Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

Right would lead to the other living areas of the home, and he’d find the staircase near the front door—if the floorplan was as he imagined.

He walked slowly, thankful for numerous nightlights placed in outlets throughout Fox’s home. But one unfortunate placement of his foot, and a floorboard let out a loud groan. He froze in place, listened. Nothing—just his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He proceeded until he came to the staircase, positioned just to the left of the front door, as he had guessed. He looked up. A faint light spilled across the landing, and he guessed it was probably another nightlight.

He treaded slowly, cringing to think of another misplaced footstep that could expose him. After all, it was crucial that he keep the element of surprise.

He made his way up, sliding his back against the wall as he went. At the top, he confirmed that it was just a nightlight. There wasn’t any light trickling out from under any of the closed doors.

He scanned his surroundings—three rooms, two on the right and one on the left. Then he slinked down the hall and confirmed the first room on the left was a bathroom—facing the front of the house. It had probably been the source of the light he’d seen from outside, but it was dark now. Maybe Fox had just used the toilet and gone back to bed.

He strained to hear anything or detect movement. Next to the second room on the right, he heard heavy breathing coming from inside. He slipped a hand into his pocket, wrapped it around the needle, and twisted the door handle.

It was a bedroom, and there was a form in the bed, likely Fox. He stepped inside, but immediately felt something was wrong. Fear curdled through him. The deep breathing was now coming from behind him.

Before he could turn, he was struck. A blinding pain pierced his skull, and he roared. As his vision cleared, he made out Fox in a bathrobe, holding a bat over her head, poised to hit a home run.

But the form on the bed… He rubbed at his head and advanced on Fox.

“You come near me, I swear to God, I’ll—”

He pulled his knife and arched it in the air. It stopped her midsentence. Her eyes were darting around the room and behind him. Is somebody else here?

He glanced quickly over a shoulder. The form hadn’t moved at all, and he pieced it together. Fox was indeed a sly one. She must have heard him enter the house and positioned her pillows to make it look like she was in bed. As long as she didn’t call 911…

“Get out of my house!” Fox yelled.

He lunged toward her, and she juked left, swinging the bat at him, but he ducked. The bat bit into the drywall above his head, and dust rained down. He coughed but kept his focus on her. The bat had gotten stuck somehow in the wall, and she was struggling to reel it back.

“Well, well.” He grinned as he closed in on her. Trapped little fox.

“Help!” Fox screamed, her voice ringing in the otherwise silent house. She reached out and swiped at him. Her long nails bit into his arms, and pain fired through him. He howled, but adrenaline swiftly minimalized the sting.

He thrust the knife into her gut, and she wailed. He felt the blade tear through tissue and bank in bone.

Not his intended use for the knife. It was an impulsive act, but it had disabled her. If only she’d shut the hell up! He removed the loaded syringe from his pocket and plunged it into her neck. It would deliver a heavy dose, and she’d become a lifeless puppet.

Almost immediately, her eyelids lowered. Then they lifted slowly, but it was obvious she was having a hard time keeping them open. Her body crumpled against the wall, then down to the floor in a heap.

He crouched next to her. She was still breathing. He lifted one of her arms and let it go. It fell beside her. Good, she was completely incapacitated. She probably wouldn’t feel much. He truly was The Merciful.

He cupped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. “You should really learn to keep your mouth shut.”

Fifteen

Amanda had hardly slept last night after finding that note at the grave. It had to be from Doe’s killer—or did it? She teetered back and forth on the matter. But it was the wording that chilled her. “The same team… happy your angel will always stay innocent.”

What team? Did it refer to values and beliefs? Something more? If it was the killer, did that mean he saw himself on the same side as law enforcement? And, really, the only possible thread connecting Amanda and the killer would be sex trafficking. But he had killed a victim of sex trafficking, while she had rescued them. The last tidbit wedged in her mind. She’d rescued them…

Had the killer seen the articles earlier this year about the girls she’d found? If so, that would indicate he was a local. Another shiver ripped through her.

But what had truly prompted the note? Was there an enclosed threat—that he could get to her whenever he wanted? He had, after all, violated her daughter’s resting place. Or was he simply delusional, really believing that she was an equal with a man who had strangled a young woman and intended to burn her body to ash?

She tapped the steering wheel of her Honda Civic. She was sitting in the parking lot of the Department of Forensic Science in Manassas waiting for the place to open at eight. Only a couple more minutes to go.

Her plan was to turn over the note to investigators and rush back to Woodbridge for the appointment at the bank. Hopefully, Forensics would get somewhere with fingerprints or touch DNA.

The clock told her it was time, and she got out of the car and entered the building. She was going to request CSI