Karen Rose: Kill for Me

He was gone and she was alone. And not dead.

He missed. Goddamn him to hell, he missed . He was gone. He’ll be back .

But she saw no one. Vartanian will be here any minute with the state cops . The woman had said this. Monica didn’t know anybody named Vartanian, but whoever he was, he was her only chance at survival. Get to the door . Monica pushed to her knees and crawled. A foot. Another foot. Get to the hall and you can get away.

She heard footsteps. A woman, beaten and bloody, her clothes torn, was staggering toward her. The other two , the doctor had said. This was Bailey. She’d gotten away. There was still hope . Monica lifted her hand. “Help me. Please.”

Bailey hesitated, then yanked her to her feet. “Move.”

“Are you Bailey?” Monica managed to whisper.

“Yes. Now, move or die.” Together they staggered down the hall. Finally they came to a door and stumbled into daylight, so bright it hurt.

Bailey came to an abrupt stop and Monica’s heart dropped to her stomach. In front of them stood a man with a gun pointed straight at them. He wore the same uniform as Mansfield. The badge on his shirt said “Sheriff Frank Loomis.” This wasn’t Vartanian with the state police. This was Mansfield ’s boss and he wouldn’t let them get away.

So this is how it would end. Tears seeped down her face, burning her raw skin as Monica waited for the next crack of gunfire.

To her shock Sheriff Loomis put his finger to his lips. “Follow the trees,” he whispered. “You’ll find the road.” He pointed to Monica. “How many more in there?”

“None,” Bailey whispered harshly. “He killed them all. All except her.”

Loomis swallowed. “Then go. I’ll go get my car and meet you by the road.”

Bailey tightened her hold. “Come on,” she whispered. “Just a little bit longer.”

Monica stared at her feet, willing them to move. One step, then another. Freedom. She’d get to freedom. Then she’d make them all pay. Or die trying.

Dutton, Georgia, Friday, February 2, 3:05 p.m.

Susannah Vartanian stared at the passenger side mirror as the house in which she’d grown up grew smaller as each second passed. I have to get out of here. As long as she remained here, at this house, in this town , she was no longer the woman she’d become. She was no longer a successful New York City assistant district attorney who commanded respect. As long as she was here, she was a child, alone and afraid, hiding in a closet. A victim. Susannah was damn tired of being a victim.

“Are you all right?” The question came from the man behind the wheel. Special Agent Luke Papadopoulos. Her brother’s partner and best friend. Luke had driven her here an hour before and then the growing dread in the pit of her gut had made her wish he’d slow down. Now that it was over, she wished he’d drive faster.

Get me away from here. Please. “I’m fine.” She didn’t need to look at Papadopoulos to know he watched her. She’d felt the weight of his gaze from the moment they’d met the week before. She’d been standing next to her brother at their parents’ funeral and Luke had come to pay his respects. He watched her then. He watched her now.

But Susannah’s gaze was fixed on the passenger side mirror. She wanted to look away from the rapidly shrinking house of her youth, but her eyes would not obey. The lone figure standing in the front yard compelled her to keep watching. Even from a distance she could feel the sadness that weighed down his broad shoulders.

Her brother Daniel was a big man, as their father had been. The women in their family were small, but the men were hulking and large. Some larger than others. Susannah swallowed back the panic that had lurked at the base of her throat for the past two weeks. Simon’s dead, for real this time. He can’t hurt you anymore. But he could, and he would. That he could torment her from beyond the grave was an irony Simon would find hilarious. Her older brother Simon had been one son of a bitch.

Now he was a dead son of a bitch and Susannah hadn’t shed a single tear. Her parents were dead as well, because Simon had killed them. Now, only the two of them remained. Just me and Daniel , she thought bitterly. Just one big happy family.

Just she and her oldest brother, Special Agent Daniel J. Vartanian, Georgia Bureau of Investigation. One of the good guys. Daniel had built a career trying to make up for the fact that he was Judge Arthur Vartanian’s spawn. Just like I have .

She thought of the devastation in his eyes when she’d walked away, leaving him standing in the front yard of the old house. After thirteen years, Daniel finally knew what he’d done, and more importantly, what he had not.

Now Daniel wanted forgiveness, Susannah thought bitterly. He wanted atonement. After more than ten years of total silence, her brother Daniel wanted a relationship.

Her brother Daniel wanted too damn much. He’d have to live with what he had done, and what he had not. Just like I have.

She knew why he’d left, so long ago. Daniel hated the house almost as much as she did. Almost. She’d managed to avoid the house the week before, when they’d buried their parents. After the funeral Susannah walked away, vowing never to return.

But a phone call from Daniel the day before had brought her back. Here . To Dutton. To this house . To face what she had done, and importantly, what she had not.

An hour ago she’d stood on that front porch for the first time in years. It had taken every ounce of her strength to walk in that door, up those stairs, into her brother Simon’s old bedroom. Susannah did not believe in ghosts, but she did believe in evil.

Evil lived in that house, in that bedroom, long after Simon died. Both times.

The evil had settled around her as soon as she’d entered Simon’s room, sending panic clawing up her throat along with a scream she kept silenced. She’d drawn on her last reserves, keeping the illusion of serenity and control intact as she’d forced herself into the closet, dreading what she feared lay behind its walls.

Her worst nightmare. Her greatest shame. For thirteen years it had remained hidden in a box in a hidey-hole behind Simon’s bedroom wall, unbeknownst to anyone. Even me. Especially me. After thirteen years, the box was out of the closet. Ta-da.

Now, the box resided in the trunk of the car belonging to Special Agent Luke Papadopoulos, GBI. Daniel’s partner and friend. Papadopoulos was taking the box back to GBI headquarters in Atlanta where it would be entered into evidence. Where CSI techs and detectives and the legal team would sort through the contents. Hundreds of pictures, hideous and obscene and very, very real. They’ll see. They’ll know.

The car went around a bend and the house disappeared. The spell broken, Susannah eased back against the seat and drew a quiet breath. It was finally over.

No, it was only beginning for Susannah, and nowhere near the end for Daniel and his partner. Daniel and Luke were chasing a killer, a man who’d murdered five Dutton women in the last week. A man who’d turned his murder victims into clues to lead authorities to what was left of a band of rich-boy thugs who’d wreaked their own evil on Dutton’s teenaged girls thirteen years before. A man who, for his own reasons, wanted the rich boys’ crimes made public. A man who hated the band of rich-boy bastards almost as much as Susannah did. Almost. No one hated them more than Susannah. Unless it was one of their twelve other surviving victims.

Soon they’ll know, the other victims. Soon everyone will know , she thought.