No Darker Place. Debra Webb
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.
No. No. No. She would not believe the worst yet.
Bobbie shook her head. She’d felt confident the Storyteller wouldn’t risk taking another victim—unless it was her. “You can’t be sure Gwen isn’t in hiding. If she’s involved, she did break the law.” No matter that her intentions might have been noble. Bobbie’s head was really throbbing now. The knowledge of what the Storyteller would do to Gwen if he had taken her twisted in her gut like a wad of fishhooks.
The chief rose from his chair. “No buts, Detective. Until we locate Adams and uncover exactly who Evans was working with, you are on paid administrative leave. Now go home. I don’t want to see you here again until we understand what we’re dealing with.”
“What about—”
“Until I say otherwise,” he cut her off, “I want to know where you are and what you’re doing every minute. I’m assigning a surveillance detail. Don’t give them any grief.”
Bobbie stowed the rant she wanted to launch and squared her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
Holding back the anger and frustration, she walked out. How could she find the Storyteller if she was on admin leave? Maybe she didn’t have to find him. If what Evans said was right, he was already here. All she had to do was make sure he had the opportunity to come a little closer.
A damned surveillance detail would complicate that goal.
As she bounded out of the building, she reassured herself that the cunning psychopath would find a way. After all, he was here to finish her story.
It was what the bastard did between this second and then that scared the hell out of her.
Where the hell are you, Gwen?
Coosa Street, 8:50 p.m.
Bobbie paced the sidewalk outside Central, one of the city’s most celebrated restaurants that overlooked the Alley, an equally prominent downtown entertainment district. When she’d called, Newt had urged her to come inside, but she couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be here.
This is what desperate people do, Bobbie. Just like poor Carl Evans.
She peered through the expanse of windows and scanned the crowd inside. Smiling guests were huddled in clusters of conversation. Chatter and laughter spilled out onto the sidewalk every time the door opened. The popular dining spot was a preferred venue for elegant social gatherings from campaign fund-raisers to wedding rehearsal dinners. Newt was here for the latter. His daughter’s future in-laws had chosen Central for the rehearsal dinner. Almost a decade ago Bobbie’s in-laws had done the same.
If only she had known then what she knew now.
“Another life.” Bobbie exiled the memories as she leaned against the old brick building that more than a century ago had been a warehouse. The location so close to the freight depot and waterfront made for prime real estate then and now. Smart entrepreneurs had helped turn Montgomery’s historic downtown district into the most happening scene in the city. Tonight was a perfect example. The foot traffic was heavy, even for a Friday night. Unlike her, most people had social plans at the end of the workweek.
Guilt nagged at her. Interrupting Newt’s evening was wrong. So damned wrong. She pushed away from the wall with the intention of leaving. Desperate or not, she shouldn’t