“You’re my rock, Jake, my anchor. You kept me going when I wanted to give up, when I didn’t care what happened to me. But you cared.”

“It’s easy to care for you. You’re very special.”

“Shit,” Dana said, wiping away a tear that had suddenly strayed down her cheek. Jake kissed her hand then he kissed the spot where the tear had appeared.

“I’m no good at this mushy stuff,” Dana said.

“Then don’t talk,” Jake told her as he took her hand and led her inside. For once Dana Cutler surrendered without a fight.

The next morning, Dana awoke with the sun. Jake was sound asleep and she crept out of bed, dressed quietly, and left a note on the kitchen table so Jake wouldn’t worry. With the help of Keith Evans and the FBI, Jake’s Harley had been retrieved. Dana pushed it onto the street and didn’t start it until she was certain the noise wouldn’t disturb her lover’s slumber. As soon as she could, Dana opened it up and sped toward her destination.

The meth cook had brought Dana to the farmhouse after sundown and she had been rescued before dawn, so she’d only seen the place where she’d been brutalized at night. It was less frightening in the strong light of the sun-an abandoned, dilapidated structure punished by neglect, separated from a field of high and wild grass by a desolate dirt yard.

The steps up which Dana climbed to the front porch creaked underfoot and the cold fall wind blew the remaining scraps of crime scene tape out and away where they stuck to the front door. Dana tried the handle and the door opened. Her heart was beating wildly and she could feel the heat of panic when she walked into the front room. A floorboard creaked underfoot, the sunlight illuminated spiderwebs and dust devils that spun across the floor in the wake of the cold, fast-moving air.

Dana took a deep breath and forced herself to walk into the kitchen. She stood in front of the door to the basement, staring at it. It was just a door, she told herself, and the basement was just a basement, a place of concrete and cheap shelving. There would be ghosts down there only if she allowed them to exist.

Dana grabbed the knob and opened the door. The electricity had been turned off, but she’d brought a flashlight. The beam illuminated the steps. Some light filtered through the narrow, grime-covered windows. Dana stopped at the bottom of the stairs and shined her light on the space where she’d lain, naked and terrified, for three days while she had been raped and beaten. She felt sick so she squeezed her eyes tight and breathed in slowly and deeply. While her eyes were still closed, she conjured up Jake’s face. She made her vision smile and she remembered how good it felt to nestle in his arms. He’d made her feel safe.

Dana opened her eyes, and she smiled. She felt safe now. There were no ghosts, just dust, spiderwebs, and concrete, nothing that could hurt her. Dana was filled with a sense of peace. Last night she had set free the restless spirits of the three girls Claire Farrington had murdered. Today she had set her own spirit free from the fears that had tried to make her dead inside.

Chapter Forty-nine

Brad Miller wrapped his arm around Ginny Striker’s shoulders, and they huddled together as they struggled through the election night crowd mobbing the lobby of the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland and walked outside into the light rain that had been falling all evening. There had been no suspense in Maureen Gaylord’s win. It had been a sure thing after the first lady’s arrest. And the situation had gotten worse for the president when the Pulaskis and Marsha Erickson had appeared on every television show that would have them to tell how they’d been paid off by Christopher Farrington to keep quiet about his sexual involvement with their daughters.

“I guess the American people don’t want a serial murderer and a sex pervert in the White House,” Ginny had said when NBC declared Ohio firmly in Gaylord’s camp, wrapping up the electoral vote for the senator. Even Oregon had voted overwhelmingly against the only native son to lead the nation.

“I only hope they both end up in prison,” Brad said.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s what they deserve.”

“The rich and powerful seem to be able to commit crimes with impunity,” Ginny said as they worked their way free of the rowdy crowd in front of the hotel.

“Some of the legal analysts think the case against Claire Farrington is too weak to win a conviction,” Brad said. He sounded disheartened.

Ginny gripped his biceps tightly and squeezed. “That’s not our problem anymore. I’m just glad this is over. I’m looking forward to a fresh start.”

“I hope you like your job at your D.C. firm better than your tenure at Reed, Briggs,” Brad said.

“I probably won’t, but I still have loans to pay off and rent to pay and I can’t count on you for much.”

Brad grinned. It was true. Brad’s clerkship at the United States Supreme Court was not going to pay anywhere near what Ginny would earn, but it would open the door to every legal job in the country when he was through.

“Do you mind that I’m marrying you for your money?” Brad asked.

“I thought you were only interested in my body.”

“There’s that, too. Now if you could only cook, you’d be perfect.”

“For a kept man you’re pretty picky. You should be satisfied with what you’ve got.”

“I guess you’ll do until a rich, sexy woman with a degree from Cordon Bleu comes along.”

Ginny swatted him on the head, and he kissed her. Life was pretty good and his only real worry was that he would let down Justice Kineer, who’d obtained the position at the Court for him. He knew that the other clerks would be editors in chief from law reviews at Harvard, Penn, NYU, and other super law schools, and he was a little nervous about his place in this pantheon of intellect. But every time he worried about his ability to perform his job he remembered Justice Kineer’s assurance that he would have chosen someone who’d successfully faced down assassins, brought down a first lady, and proved that the former chief justice of the United States had his head up his butt over any academic nerd.

During the drive to Brad’s apartment the rainstorm got worse. The couple rushed from Brad’s parking spot to his front door, crouching to escape the downpour. Brad flipped on the light in his entryway as soon as they were inside.

“I’m going to the powder room to dry my hair,” Ginny said.

“I’ll put up the water for tea.”

Brad took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. He was about to go into the kitchen when he spotted a slender white envelope lying on the entryway floor. He stooped down and picked it up. His name and address were handwritten, and there was no return address. There was also no stamp, so the letter had been hand delivered and slipped under his door. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of lined, yellow legal paper. Brad read what was written on it and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Dear Brad,

I knew I was right to trust you. I’ve just learned that my conviction for the murder of the Erickson girl is going to be set aside and that’s all due to your hard work. I’ll still be executed but I can live with that, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d invite you to the execution but I know you’re squeamish. My only regret is that I didn’t get to go to court to overturn the conviction. I might have seen my lovely pinkie collection one last time. Oh well, one can’t have everything. Good luck on your new job and on your marriage to the lovely Ginny. She’s a sweetheart. Too bad I won’t get a chance to know her.

Your Friend, Clarence

Brad crumpled the envelope and the letter and hurried to the garbage pail in the kitchen. He pushed them under the other trash to make certain that Ginny would never see Clarence Little’s letter.