CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday, March 18, 2018; 6:00 a.m.
Kaitlin Roe was accustomed to pain.
Guilt, sorrow, and remorse were dull, consistent pains she endured, but the physical agony now jerking her toward consciousness was something she’d never felt before. Liquid fire scorched every cell and sinew, trapping her breath as she expanded her ribs and attempted to draw in air. Her heart raced, and she swallowed as she waited for the vise grip on her midsection to ease before she tried to breathe again.
When the pain dulled to a throb, she lay still until the screaming in her body stopped. Had the monster from fourteen years ago returned? Panic made her heart beat faster. A deep-seated urge to survive goaded her to open her eyes so she could get her bearings.
Instantly the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights smacked her square in the face. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and regrouped before she slowly reopened them. Her head still throbbed, but she adjusted to the pain.
The beep, beep of a monitor had her slowly turning her head left toward the machine’s green and red lights. An IV ran from a half-full bag to the thick blue vein in her arm.
Hospital. She was in a hospital? What had happened?
Her vision focused on the monitor, while she searched through the mental haze for her last concrete memory. She blinked while trying to scrape together the last images.
She had been at Erika’s house. She’d stepped inside . . . and then whatever happened next danced out of reach. She had no idea what happened to her.
“Welcome back.”
She turned her head toward the deep-baritone voice heavy with fatigue. Detective Adler sat in the chair by her bed. Dark stubble covered his chin, and his starched white dress shirt was wrinkled. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing hair covering muscled arms. His gun, as always, was holstered at his side along with cuffs and a phone.
He rose and leaned over the bed, staring at her with piercing gray eyes. Detective Adler. City of Richmond Homicide. But she wasn’t dead.
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Aren’t you early?”
“Early?”
“I’m not dead.”
“No.”
In the silence she felt the weight of worry, fear, and relief balled into a tightly coiled knot. He looked concerned.
She dug her fingers into the sheets, wanting to sit up and look him in the eye. She needed to prove to him, herself, and the doctors that she was fine. However, as soon as she engaged her core muscles, fire in her midsection flared, sending her collapsing into the sheets.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” Adler said.
She hissed in air between clenched teeth. “Just received that memo.”
He reached for a cup and straw and held it to her lips. She took a tentative sip, afraid swallowing would hurt. But her mouth and lips were so dry. She sipped, and cool water brushed over her lips and soothed her parched throat. She couldn’t remember when water had tasted so good.
“The nurse said only small sips.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out of surgery about eight hours. I received the call from dispatch because my number was one of your last phone calls.”
She winced as she reached for a joke. “So people think we’re an item?”
Frowning, he set the glass down with deliberate care. He laid the back of his hand to her forehead before sitting and scooting forward so they were eye to eye. “You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”
“You were hit on the head and stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” Her hand went to her belly, and fingertips gingerly felt gauze and adhesive. “I don’t remember.”
His eyebrows drew together, deepening his frown lines farther. “The doctor said you might have trouble with recollection,” he said. “You have a mild concussion. What’s the last thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes and drifted into the mist. “I was running a study session. The students were prepping for their exam project. Where was I found?”
The lines around his eyes deepened with a frown. “At Erika Crowley’s house.”
She met the gray eyes boring into her. “Why was I there?”
“She texted you.”
“She did?”
“Her number and the text are in your phone. Do you remember the text?”
“Sorta.” She ran her hand again over her stomach and felt the rough texture of the bandage. “I must have driven there.”
“Your car was parked out front, and you were lying in the foyer facing the door as if you were leaving.”
Erika. Puzzle pieces slid closer together. “I saw her on Friday. I went to tell her about Jennifer. She didn’t want to be interviewed. And then she texted and said she would talk to me.”
“That matches the text she sent you at 1:42 p.m. ‘I’m ready to be interviewed, but it has to be today. Come to my house. Now before I lose my nerve.’”
That sounded familiar. “Who found me?”
“Erika’s neighbor heard an alarm and called 911 at 2:17 p.m. The responding officer found you alone at the house bleeding out in the foyer. If not for the call, you would have bled to death.”
Listening to him speak such startling facts with dispassion made it easy to believe he was talking about someone else. “Do you know who stabbed me?”
“No. I was hoping you could tell me.”
It was hard to decipher his troubled, angry expression. Was it worry or suspicion? The last time she’d faced the cops they’d had a similar look. Her chest tightened with fear. She was innocent, but she didn’t know if that mattered to him. “I don’t know. I don’t remember any of it.” She gripped the sheets. “I want to remember.” Sudden tears stung her eyes. “But I can’t tell you anything.”
“Take it easy. It’ll come to you.” His frown softened. “Have you received any threats or had the sense someone was watching you?”
“Like a stalker?”
“Jennifer may have had one.” He expelled a breath. “My gut’s been telling me Jennifer’s and Gina’s cases are linked. Your stabbing is the first solid connection.”
She tried to focus, but her mind was too blurred. The pain was ratcheting up. Had there been someone watching? Was it the paranoia stalking her since she’d run away from her attacker fourteen years ago? “I don’t know.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Okay. Let it go for now.”
“How can I let it go?”
“I’ve got this, Kaitlin.”
His definitive tone added weight to the promise and eased her nerves. To distract herself from the pain and the fear, she shifted to smaller details more easily managed. “Where are my recorder and backpack? Were they taken?”
“No. Both were locked in the trunk of your car.”
Embarrassment barely registered as she imagined this guy rooting through her backpack past tampons, crumpled receipts, and chocolate candy wrappers. She always locked her valuables in her trunk.
“Why didn’t you bring your equipment?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Where’s my car now?”
“At your apartment. I had an officer drive it to your place. The recorder and your keys are in your backpack, which is in the nightstand by your bed here.”
Not a big deal for someone to drive her car, but she’d grown so protective of her spaces that she didn’t like the idea of anyone in her loft space, especially a cop.
“Is there someone I can call? Someone who can pick up a change of clothes for you?”
She’d let her friends drift away over the last few months. “My boss. Susan Saunders.”
“I’ll call her for you. What about family?”
“Mom’s gone.” She focused on the white tiled ceiling. “Am I going to be here that long?”
“A few days from what the doctor said.”
“I don’t have a few days.” She struggled to sit again but immediately fell back in pain. “I don’t want to be here.”
“The surgeon stitched up your abdomen with over twenty stiches. No matter how antsy you feel, it’s going to have to wait.”
He was right. She’d been stabbed. Someone had tried to kill her.
As if he could read her thoughts, he said more softly, “I’ve been in your shoes. It sucks, but you’ve got to give your body time to heal before they’ll release you.”
She wanted to focus on anything other than herself. “You were hurt pretty bad recently.”
“Blown up and burned.” His blunt answer suggested he wasn’t interested in sharing details.
The more she thought about being in an unfamiliar location exposed to all sorts of people, the more unsettled she felt. Anyone could come into her room while she was sleeping, and given the shape she was in now, there was nothing she could do about it. There were no locks on her door.
“What about Erika? Have you found her?” she asked. “She could tell you what happened.”
“I spoke to the county police. There was no sign of Erika or her husband.”
“I interviewed her for my podcast in January. She was late because she’d waited until her husband left for work. She didn’t want him to know about the interview.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You get the vibe he might be abusive?”
“I don’t know.” She searched his face. “I saw her on Friday and told her about Jennifer. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Her phone isn’t transmitting a signal. Do you have any idea where she would go?”
“No.” Again she rummaged through splintered recollections, but still found nothing that would help her figure out what had happened during the lost hours. Frustrated, she pushed her fists into the sheets and was determined again to sit up. Screw the pain. She wouldn’t be sidelined, and she was going to remember. She tried to sit again. Immediately her body burned, and she hissed in a sharp breath as tears filled her eyes. “Damn it.”
He took her hand in his, and automatically she squeezed his fingers until she sat up. His calloused fingers brushed her palm, offering comfort she did not want.
When the agony mellowed to an ache, she realized how tightly she’d been gripping his hand. Feeling foolish, she pulled her fingers free. She met his gaze. “And here I thought you were an asshole,” she said.
“I get that a lot.”
A smile quirked the edges of her lips. “If it’s any consolation, so do I.”
He shook his head. “A dead woman, a missing woman, an AWOL husband, and the person at the center of it all has a hefty slice in her gut. You attract trouble like this all the time?”
“Not in a long time.” Fresh frustration quickly gained strength. “I need to remember who stabbed me. I don’t think he’s one and done. He’s coming for me.”
“You’ve been traumatized. Victims often don’t remember their attack initially.”
The label, victim, was another punch to the gut. After Gina, most saw her as a victim. People talked to her differently, some avoided her, and some believed she’d caused all her troubles. She’d have taken it better if Adler had called her a liar. “Fuck victim.”
“The stitches say otherwise.”
“Call me stupid. Foolish. Even naive. But don’t call me a victim.”
He studied her a long moment. He was a homicide detective who rooted among the lies for truths. Trained to unwind complicated evidence and piece them together into a coherent picture. “Like it or not, you’re officially a case, Kaitlin. And you’re probably right, he’s going to make another run at you.”
“You should be looking for Erika and Brad Crowley. I was at their place when this happened. They must have known something.”
“Slow down. What do you remember?”
“I do remember her text now. And I remember parking my car and walking toward the front door. I think the door was open. I thought Erika would be there, but I didn’t see her.”
“All I know is you were just inside, unconscious and bleeding. The responding officer called for backup and the paramedics. The house was searched, but no one was found.”
The image of her lying in her own blood added weight to what had happened. “I don’t remember.”
“Where else would Erika Crowley be?” Adler asked.
“I don’t know much about her. I had the impression she lived a pretty isolated life.”
“What do you know about her?” he asked.
“Only what she told me, which isn’t much. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in fourteen years. Hell, I didn’t know her well then.”
His silence, hefting too much weight, was a sure signal she wasn’t going to like what she heard.
“We need to find Erika and Brad,” she said.
“We aren’t doing anything. I’ll find them.”
A sudden wave of fatigue hit, stealing some of her fire. “I’m in the middle of all this.”
He rose, leaned over the bed, and braced his hand on the headboard and the side rail, careful not to jostle the IV in her arm. “I’m aware, and believe me, I’ll not rest until I figure this out. We’ll talk about it later. In the meantime, you’re safe. I’ll make it my mission to find this guy.”
“No one could fourteen years ago.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Now, I’m in the game. So the rules have changed.”
Panic felt like weakness, but it was undeniable. “I can’t defend myself now.”
“You’re in a lockdown unit. No one can get in or out, so rest. You’re safe here.”
Safe. What the hell did that mean? She hadn’t felt safe in fourteen years. “And when I leave?”
“One step at a time.”
“I’ve never been good at the patience thing.”
“Rest,” he said.
She shook her head. “What about Hayward?”
“He has his deal. But he won’t lead us to Gina until you can be present.”
“Randy never makes anything easy. He likes his games.”
“He has a lot to lose; why play them now?”
“I have no idea.” She tried to sit up. “When are we going?”
“Soon.” He lifted his jacket off the back of the chair.
“Did he say where she is?”
“No. But nothing’s going to happen in Gina’s case until you’re better.”
He squeezed her hand before he left. When the door closed behind him, she forced herself to relax into the pillows. She stared at the white tiled ceiling a long moment before she closed her eyes, too exhausted and sore to fight.