Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

really. There’s no way he could have known her parents would ask me to consult on the case.”

“I was thinking about that earlier. What if Natalie was his target all along, but she was too young? He had to take Amanda first, because she was the right age, but Natalie was the one he wanted.”

Hearing the words made her feel sick. “But why now?” she asked, feeling as though she was echoing the questions Ayaan or Sam would ask if she told them Martín’s idea. “Why not wait another year until Natalie turned eleven? TCK is nothing if not patient. He’s waited twenty years—what’s one more? Plus, like you said, Ayaan doesn’t even think the cases are connected. She said Amanda’s seems planned and perfectly orchestrated, while Natalie’s looks like it was just a crime of opportunity.”

“Maybe it’s like you said before, then. That he planned for her to walk home.”

She sat up and turned on the lamp next to her side of the bed. They squinted at each other in the golden light. “But how?”

“I don’t know. Something out of the ordinary did happen. Her piano teacher wasn’t home. As far as I know, police still don’t know where Ms. Turner went. If TCK knew she wouldn’t be there, if he planned it somehow, he might have known Natalie would leave on her own to go home.”

“But he couldn’t have known that she would, or that I wouldn’t answer my phone when she called.”

Martín was quiet again while her mind darted around, trying to string the story together. He could be right. If TCK was watching carefully, he could have done everything Martín just said.

“Again, though, why now?” she asked.

Her husband looked up at her, his eyes burning. “Something happened, something that triggered him to act sooner than he’d planned.”

She stared at him, afraid of what he would say next.

“You.”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“You’re working to expose him, Elle. You have made more progress on this case than anyone in the last twenty years. Your podcast is reaching hundreds of thousands of new people with this story. He’s coming after you because, otherwise, he knows you’re going to catch him.”

She’d opened her mouth to respond when the sound of their doorbell shattered the stillness of the house. His eyes widened, and she leapt out of bed. A glance at the digital clock showed it was 1:13 a.m. Elle reached into her nightstand, pulled out her handgun, and slid the cartridge in. Martín followed her out the bedroom door.

They crept down the stairs. The window above the front door was glowing with the light of the motion-sensor bulb outside. She took a deep breath, trying to imagine who would come to their house this time of night. Maybe it was Sash, seeking comfort after two days of trying to deal with her missing daughter alone. Elle hoped so. She looked out the small window at the top of the door but couldn’t see anyone.

Reaching for the door handle, she glanced back at Martín. He nodded, having grabbed an umbrella from their front closet. Not a great weapon, but better than nothing. She pointed the gun at the door and pulled down the handle, yanking it open.

Fresh snow swirled into the house on an icy breeze. No one was standing there. But a small figure was slumped on their front step against the railing. Her hands and feet were bound together, not to keep her from moving, but as if to make her easier to carry, like a package. At the sight of Natalie’s bright yellow winter coat and furry brown boots, Elle clapped her hand over her mouth. The girl’s eyes were glassed over, staring up at them.

Elle didn’t have her husband’s expertise, but she could tell Amanda Jordan hadn’t been dead for long.

Part IV

The Sacrifice

33

DJ

1996

Parties weren’t his thing, but DJ decided to attend Mitchell University’s mixer for “PhDs under 30” after being promised there’d be at least a few eligible young women there. He had dated on and off in the years since Loretta, but nothing lasted longer than a few weeks. Now that his free time was mostly spent with a bitter old man who only bothered to speak when he had something insulting to say, DJ was eager to get out of the house whenever possible. His father’s disability check helped pay for a part-time nurse, but other than that, DJ was responsible for his care in addition to his studies and the two jobs he needed to pay the medical bills. He was ready for a full night out for the first time since he’d moved back to Minnesota six months ago.

He was disappointed to give up his place in Yale’s doctorate program to care for his father after the old man’s stroke, but there were benefits to finishing his degree at Mitchell. Here, at least, he was a big fish in a very small pond. People recognized him. The mixer was at a venue in downtown Minneapolis and open to all the local universities, but within five minutes of entering the room, he was greeted by no fewer than ten people. DJ smiled, shook hands speckled with pen ink, brushed his lips past rouged cheeks, inhaled the cheap colognes and perfumes favored by lifelong academics.

“DJ, how are you?” A PhD candidate he recognized leaned in for an embrace, a smile stretched across her round face. DJ obliged, pressing his lips to her cheek. What did it say about him, he wondered, that this was the closest he’d come to intimacy with a woman in weeks? The last relationship he had was short, meaningless. Easily ended when he left Yale. He didn’t so much miss the companionship, but he could do with a warm body in his bed on a cold winter’s night.

He pulled back with a smile to match hers, gave a shake of his head that he hoped looked adorably clueless. “I’m so sorry, I’ve just gone blank. Remind