Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

shoulders, left and right, right and left, left and right again. Suddenly it felt like the night carried eyes.

She rubbed her arms. Maybe she was making too much out of this, but there was a nattering voice in her brain cautioning her. Anyone who knew her and had something to say to her could pick up a phone or show up at her door. Who would have the audacity to leave a message for her here—and why?

She let go of the envelope, and it fell to the grass. She never should have touched the thing. What if it was evidence? A feeling of dread pricked her skin, but as she stared down at it, her curiosity had to be satisfied.

She pulled out her cell phone and turned on the flashlight.

“Here goes,” she said out loud. As if it wasn’t creepy enough that she was haunting a graveyard at night, now she was receiving mail at her daughter’s grave…

She set her phone on her thigh as she picked up the envelope again, resolute, but her fingers were working slowly to peel back the seal. Once the lip was lifted, she withdrew what was inside, and with her other hand, she aimed the flashlight on it. Just a piece of regular copy paper folded in half.

A typed message read, “We’re on the same team. Be grateful that your angel will always stay innocent.”

She dropped the card and her phone. What the hell? She fumbled to pick up both quickly, now concerned about the dew destroying the note and her phone.

She read the letter again as she stood, and her legs quaked unsteadily beneath her.

The card’s sender had to be Jane Doe’s killer, but for what purpose? Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling much like talking to anyone. It was time to leave.

Fourteen

His adrenaline was pumping, and he felt so very alive. He’d take that as further confirmation he was on the right path. Getting the address for Shannon Fox had been easy, thanks to the internet. Maybe he was being reckless or stupid returning to the same street in less than twenty-four hours.

It was about five thirty in the morning when he parked along a side street a block away. The closer he got to the nurse’s house, and by extension 532 Bill Drive, where he’d killed that girl, the more his hands started to shake. So much for being at complete peace with what he had done. But, for once, he had his mother’s understanding and attention. Possibly even approval. That spurred him forward and helped him focus.

He was dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, and he trotted along the sidewalk toward Fox’s house. Or the Fox… Ah, he liked thinking of her as that. Because that’s what she was. Cunning and scheming, hiding her true intentions behind a good act.

He kept an even pace, not too fast, not too slow. If any curious neighbor saw him, they’d just conclude he was out getting some exercise in the early morning.

He looked at the cop car in front of 532. Even the officer wouldn’t think anything of him if he noticed him. But the sight of the house again, just how untouched it was, had rage blistering within him. But all he could do was move forward, perfect, and get things right this time.

He stopped at the end of Fox’s driveway, running in place and checking his watch, probably appearing as if he was consulting one of those gadgets that tracked heart rate, distance, and calories burned. In his peripheral, he looked at the four-door sedan in the drive, but he also saw a light coming through a second-story window. Someone was certainly home and, by the looks of it, awake. That could prove to be a problem. Did he wait, or come back and try another time?

He jogged in a circle. He didn’t want to put this off. A message needed to be sent, and he had to redeem himself.

He ducked up the driveway with one more furtive glance at 532, this time thinking of the girl who had been inside. He was doing this because of her, because of what she represented.

The end of the driveway butted against a chain-link fence and tall shrubbery. He found a gate, which he unlatched and slipped through. The backyard was banked by large bushes and trees. The branches overhung the space, filling it with shadows like outreaching fingers. The moon was the only source of illumination back here, but that was a good sign. And maybe the light in the house was also a positive omen. It would give him a place to target.

He slipped across the back of the house to a deck and a sliding patio door. Closed vertical blinds took away the possibility of catching a glimpse of the interior, but he’d been in houses that looked similar to this one, and the layout here was likely the same.

He considered the door as a point of entry. He put on a pair of gloves and tugged on the handle. The slider didn’t budge. The security bar was probably in place. He could break the glass, but that would make a racket and draw attention.

He moved farther along the rear of the house and found a window at the far west end near the fence line. It was only about four feet above the deck, and it was aluminum cased and opened vertically. Given the age of the home, he’d be surprised if the latch even caught anymore.

He smiled. This just might work.

He pulled a knife from a pocket in his jogging pants. He took the blade and sliced the screen out of its frame, and it fell to the ground like crumpled silk.

Next, he lifted the pane and smiled as he met with no resistance.

He made his way through the opening and closed the window behind him.

He was in a small, dated bathroom that smelled of vanilla. Through the door there would be a hallway that went left to a room.