And it was suddenly as simple as that. He smiled down at her. “Go back into your house and lock your door and cover your feet. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Six-thirty.”

Chapter Seven

Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:55 a.m.

Alex closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. Heart still racing. She brought her hands to her face, smelling his scent that lingered on her palms. She’d almost forgotten how good a man could smell. With a sigh she opened her eyes, then pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle a shriek.

Meredith sat at the table choosing a hat for Mr. Potato Head. She grinned as she plugged the hat in the hole meant for the feet because lips already protruded from the top of the head. “I thought I was gonna have to bring you your shoes.”

Alex ran her tongue over her teeth. “You were sitting there the whole time?”

“Mostly.” Her grin widened. “I heard the car stop outside, then heard you open the door. I was afraid you’d decided to test your new… thing.” She lifted a brow.

“Hope’s asleep. You can call it a gun.”

“Oh,” Meredith said, blinking innocently. “That, too.”

Alex laughed. “You’re so bad.”

“I know.” She waggled her brows. “So was he? Bad, I mean. It sounded bad.”

Alex shot her a guarded look. “He’s very nice.”

“Nice is not nice. Bad is nice. She’ll tell me all,” she said to the potato-head, which looked more like a Picasso-head with every feature out of place. “I have my ways.”

“You scare me sometimes, Mer. Why are you playing with this? Hope’s asleep.”

“Because I like to play with toys. You should try it, Alex. It might relax you a little.”

Alex sat down at the table. “I am relaxed.”

“She lies. She’s wound tighter than a corkscrew,” Meredith said to the potato-head. Then her eyes grew sober. “What are you dreaming, Alex? Still the screams?”

“Yes.” Alex took the toy, aimlessly twirling an ear. “And the body I saw today.”

“I should have gone instead.”

“No, I needed to see for myself that it wasn’t Bailey. But in my dream it is. She sits up and says, ‘Please. Help me.’ ”

“Your subconscious is a powerful force. You want her to be alive, and so do I, but you have to come to terms with what happens if she’s not, or if you never find her at all. Or maybe worse, if you find her and can’t fix her.”

Alex gritted her teeth. “You make me sound like some Dr. Roboto control freak.”

“You are, honey,” Meredith said gently. “Just look.”

Alex looked at the toy in her hands. Meredith’s Picasso-head was no more, every feature now properly placed in the right slot. “This is just a toy,” she said, annoyed.

“No, it’s not,” Meredith said sadly, “but you keep on thinking that if you need to.”

“All right. I like control. I like to have everything neatly labeled. That’s not bad.”

“Nope. And sometimes you get a wild hair and buy a thing.”

“Or kiss a man I just met?”

“That, too, so you aren’t without hope.” Meredith winced a little. “No pun intended.”

“Of course not. But I think that’s exactly why Bailey gave her that name.”

“I agree. These toys are important, Alex. Don’t discount them. Play takes our minds to a place where our guard comes down. Remember that when you play with Hope.”

“Daniel’s bringing his dog over tomorrow to see if Hope likes animals.”

“That’s nice of him.”

Alex raised a brow. “I thought nice wasn’t nice.”

“Only when it comes to sex, kid. I’m going back to sleep. You should try, too.”

Tuesday, January 30, 4:00 a.m.

Someone was crying. Bailey listened hard. It wasn’t the man in the next cell. She wasn’t sure he was even conscious anymore. No, the weeping came from farther away. She looked up at the ceiling, expecting to see speakers. She saw none, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. He might try to brainwash her.

Because she hadn’t told him what he wanted to know. Not yet. Not ever.

She closed her eyes. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. The weeping abruptly stopped and she looked up at the ceiling again. And made herself think of Hope. You’re not losing your mind, Bailey. You can’t. Hope needs you.

It had been the mantra she’d chanted when Hope was a baby, when Bailey had wanted a fix so bad she thought she’d die. Hope needs you. It had gotten her through and would continue to do so. If he doesn’t kill me first. Which was a definite possibility.

Then in the next cell she heard a noise. She held her breath and listened as the sound became a scraping. Someone was scraping at the wall between the two cells.

She pulled herself to her hands and knees, grimacing when the room spun around her. She crawled toward the wall, a few inches at a time, then breathed. And waited.

The scraping stilled, but a tapping took its place, the same rhythm again and again. Code? Dammit. She didn’t know any codes. She hadn’t been a Girl Scout.

It could be a trap. It could be him, trying to trick her.

Or it could be another human. Tentatively she reached into the dark and tapped back. The tapping on the other side stopped and the scraping began again. She’d been wrong. The scraping wasn’t on the wall, it was on the floor. Wincing at the pain in her fingertips, Bailey pushed at the old concrete floor and felt it crumble.

She drew a sharp breath, then let it out, dizzy in her disappointment. It didn’t matter. Whoever was scraping was digging a tunnel to another cell. A tunnel to nowhere.

The scraping stilled once again and Bailey heard footsteps in the hall. He was coming. God help her, she prayed he was coming for the other guy, the scraper. Not me. Please not me. But God didn’t listen and the door to her cell swung open.

She squinted at the light, weakly raising one hand in front of her face.

He laughed. “It’s playtime, Bailey.”

Tuesday, January 30, 4:00 a.m.

He was a fortunate man to live in a county with so many drainage ditches. He leaned to one side and let the blanket-wrapped body fall to the ground. She’d died so beautifully, begging his mercy as he’d done his worst. She’d been so prissy and full of contempt when she’d held the power. Now the power was his. She’d paid for her sins.

So would the four pillars of the community who remained. He’d gotten the attention of his first two targets with the first note, with his tracing of the key that would exactly match their own. He’d get some of their money with the second, due to be delivered to the same two some time later today. It was time to begin to divide and conquer. He’d take down the first two, and by the time he was finished they’d be ruined, every last one of them. And I? He smiled. I get to watch it all crumble and fall.

He pulled the blanket away from her foot and gave a final nod. The key was there. In the Review’s picture of Janet, she hadn’t been wearing her key, so the first one must have gotten lost somewhere. Disappointing, but he’d made sure this one was tied on extra tight. The threat would be delivered. Take that, Vartanian.

Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 5:30 a.m.

A loud creak woke her and Alex snapped her head up, listening. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa after Meredith had gone to bed. She heard the creak again and knew she hadn’t dreamed it. Something or someone was on her front porch. Thinking of the gun in the lockbox, she quietly grabbed the cell phone she’d left on the end table instead.

Hell of a lot of good a locked-up gun did her now, but at least she could call 911. Although that wouldn’t do a hell of a lot of good either, if Sheriff Loomis’s response to Bailey’s disappearance was his norm. She slipped into her kitchen and chose the biggest butcher knife in the drawer, then crept to the window and peeked out.