The Serial Killer Beside Me E-Book

Lorelei Bell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After a girl's body is found near the Mississippi, close to where Lainey lives, it sends a shockwave through town. Soon after, another death occurs, and it becomes clear that a serial killer is on the loose.

Lainey is facing trouble of her own in the form of a bicyclist, who nearly runs her down. When she begins getting odd phone calls from a man, Lainey wonders if the biker has something to do with the case.

When Lainey's best friend Nadine is abducted, tensions rise and Lainey vows to rescue her friend and bring the killer to justice... even if it means she must put her own life at risk.

In the third book in Lorelei Bell's 'Lainey Quilholt Mysteries', the young sleuth comes face to face with her most dangerous foe to date.

Leseprobe

THE SERIAL KILLER BESIDE ME

LAINEY QUILHOLT MYSTERIES

BOOK 3

LORELEI BELL

CONTENTS

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Serial Killers in the U.S

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Lorelei Bell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Some people believe in evil. If there is such a thing in humanity, possibly the Jekyll-Hyde personality type would fit a serial killer who is a psychopath who kills. They seem very nice on the outside, but inside they are killers. They can have families, a job, go about their day seemingly normal. But at some point, they have the urge to kill.

I remembered being told not to walk down the railroad tracks when I was young. I didn't listen. I was lucky, as nothing ever happened to me. But the psychopath will seek his victims carefully and even become fixated on their target and stalk them for a while before moving in for the kill. In this episode of Lainey's adventures, she's about to come into very close contact with a killer.

As this story has some more frightening aspects/nature to this book and may be disturbing to some younger readers.

CHAPTER1

A car drove slowly behind me. I ignored it as I ran along the cracked sidewalk. Today I went a little further, trying to push myself. I'd gained five pounds in the past five weeks. No more candy bars, or the occasional ice cream treat. I had begun jogging only this week and it was a tell since I got winded within the first two blocks. The crisp air filled my lungs, and my calves began to hurt midway as I chugged several blocks west and then turned north. I planned to go one block further, turn back south, and head home—probably walk a good deal of it, the way I was feeling. This was my fifth day in a row of running. I had chosen safe streets to run, and in broad daylight, acquiescing to my uncle's and aunt's wishes.

The car, or whatever it was, hadn't sped up to go the normal speed of 25 through town—not even 20. Or ten. But it did turn along with me onto Ringback Street.

It's following me. Shit. Who was it? My Uncle John? Or someone else? They would have honked by now, I reasoned.

Ponytail bobbing, I turned my head slightly and tried to check out the vehicle. A small truck, maybe. It was boxy at any rate. Dark red, maybe maroon. Possibly a Ford, but I wasn't sure. It sounded a little rough in the tailpipe area. I had no idea who was driving this truck, following me. I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, as they had paused, allowing me to get further ahead. I thought they might have been waiting for me to go past so they could turn into a drive.

Nope.

It continued following me at a snail's pace, almost as if playing a cat and mouse game with me. But this game was no fun. Especially in the wake of the recent news.

There had been a woman's body found on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, left partially nude. It was found by fishermen returning to their boat one morning about a week ago. She'd been raped and murdered. This had us all, here in Montclair, Iowa, more than just a little nervous. Especially the female population, because Illinois is situated across the river from Montclair, a mere 3,484 feet—the bridge length which spanned from Rapids City, Illinois, to our small town across the mighty Mississippi. The woman's body was barely half a mile from the bridge just south of it, in fact, which might have been a mile from town limits. Thus the reason I didn't jog in the early mornings (not that I could force myself out of bed at an ungodly hour of five AM), nor did I jog after the sun set. I just wasn't going to take a chance on getting abducted by whoever had done this.

Meanwhile, with my present situation, I was getting nervous because the vehicle would not move on. My red flag warning had gone off long ago, and I now mentally reviewed everything I'd been taught when very small. “Run to a neighbor's house” was one. I now carried pepper spray in my fanny pack, along with my phone. Getting either one out at the moment would cause me to have to slow down. The other side of my brain—not sure if it's the left or the right one—didn't want to believe someone would be so bold as to snatch a person (namely me), in broad daylight, but I'd been warned by Weeks—who was now my Uncle John—that abductions happen like that all the time. He also managed to throw in the fact that a rape happens every five minutes in the United States, making me even more nervous than I already was about jogging by myself. “Possibly more often, because some are never reported.” He'd then added to the information dump in my head which now spun around in a loop.

I made up my mind and jogged up the sidewalk of the nearest house, preparing my speech once I roused anyone inside. Hi, someone's following me. Please let me in and call the police. I had no idea whose house this was, or if anyone was at home. But getting away from the vehicle was the most important part of running up to the house. For all I knew it could be a little old lady with cataracts with a dozen cats and couldn't hear well. Or I could be walking into a dangerous person's house.

My swift footsteps took me to the cement steps of the front door, wooden with six glass panels arranged at an angle. A fall wreath hung midway, and the doorway was swept of leaves. Three un-carved pumpkins stood as sentinels. This looked promising. My only problem is if they weren't home, then what?

My hand rose and I prepared to knock when I heard a familiar woman's voice yell “Hey, Lainey!” from behind.

I turned, finding the maroon truck—which wasn't a truck at all, but a Jeep—had stopped at the curb, and a woman I knew was leaning out the passenger window, waving at me. Now that I looked at it properly, it wasn't maroon at all, but an orangy-rust, reminding me of a color in a box of 48 crayons. This was as close to bittersweet as I've ever seen in a car color.

“Maureen?” I said, more to myself as I turned completely around, away from the door I was about to knock on. My tripping heart throbbed now and began to slow while my brain went through a bunch of ridiculous explanations for my running up to this house.

I darted down the walk toward her Jeep. It looked new.

“Hey, this is my new wheels. Thought I'd stop over and show it off, but your aunt said you'd gone jogging.” Maureen wore her dark brown hair back off her heart-shaped face in a short tail. Today she was dressed in jeans and a navy sweatshirt that boasted FBI in white. I'd learned she had taken training at the FBI Academy's Profiling Unit in Quantico, Virginia, a few years ago. She was second in command in the Sheriff's Department, under my uncle. Thus my relief came quickly as I leaned into her new car.

“Cool wheels, but sounds like you'll need a new muffler soon.” I'd been dating Nate Blackstone, who was taking automotive classes at Whitney College where I attended, and was picking up lots of automotive knowledge from him. Not that I would remember it all, but sometimes a little nugget found its way to the forefront.

“I know. I've gotta take it back this afternoon before I go to work, but I wanted to see if I could find you.”

“Yeah. About that, you stalker, you!” I admonished.

“Oh. That. Sorry. I had a call, and I sort of pulled over, and then I saw you and didn't want to lose you and so…” She shook her head. “Hey. Better me than some unwanted. Right?”

“Yeah, but you gave me a scare. You should have honked. I didn't know your vehicle. I almost knocked on that person's door to get away.” I pointed back at the house.

“Sorry. But good job. You didn't take for granted I was safe. So, you get ten points.”

I laughed. “So you're off this morning?”

“Until five.” She glanced up in her rearview mirror as a car drove around her. “Hey, I don't want to interrupt your run—”

“Nah. I've had enough. I think I went too far today,” I said, still out of breath.

“Want a ride back?”

“Thought you'd never ask.” I grasped the door handle and hopped in. The interior was tan. She grabbed the stick between the two front seats as soon as I buckled myself in.

“You have classes tonight?”

I glanced at her. Unlike me, Maureen had a steel trap for a memory.

“That's right.”

She turned the next corner, and the loud muffler was unmistakable. “Yeah. I'll have to get this into Terry, see if he can get it fixed. He sold it to me, so, I'm thinking he needs to fix it for free.”

“You sign a contract?”

“You bet I did. I don't go into anything this expensive without one.” She smiled as she drove back toward my street. Our conversation about her new ride seemed to be exhausted and my thoughts went back to my concerns about the murderer/rapist.

“Why do they do it?” I asked.

At the stop sign, Maureen paused and looked at me. “Why do who do what?”

“You know. These guys who rape and kill.”

“Oh.” Maureen pulled forward across the quiet intersection. Our town was quiet, most of the time. We'd had only one murder in town a few months back, which I helped solve.

“You really want to talk about this?” she asked, looking at me through her sunglasses.

I shrugged. “I'm curious.”

She pulled up to my aunt's house where I lived and pulled the break, letting the Jeep idle. “First of all, rapists are into power, degradation, domination, and pain.” She allowed that to sink in. “They're not normal, Lainey. Just so you understand that. Some people will call them 'sick', which is probably only half true. They're predators. They're psychopaths out of control.”

“Did you learn about them at the academy?” I asked, meaning at the FBI Academy in Quantico.

“It was one of my studies, yes.”

“So you can profile one?”

“Sure.”

A breeze eddied crisp leaves from our yard, which had begun looking more autumn-like now that the trees turned beautiful shades of gold and red. I reminded myself I had some dusting to do in the house as one of my household duties. The yard work was now all Weeks’.

“Did they identify her yet?”

“Not that I know. I'll probably learn more when I get to work tonight.” She paused, but I could tell she wanted to say more, so I didn't move to get out yet.

“One thing I do know is that when there's one body, there'll be more. Maybe some from previous attacks will be discovered. Or someone hasn't reported someone missing, as yet. I'm not saying this to scare you, but to prepare you.”

I nodded somberly.

“Just keep aware of your surroundings, like you did today. Don't take anything for granted, like thinking this creep isn't still out there, because he is.”

“You think he might hit in our town?”

“I hope not, but like I told you, he's a predator and he'll find a vic and carry on as he would normally without feeling remorse or fear.”

I took a breath and let it out. “On that note, I've got some housework to do for my aunt before I hit the books.”

“Just be safe and lock the doors when you're home.”

A chill ran down my spine just then. “Wow. You're scaring me now.”

“There's no way to know how this guy grabs his vics, so we have to take every precaution. Sorry, but that's just the way it is.”

“Thanks. Have a good shift,” I told her, knowing it was a twelve-hour shift. Sometimes they did double shifts to give other people time off. Or if something came in that needed their attention. I was thinking that if the killer began killing in our county, that would be a big headache, for sure.

“Thanks. Be careful. Be safe,” she said.

I left her and crossed the grass to the sidewalk leading to the light-green house with dormers. The porch swing was now home to a stuffed scarecrow seated there. Looking quite happy, in a grim sort of way, a full-sized skeleton beamed next to him. One bony arm was draped around the scarecrow as though the two were good buddies. Uncle John's donation toward Halloween décor this year had certainly surprised me when he'd come up with this. And here I thought he couldn't dip into the fun part of Halloween. My aunt had arranged cornstalks on either side of the porch entry, and I'd carved a few pumpkins with Weeks’ help. I loved the smell of burning pumpkins; it reminded me of childhood, back when things that went bump in the night were usually innocent and explainable. Now, with knowing we may have a killer/rapist at large, any noise would probably make me jump a mile, have me checking closets and locking every door and window while I was home. Which is exactly what I did once I got inside, locking the front door behind me.

That was when my phone in my fanny pack vibrated and made me jump.

“Oh, shit!” I said, reaching for the thing. The readout said it was Nate. I answered.

“Hi.”

“You sound breathless. I didn't catch you on your run, did I?”

“No. I just got home. I'm just a little spooked, is all.” I headed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water.

“Spooked? Everything's okay, isn't it?”

“Yes. It's just that we're told to lock doors and windows, that sort of thing.” I set my phone down on the table, having engaged the speaker and cracked open the bottle.

“I can come by and pick you up tonight,” he said.

“In the Mustang? Sounds awesome,” I said. “I thought your brother's car was on the fritz, and he was using it.”

“His other car is fixed, now.” That was a Chevy Malibu, not quite as old as the classic '68 Mustang. Nate normally drove his Harley, but I didn't like riding it long distances. Plus, it was getting too cold to ride.

“Don't tell me. You fixed it.”

“That's right.”

“Good. I hate night classes, but I like when you pick me up,” I said. “But in a car, not the Harley.”

He laughed.

“And I like picking you up.”

Our conversation dipped into the usual chatter about nothing in particular and came to a close soon after. I then went about the business of taking a shower—another reason I was so spooked, as I was all alone in the house. The shower was all the way upstairs.

Having already locked the front door, I made sure the back doors were locked, that no window was unlocked—which it shouldn't be this time of year, but I still made doubly sure. I took out clean underwear, grabbed my sweats, and headed for the bathroom, locking that door as well. With visions of killers sneaking in while I was noisily taking a shower, I opted for a bath, instead. Twenty minutes later, all the sweat washed away, I emerged from the bath and opened the door to the hallway, letting the steam out. Silence greeted me, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs, and the refrigerator making its usual gurgling noises. Poe, our cat, would be with Aunt Jessica at the bookstore, so I was absolutely alone. Hearing nothing, I dashed to my room and decided a locked door there would be prudent, too. See? I was abnormally paranoid about a killer lurking around the house. I mentally slapped myself and unlocked my bedroom door. I decided, though, to keep the door ajar, this way giving the killer easy access to me. But I'd hear him coming up our creaky steps so I could grab something to throw at him. My mind was in a dither about this, that's for sure.

Trying to keep my mind off my paranoid concerns, I waded through homework and chose to do some of it. My history class was tonight, and I had to read a chapter or two to keep myself current. There was a test in a few days. I wasn't great at remembering dates and names, but I was somehow holding a passing grade. I just wasn't looking forward to mid-finals, which were as inevitable as snow was here in winter.

After less than an hour, I fell asleep on my bed, which I attributed to a combination of boredom with the subjects, and loss of concern over any possibility of being murdered today.

Noise downstairs woke me. It's funny how you don't realize you've fallen asleep until you wake up. Weeks’ voice was distinctive, and it was a one-sided conversation, so I presumed it was a phone call. From whom was the question. I couldn't determine if it was Aunt Jessica he spoke to or someone else.

Thumping downstairs, I breezed into the kitchen where John Weeks paced and spoke into his cell phone. By his stiff posture, and other body language tells, he was into a serious conversation.

“What's it look like?… Is the coroner there?… Should I come out or what?” Pause and then, “I'll meet you there, Mo.” He hung up and looked at me with dark blue eyes. He stood six-two, broad-shouldered, and at age thirty-nine, he was still what my aunt would call a “hunk”. I wasn't sure, but maybe she thought his Tom Selleck mustache was sexy, too. He'd been divorced years ago and had three daughters—all grown now and living elsewhere or going to college. He never wears a tie with his dark brown sheriff's uniform, and today was no exception. I was slowly getting used to the fact he now lived with us, after my aunt and he had tied the knot over the summer.

“Hi, Lainey, I've gotta go.” He picked up the keys to his SUV.

“What's going on?”

He shook his head. I thought he wasn't going to share the news. But I had a feeling I knew what it was.

“There's another body,” I said. My clue was his asking if the coroner was there yet over the phone.

He turned his big head toward me as he grasped the knob of the back door and gave me a look as though I'd snatched that right out of his head.

“I overheard you talking on the phone.” I thought I'd better explain before he thought I had supernatural powers of telepathy. I don't, but sometimes I get strong hunches. And I can read people really well.

“Right. Gotta go. In case I can't call Jessica, let her know not to hold supper for me. I'll find something to eat when I get back.” He swooshed out the door as if urgency was needed to get to a dead body. But then, it might be another raped murder victim. That was my best hunch by the way he acted and the things he'd said into the phone.

I saluted the shut door, then darted my gaze to the kitchen clock. The big hand was snuggling up to the number 11 on the face, and the small hand pointed at the 5. I didn't have my cell phone on me, so reached for the landline set on the wall and punched in the number for my aunt's shop.

“Good evening, Books n' Such,” said my aunt's pleasant voice in my ear. I'd expected her to have let the answering machine pick up by now.

“Hi, Aunt Jess,” I said.

“Oh, hi, Lainey. Everything okay?”

“That's what I'm calling about. Your sheriff husband had a call. Sounded serious, he had to run and said not to wait for him for dinner.”

My aunt's reaction was predictable. “I hope it's not another murder.”

“Sounded like it. He wouldn't say, but I overheard the word 'coroner' used in a sentence in a phone conversation, and I asked if another body was found.”

“And he said nothing.”

“Right. I can read his mind,” I smirked into the phone.

“So, you're calling me so that I don't worry about making supper for all three of us.”

“I knew I'd gotten my mind-reading abilities from someone.”

She chuckled. “Okay, I'm closing up shop and I'll be home. Figure out what you want to eat. Me and Poe will be home in a little while.” My aunt's shop was only open until five, except for Saturdays. Most places closed the same time, except for diners, which stayed open until nine. The bars stayed open much later, of course.

“Be careful,” I said. Those words had become the official end of every conversation I'd been in today.

“I will.” On the tail end, Poe made a plaintiff meow into the phone, and then she clicked off. As I replaced the handset, a siren wailed somewhere nearby. From the direction, I thought it was down Front Street—the main road that extended along the river. I made my way to the front door, opened it, and watched a sheriff's vehicle with lights flashing, but no siren, rush past the house heading downtown. I wondered where this body had been found. Obviously it would be on our side of the river, since Weeks' deputies were involved. Thus it could be anywhere in Scott County.

Maureen had been right when she'd said there'd be another body found. I could almost bet it was another one like the first. I hated when I was right about murder.

CHAPTER2

Outside, the sun was vacating the sky, leaving a burnt-orange glow in the west. Streetlights were blinking on as I stood with the front door open, feeling the chill of this autumn night through my hoodie. Lights in neighbors' houses glowed. Some neighbors’ yards had received the usual decorations of Halloween lights, spooks, and cadavers rising out of lawns. The Davises’ boasted a life-sized coffin and somehow the lid lifted every other minute or so, whereby the vampire within would grimace at passersby. On the lawn next to them, an inflated ghost and an over-large pumpkin glowed. I could hear the sound of the air compressor working to keep them inflated. Halloween was only a week away.

To get into the spirit, I plugged in our orange lights that hung and draped over the entrance to the porch and lit the candles inside our three pumpkins. My aunt had bought enough candy to feed every living soul in Montclair. We did get a good crowd on Halloween, from my past experience living here.

In the moments it took me to do all that, my aunt pulled up to the front door. Unusual, I thought, for her to do this. She usually parked around back in the small driveway and came in through the kitchen.

Carrying cloth bags, she headed up the walk, her heels clicking smartly on the cement. Poe, the black and white long-hair furball darted ahead, meowing as though my aunt were visually impaired and needed his voice to guide her.

“Hi,” she said.

“You bought groceries?” I asked, looking at the bags.

“During lunch. I've got a pizza and some other frozen meals.”

“Ooo. My favorite,” I said.

“Me too. No dishes, and I've got the large portion of spaghetti and meatballs for John, whenever he gets home.” It was sometimes easier than preparing a meal, especially when her sheriff husband had to work nights—sometimes until the wee hours of the morning.

“If he gets home.” I grabbed one of the bags and helped her inside. Shutting the door, I twisted both the doorknob lock and then the deadbolt to secure our safety. We put away groceries in record time. I told her about Maureen's new Jeep, and where I'd seen her on my jog. The usual conversation of our respective day filled the kitchen as we zapped our meals in the microwave, one at a time. Our meal was interrupted when my aunt's phone bleeped. From the limited amount of words used, I knew it was Weeks calling her to let her know he would be extremely late. When she hung up she let out a sigh.

“That was Uncle John?”

“Yes. He's about five miles south of here in a farmer's field where they found a body.”

I was amazed she was able to speak of this at the dinner table. We—that is, Weeks and I—were forbidden to speak or discuss the business of murder and mayhem in or around town, or anything remotely related to gore and dead bodies.

“And he'll be very late,” I said. It wasn't a question.

“Yes.” She looked at what was left over on her plate and didn't move for her fork. Instead she picked up her plate and took it to the sink.

“Did he say if they knew who it was?” I asked carefully, wondering why she was so upset, and yet wanted to talk about this.

“No. He said that it was so decayed they would have to use dental records to know, once they got it to that point.” She paused at the garbage pail and then dumped what was left of her tuna noodle casserole into the garbage.

I could only conclude that this body had been in the field for months, in order for the body to be so decomposed that it couldn't be identified. It also meant that this was the work of a serial killer and we were probably nowhere near finding all the bodies he may have dumped along his killing path.

I took my plate to the sink. My aunt's mood filled the room. “I'm sorry. Maybe he shouldn't have told you so much about it?”

“No. That's not it,” she said and turned to look at me. She crossed her arms and did her best to keep a somber face, yet not allow tears to well up, because that's exactly what her facial muscles were working toward. “When I was a girl, a neighbor's teenage girl went missing. She was my babysitter for a time. She was sixteen.” She paused and went on, “Beth Ann Hinks, was her name. I remember it like it was yesterday. The town was shook up real bad. Her body was found in a farmer's field too, about a year afterwards.”

“Did they ever catch the killer?”

She shook her head and moved away from me. “I hate when things like this happen!” Her voice went loud. Poe stopped eating and looked up at her. My aunt did not raise her voice like this usually.

I stepped over to her and put an arm around her. Usually, she would comfort me when I was upset. Our rolls were reversed. “He'll be caught,” I said. “A lot of forensic technology has become sophisticated since then. You'll see. They'll figure out who it is, eventually. They'll be able to go with anything from fingerprints to the smallest fibers that will link him to the murders.”

“But in the meantime he kills,” she said. “Again and again and again.”

Nate picked me up at 6:30 on the dot in the Mustang. I didn't want to lead off with the news, but I couldn't wait.

“Another body's been found,” I said as Nate pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn at the quiet intersection, and headed back toward the main street to get on I-80.

He glanced at me as he drove. “Where?”

“Five miles south in a farmer's field.”

He went quiet for a while as he drove. His raven black hair, now cut at about shoulder length, was tamed with a black and white bandanna. This had become his usual style as of late, other than putting it back in a tail with a rubber band.

“Brian has a new girlfriend,” he said. Brian was Nate's half-brother and had begun living with him at the end of summer. They looked nothing alike. Probably because Nate was a deeply bronzed half-American Indian, half-white, while Brian was all white with hair that I'd have to call sandy.

Happy that he changed the subject, I warmed up to it. We talked about that for a good ten miles. Then he turned off I-80, and we went through the small town of Cedar Ridge, slowing for the speed limit, and turned down the road to the entrance of Whitney College, all lit up on the outside as well as the inside. He dropped me off at the south entrance and would be picking me up here as well. His automotive classes were in another building entirely, and he now drove out to it, as we were cutting it really close.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I always had to block memories of that one night only a month ago, when Cooper Smith—who had then been president of the college—tried to abduct me in order to escape the FBI. It hadn't worked and I was fortunate in having a lot of people watching out for me. It was getting easier to go to this class, but going into the history classroom always drummed up the memory of being given that phony note that brought me as near to danger as I'd ever been since the flood.

Finding the seat next to Abigail Dawson, I settled in a chair. Hi's were exchanged, and I noticed it was nearly seven and Suze hadn't come in yet.

“Where's Suze?” I asked. She was always on time.

“I don't know. No one has seen her since sometime this morning.”

“Really?” Suze was her nickname. Her actual name was Rebbecca Sue Rawlings. Super smart, and helpful when it came to studying for exams. She seemed to know what the teacher would put on the tests, as though she had some sort of internal link to his tests. I wouldn't dream of looking further into that one.

“She doesn't answer her phone.” Abigail held up her own phone and showed it ringing but no answer.

“That's weird.” A chill went up my arms. “Does her parents know?”

“Her parents are in Jamaica. Besides, I wouldn't know how to contact them,” Abigail said.

“Who goes to Jamaica in the fall?” I said.

“I guess Suze's parents, that's who.”

Mr. Kulp strode in and greeted us, and class began. I tried to keep my mind on the lecture and took notes, but my brain had other ideas. When we had our fifteen minutes of break time, I strolled out the door with Abigail heading for the girls' restroom.

“So, she's at home alone? No brothers or sisters?” I asked.

Abigail shook her head, blond tresses glimmering under the lights as we walked. “Only child.”

As I did my business, I couldn't get this out of my head. Who do you notify when your parents are gone, and out of the country when someone goes missing? And she was an adult too.

A new thought hit as we strolled out into the hallway. “Is her car still here?”

Abigail shrugged.

“Hey, Lainey.” The voice belonged to Logan Schuth. His blond hair was a little darker than Abigail's.

“Hey. Have you seen Suze?” I asked.

Like I'd hit him over the head, he made a jerky move and scrunched up his face. “No, come to think of it.” He turned to Abigail. “I thought it looked like someone was missing over at your table.”

“She won't answer her phone. I don't know who to go to about this,” Abigail said holding her phone up again.

“I do.” I took out my phone. Knowing my uncle was in the middle of something, I chose to call Maureen. When her voice came over my phone, I said, “Hi, Maureen, this is Lainey.”

“Hi. Something I can do for you?” she asked, sounding as though she were busy.

“This is something about a student here at my college. No one's seen her since midday. She doesn't answer her phone, and her parents are out of the country.”

“Is her car still at the school?”

“That's what I asked, but no one has gone to look. Now it's dark and who knows?”

“Give me her name, I'll have them run it and see if we can get a local over there to check it out.”

“The only local is Okert, and he's only part-time,” I informed. I knew Brandon Okert was Cedar Ridge's only police, and he had a daytime stint for the small town.

“That's right. Maybe we've got someone down that way. I'll put it in and someone should be there in a little while.”

“Great. Thanks.” I didn't want to make a pest of myself by asking what was happening on the second body found. I could ask later. This was more important.

My friends' somber faces filled my vision.

“What did they say?” Abigail asked.

“They're sending for someone.”

“Who's 'they'?” she asked.

“Sheriff’s police. They've probably got a squad nearby. They usually have a patrolling car somewhere near here.” It was the best I could give them.

By this time, a herd of students headed back into classrooms, and we dutifully followed suit.

I did my best to write notes, but this was really bothering me, and I kept looking at my phone, which was not a good idea in class. It took forever for class to be over with, and I walked out with Abigail, missing our third peg in the wheel.

In the hallway, we turned down the next hall and headed for the stairs. In the lower level I spotted the very tall, and lanky Hamilton, aka Ham, and Moon, who was also tall but a few inches shorter than Ham. They were standing with Franklin and Nadine, who didn't even come up to her boyfriend's shoulder. All four of them headed toward the doors where I would wait for Nate.

“What's going on?” Abigail asked as we reached the first level. Her attention was on the group of my friends standing at the doors staring outside. We walked over as Franklin and Moon stepped out and stood talking to someone. My attention wandered further out the door where I saw the red and blue lights of the cruiser in the parking lot.

Abigail and I joined the group. Other students plunged out through the exit doors, making a wide birth, but stared. I found out why everyone's attention was on this knot of my friends. Standing near them was a sheriff's deputy. His stature was like that of someone who might have played a football linebacker in his past, but had grown a little soft in the belly. He had a beefy, round face, blue eyes, and his sandy hair was cropped short of being shaved. I'd never seen him before, but they had about forty souls who worked for the Scott County Sheriff's Police.

“Here she is,” Moon said to the deputy.

He turned to me. “Are you Lainey Quilholt?” he asked.

“Yes.” I stopped in front of him. Abigail and now Logan both stood on either side of me.

“Did you call in that a Rebbecca Sue Rawlings was missing?” the deputy asked.

“Yes.” I looked over at Abigail. “We're concerned she hasn't been seen since—?” I looked at Abigail.

“This morning,” she supplied to the deputy.

“Don't her parents know where she is?” he asked.

“No. They're traveling. In another country,” Abigail said. I wanted to let her answer since she knew Rebbecca better than I.

“That's why we called,” I said. I hadn't expected that Maureen would get someone out here so soon.

“Where are her parents?” the deputy asked, writing a few things down.

“Her parents are in Jamaica,” Abigail said.

Nodding, the deputy wrote this down on his pad. “Do you have their number?”

“No. If I did I would have called them,” she said, sounding a bit put out.

“Don't worry. If you have their names? The mother or father?”

I exchanged glances with Abigail. She shook her head. “'Fraid not,” I said.

“That's alright.” He put his right hand out that held his pen. “We'll be able to get that from school records. Just for now I need to know when the last time you saw and spoke Rebbecca, and where.”

“Well, last time I saw and spoke to her she was in the Pit saying she was going to go for a jog. You know, around the jogging path that goes around the perimeter of the school,” said Abigail.

At that moment his radio made a fuzzy transmission. With his left hand, he moved the mic toward his face and he mumbled something into it, “Ten-twenty-three,” which I knew meant “stand by.”

He asked us several more questions, and then asked to see where Rebbecca's car was in the lot, if we knew. Abigail was the only one who knew what it looked like, so I allowed her and Logan to take the deputy out to the parking lot.

“What was that all about?” Nadine asked her brother, Moon, who was holding hands with Ham while standing outside. They stepped off the curb and headed off toward the parking lot. I hadn't realized they were dating. I thought they made a good-looking couple, all things considered.

“This girl that's in my history class, she hasn't been seen by or heard from by her friend all day,” I explained.

“Oh,” Franklin said, eyes going up as they often did when someone has explained something to him. “I thought it was something like that. She's probably homesick or something.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, goodnight,” Franklin said, clasping Nadine's hand.

“'Night,” Nadine said, waving with her free hand. I waved back.

Turning toward the door, I stood waiting for Nate. I didn't like that all my friends had left, plus the crowds in the hallway had drastically diminished, and I was soon standing by myself waiting and watching for Nate's Mustang. In the meantime, a cruiser pulled through the lot and disappeared out of view. I wasn't sure if that was a second squad car or the one the first deputy had arrived in. The cruiser stopped, and now I saw the big deputy who had spoken to me and Abigail, step over to it, leaned in, and spoke to the driver, pointing.

That was when the dark Mustang pulled up. I moved swiftly to it and got in.

“What's going on?” Nate asked, using his chin to point at the police activity.

“There's a missing student,” I said.

“Really? Who?”

“I don't think you know her,” I said. “Rebbecca Rawlings.”

“No. I don't. Hope they find her,” he said.

Hope they find her safe. The thought entered my head, but I didn't say it, and it haunted me the next day.

Weeks did not come home that night. It was apparent when he appeared the next morning, looking worn and ragged as he pulled off his dark coat with the six-pointed star emblem of the sheriff’s department on the sleeve and the badge over the heart. My aunt poured a mug of coffee and handed it to him.

“Morning,” she said, pecking him on the cheek.

“Morning. Thanks.” Smiling, he took the mug and settled into a chair with a huge sigh as though he'd gone through the roughest night in his life. His eyes looked puffy, and I wasn't so sure if it was because he'd been crying—which was something I'd never seen him do—or because he'd been up all night. He needed a shave and I could see he was relieved to be home, but he was troubled. I felt it in my bones that whatever he saw yesterday was not pleasant.

Oddly, Poe had disappeared as soon as he came in. He usually didn't give up his food so fast, and he'd become used to Weeks, so it seemed odd to me. Almost the heralding of trouble brewing.

“John, do you want something to eat?” my aunt asked, going to the refrigerator.

“Not right now,” he said head bent, staring into his coffee.

I finished my peanut butter toast and put my small plate in the sink, quietly, as though any little noise might disturb him. I don't know why we do that, try to be quiet when someone is having a rough patch.

“It's something I wouldn't wish on any parent, and I was the one to tell them,” Weeks said, finally. His voice was subdued. I caught my aunt's glance and we both looked to Weeks then.

“Remember the Caldwells?” he asked. “They moved in last year, over in that new subdivision.”

“Yes, I think I do,” my aunt said.

“Their daughter Julie went missing this past June, right out from their backyard. No witnesses. We brought the dogs to get a scent, lost it in the woods by their house.”

“So, it was her?” I asked. He nodded. “How do you know?”

“We haven't gotten the dental record yet, but they'll have a match. I know it. The clothing was hers. That was all we had to go by. Her body was so decomposed…” His head dipped again. He hadn't taken a sip from the steamy mug since taking it from my aunt's hands.

My aunt went over and put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it.

“I'll—um—I've gotta go,” I said, grabbing my backpack.

Weeks looked up. “Lainey.”

I stopped halfway to the back door and looked his way.