’s driveway, where her Jeep sat. He said a silent prayer that she was safe inside, curled up asleep and hadn’t yet gotten his messages. Despite his gut instinct telling him otherwise, hope flared in him.
Removing his gun from his holster, he eased toward her vehicle. A quick look inside indicated nothing looked amiss. Checking out the surrounding property, he moved onto her porch. The storm clouds were thickening above him, casting shadows onto the rising mountains behind her house. The wind had intensified, trees bowing and limbs cracking off and thundering to the ground. The flowerpot had blown over, spilling soil, and dirt fluttered through the air.
He twisted the doorknob, and the door opened. Not a good sign.
Holding his breath, he eased inside. The sound of a clock ticking echoed in the tense silence. The floor creaked and wind whistled through the eaves as he entered. “Ellie, are you here?” Just the sound of the windowpanes rattling. “Ellie?”
Gun at the ready, he strode into the kitchen, but no one was there. An empty coffee mug sat on the counter, a half full bottle of vodka on the bar.
Unease burned within him as he crept toward the bedrooms. The guest one was empty. In Ellie’s room, Derrick saw with horror that there were three dresses laid out on the bed, as if the killer had been deciding which one she should be laid to rest in. One was a bright fuchsia with ruffled sleeves. The second, an orange low-cut number, and the third, a leopard-skin print. None of the outfits looked anything remotely like Ellie would wear, which meant the killer had brought them here.
A cold knot of fear seized him when he glanced at the closet door. It was ajar, blood spattered all over the floor.
Then he saw the daffodils. Dozens of the petals strewn across the floor like a yellow river.
One Hundred Thirty-Four
Pacing the front porch, Derrick made phone calls while he waited on the crime scene team.
“Ellie dropped McClain at Crooked Creek Police Station, then was headed home,” Captain Hale said.
“McClain is still there?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“The Weekday Killer has Ellie.” He relayed his conversation with Kennedy Sledge.
“It can’t be Finton, then, or McClain. They’re both still in custody.”
Dammit. It wasn’t Finton or McClain or Waters. It wasn’t one of the people who’d sent hate mail to her father. It wasn’t Vinny Holcomb; he was dead. And Hiram was still in prison.
“What other enemies has Ellie made?” he asked.
“A few meth dealers and a couple of wife beaters. I’ll check into all of them and see what I can find out.”
“Dr. Sledge mentioned something about a woman named Cathy. She said he called all the women Cathy and that he blames Ellie for everything. Could be a girlfriend or an ex or even his mother, I guess.”
“The name Cathy doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll get right on it.”
“Has she busted up an illegal dog-fighting operation?” asked Derrick.
“No, why?”
Derrick explained about the dog collars, and the barking Kennedy had heard.
“I’ll keep that in mind as I search her old cases,” Captain Hale said. “Deputy Landrum is on his way to Kennedy Sledge’s office and I sent another officer to her house. Maybe they’ll find something there.”
“Keep me posted.”
As the crime scene team arrived, Derrick explained how he’d found Ellie’s bedroom. “We need any and every piece of forensics you can find in there. Be sure to check the tags on the dresses. Maybe he messed up and left a print there.”
The team went to work while Derrick paced again, mentally reviewing the evidence they’d found so far. The MO, the victims’ past. The mental health counselor, the fact that there was an impostor who’d posed as Kennedy Sledge.
The pieces just didn’t fit.
He said Ellie had to pay for humiliating him. That she was the cause of everything.
Other than her current boss, the only person who might know about Ellie’s past was her father.
Randall Reeves was the last man on earth Derrick wanted to see. But talking to him might be the only way to save Ellie.
One Hundred Thirty-Five
Somewhere on the AT
Ellie had lost all sense of time. She’d drifted in and out of consciousness, only to be beaten again, suffocated by blackness all over again. In between, she’d thought she’d heard a dog barking somewhere.
That was how he treated her, how he’d treated the other victims.
But she still refused to beg.
He glared down at her now, pulling at the chain to force