No Darker Place

“Thank you, Stella.” Bobbie flashed a smile and headed for the door to the top cop’s inner sanctum.

Her time was being wasted because the SWAT commander had tattled on her for making him look bad. Arrogant bastard. Miller had probably blown the whole incident out of proportion. She had Miller’s number. He didn’t like having women—especially a younger woman—order him around. If her partner had been the one going into that house, no one would have said a word. Some things never changed.

“Bobbie!” The chief tossed a report aside as she walked in. “Close the door and have a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” She did as he asked, settling in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She worked hard to appear relaxed, but inside about a half a dozen emotions were battling for her attention. The Storyteller had sent her a message. He was back. Finally. For months she had worried that he’d slipped beyond her grasp. The idea of him escaping was unbearable. She could not allow that to happen.

“We need to talk.”

Bobbie snapped her attention back to the chief. Theodore Peterson was a towering hulk of a man. He’d been a lineman for the Crimson Tide with her father under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. Forty years later, he’d lightened his playing physique by a few pounds and his hair had gone from blond to gray. Still, Theodore—Teddy to his family and closest friends—was an intimidating figure and a genuinely handsome man. As chief of police he was respected by friends and enemies alike. Even those who disagreed with him couldn’t argue with his outstanding record of keeping the citizens of Montgomery safe and happy at the same time. Not an easy feat.

He removed his reading glasses and studied her for a moment. Tension trickled through Bobbie. She had known this man her whole life. The deep frown lines he wore told her he was far from pleased at the moment.

“I’m having trouble with this one, Bobbie.”

“I’m not following, Chief.” Don’t let him see what he can’t possibly know. Other than relaying the message to his wife, she hadn’t told anyone what Evans said to her. The Storyteller’s message was meant for her alone.

“According to your statement, Mr. Evans asked you to convey his regrets to his family.”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

“Had you and Mr. Evans met before?”

Bobbie shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I did speak with his wife when I first arrived on the scene. She probably mentioned my name, which would explain why he asked for me.”

The chief grunted a noncommittal response. Dread started a slow churn in her belly.

“Clearly Mr. Evans suffered some sort of breakdown,” she added for good measure.

“Clearly,” the chief agreed. He picked up the paper he’d moments ago put aside. “Based on this report from the lab, I have reason to believe any detective on the scene would have had to round you up for Mr. Evans.”

Well damn. She’d been pacing the floor waiting for news from the lab. She’d hoped to see it before anyone else for exactly the reason the chief no doubt now understood. Carl Evans’s actions hadn’t been any more random than his request for her presence had been. “Is that the report on Mr. Evans’s computer?”

The chief nodded. “Evans’s first cousin is a nurse. You might remember her, Gwen Adams?”

Surprise registered before Bobbie could suppress the reaction. “Of course I remember her.” Frustration threatened to resurrect the headache she’d suffered earlier. Or maybe it was just hearing the name. Gwen Adams was the private nurse who had taken care of Bobbie all those months as she recovered. What did Gwen have to do with any of this? Bobbie hadn’t seen her in four or five weeks, not since the day before the orthopedist signed off on her release to return to work. “Has she been interviewed?”

“We’re trying to locate her now. She’s not answering her cell or home phone. Since she didn’t show up for her shift at the hospital today, we’ve issued a BOLO.”

A new thread of tension wove its way through Bobbie. Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged as if she didn’t see how Gwen’s absence and Evans’s suicide connected. Frankly, she didn’t...yet. “How is she involved? Is she helping with the little girl who has leukemia?” Valid questions.

“According to Evans’s wife, Adams has been immensely helpful during their daughter’s illness.” He waved the paper. “But that doesn’t explain the troubling aspect of this report.”

Bobbie consciously relaxed her shoulders once more, and then her facial muscles. Whatever Forensics found on that computer, her only reactions could be surprise and disbelief. She hoped the chief was about to give her something she could use rather than more questions. Deep inside a new fear trickled its way into her bones. Don’t let Gwen be in trouble.

“Evans’s most recent internet search history showed he had been reading everything he could find on you, Bobbie.”

Bobbie pretended to mull over the news, and then she turned her hands up in a so-what gesture. “Who hasn’t? I’ve been the local freak show for a while now. Returning to the job put my name back in the news. Gwen probably mentioned me.”

“Your medical records—specifically the ones from this year,” the chief went on, his tone reflecting his unhappiness with her indifferent attitude, “were on his computer. We believe those records were provided to him by Adams.”

Damn. Bobbie blinked and hummed a sound she hoped suggested confusion rather than the slow, icy climb of uncertainty up her backbone. “Maybe Evans intended to sell info about me to some reporter or one of those publishers who’s been pestering me about a book deal.” She lifted one shoulder in a stilted attempt at a shrug. “I can’t see Gwen being involved in something like that.”

The chief nodded. “Those were my first thoughts, considering around the same time he transferred the files to one of those personal cloud storage services, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit was made into his bank account.”

Bobbie gave another wooden shrug. “Well, there you have it. The man had a sick child, and he needed money. Is there any way to tell who bought the files?”

Her blood pounded in her ears. It was him! Any doubts she had were gone now. One way or another she would make him pay for what he had done to her...for all the lives he had destroyed. She would not rest until he was dead.

Again the chief studied her for several seconds before responding. “Mrs. Evans mentioned something her husband said this morning that we believe sheds a little light on the other party involved—the buyer.”

Anna Evans had been too devastated at the scene to give a statement. Whatever the chief had learned, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans said to Bobbie before blowing his brains out.

“Before getting up this morning Evans tossed and turned, according to his wife. He kept muttering the same phrase over and over. He wants to finish her story.”

Bobbie flinched. Damn it. She clenched her jaw against the anticipation, fury and determination twisting inside her. Do not let him see.

“That’s it?” the chief demanded, making no attempt to hide his outrage. “No shock? No anger or fear? Just a little tic?”

“The whole country was privy to what happened to me,” she fired back. “Carl Evans as well as everyone else in Montgomery had it shoved down their throats day in and day out for months.” Deep breath, Bobbie. One by one she quieted the emotions pressing against her chest. And then, more calmly, she added, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You might start with what Evans said to you in that house.” His gaze narrowed with blatant suspicion. “What he really said.”

“If you’ve read my report, you know what he said.” She hoped he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes. This man had known Bobbie her entire life.

The chief folded his hands atop his desk and sighed loudly. “I promised your father on his deathbed that if you ever needed anything, I would make sure you were taken care of.” Bobbie opened her mouth to protest his use of the father card, but his sharp glare had her snapping it shut once more. “Eight months ago Gaylon Perry almost killed you. If he’s back...”

The air evacuated her lungs. Just hearing his name spoken aloud set off a chain reaction of voices, sounds and images that rushed rapid-fire through her mind before she could block them. Not a day—not an hour—passed without some thought of the monster sweeping through her brain. The memory of him was imprinted on her very DNA. The way her mind worked had changed because of him. She ate, slept and breathed differently because he was with her every minute of every damned day. And still the sound of his name was like having her entire body dunked in ice-cold water. It stole her breath and shocked her system.

With effort, she steadied herself. “Surely you know if I had any insights about the Storyteller, I’d be the first to share them. We’d have the FBI in here pronto.” She produced an unconcerned expression. “Besides, he hasn’t taken a victim since my escape. The feds think he’s dead. You know and I know that if he was still alive, he would have taken one by now.”

She had damned sure tried to kill the son of a bitch. But she knew he wasn’t dead. Deep inside, she could still feel him. He was out there...waiting for the right opportunity. He wanted to finish what he’d started. Come on, asshole.

“I hope that’s true, Bobbie.” The chief leaned back in his chair. “As for the FBI, I’ve already made the call.”

Which meant she didn’t have a lot of time. Urgency hummed in her veins. “Well, then, I guess we’ll know soon enough whether it’s really him. Anything else?”

“You don’t feel the need to amend your report in any way?” he pressed.

Telling him won’t help. “No, sir.” She stood. “I should get over to the lab and pick up a copy of that report.” Once the feds confirmed a connection to the Storyteller, she wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the investigation.

“I’d like you to take a few days off, Detective.”

“What?” She should have seen that one coming. “This is my case, Chief. Maybe Gwen reminded Evans about what the Storyteller did to me, and that gave him the idea to try using it to make the money he needed. Plenty of people have offered to buy my story. Maybe he sold the info to some rag. Desperate people do desperate things. Until we have proof the Storyteller is involved—”

“Apparently,” he cut her off, “you’ve forgotten what Gwen Adams looks like.”

He opened a folder and displayed a snapshot of the nurse who had worked closely with Bobbie for six long months. Gwen’s long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. She was tall and thin, with pale skin that refused to tan. Bobbie’s heart dropped. Like her, Gwen matched the profile of the Storyteller’s preferred victim.