Page 58 of The Killer She Knew

Ford leveled the gun at her chest, and the blood drained from her upper body on a gutting exhale. “I really wish you wouldn’t have seen that.”

He slammed the butt of the weapon into her temple.

And the world went black.

THIRTY-FIVE

Durham, New Hampshire

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

7:19 p.m.

Dean had been released from custody.

Every cell in her body screamed as though it’d been put through the blender. It’d worked. The alibi she’d given Durham PD had gotten him released. He was coming home. Any minute now. It’d been a long few days. She hadn’t been able to sleep alone in her too-small twin bed across from her brother’s since Dean’s arrest. Classwork had been shoved to the back of her mind. She’d barely managed to remember to feed her and her brother, but none of that mattered anymore.

He was coming back. To her.

Leigh pinched the end of the balloon with one hand and blew into it. Dean hated yellow. Said he had a physical reaction anytime he saw it, but that was all she’d been able to get from the bookstore on short notice. The streamers might’ve been a bit much, but they had reason to celebrate. She’d done her hair andmakeup. She’d told her brother not to expect her back in their dorm room tonight and left him with money for pizza. She still wasn’t old enough to buy alcohol, but she and Dean could get by without it. Actually, she preferred it that way. She wanted to remember this night. Every minute, every touch, every kiss.

She tied off the balloon and tossed it onto the bed with the rest. She’d even taken the initiative to clean up his space. Washed the sheets, lit a candle, tossed all the garbage. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she set her palms on her knees and studied the decorations. Then got up and fixed a streamer that’d fallen. Everything had to be perfect. And she was ready. For them to move on with their lives. To start something new. Just as she’d tried—and failed—to do for her dad. But the past wasn’t going to ruin tonight. This was about the two of them and his promise to take care of her. Always.

The minutes ticked by. Too slow. Twenty. Fifty. Two hours.

Leigh checked her phone for the one hundredth—or was it the two hundredth?—time. He hadn’t called or messaged her. Hers went unanswered. Straight to voicemail. Had the police found a reason to keep him in custody? The investigating detective had told her he’d be released today, and Professor Morrow hadn’t emailed her about any more developments in the case. As far as Durham PD was concerned, Dean was innocent. Her alibi had saved him.

It wasn’t until after midnight Leigh got off that damn bed and stumbled back to her dorm room. Knowing Dean wasn’t ever going to walk through that door again.

Durham, New Hampshire

Thursday, October 10

7:36 p.m.

Her fingertips prickled with numbness.

Leigh tried to drag her chin away from her chest, but the momentum only caused her to overcorrect. The back of her head hit metal. Lightning struck down her spine. She couldn’t help the groan that followed.

“What was it that gave me away, Leigh?” That voice. She knew that voice. Familiar but different. Rawer.

Churning water reached her ears. Instant dread pooled at the back of her throat. Water. The basement. Gravity pinned her in place. So… heavy. Sharp edges cut into her wrists as she tried to bring one hand up, but the bite of pain was enough to wake her up. A single emergency lantern lit up a corner of the room. Thick columns supported an exposed ceiling of piping, electrical work, and fluorescent lighting. No windows. The entire room had been painted white, but there didn’t seem to be any use for it other than storage with cubby-like shelves framed against the wall in front of her.

Her shoes were soaked, under a foot of flood water. A new wave of nausea seized control as she tugged at the zip ties around her wrists and ankles. The chair swayed as she rocked from left to right. One wrong move, and she’d never get back up. “You… You killed them.”

How was that possible? How hadn’t she seen the signs before now?

“Was it the driver’s licenses?” Movement lapped water higher up her shins. Then he was standing right in front of her. Looking the same as she remembered. The lantern cast half of his face in shadows, but he didn’t resemble the monster they’d been hunting all this time. “No. You were suspicious of me before that. Had to be the tattoo that medicolegal investigator found on the marshal’s body. What’s her name? Jenny. Also, that’s a really weird word. Medicolegal. What the hell kind of position is that? What do you think?”

The marshal. The real Max Ford. His was the body she’d recovered from the kill room. Leigh sucked in a humidity-laced breath to clear her head. People really had to stop hitting her in the head. She wasn’t sure how much more her brain could take, but, she supposed, it was better than being stabbed or given a bullet wound. She summoned the energy to meet his gaze, but it cost her more than she’d thought. Her head slumped downward again. “I’m starting to think I’m a terrible judge of character.”

His laugh reverberated through her. Ford—or whatever the hell his name was—straightened. “Can’t argue with that. You read killers better than anyone I’ve ever met. Except for the one right in front of you.”

“You’re a real terror. You know that? Who steals their victims’ identities and tries to become them?” Leigh memorized the layout of the room. Every inch, every corner, every wall. Water leaked in from the ceiling and walls, past the rubber-like sealant and paint. The entire city seemed to drain straight onto this campus. But she had time. She could get herself out of this.

“I live those lives better than they ever could.” Ford pulled his glasses free, tucking them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He stripped that off next, tossing it. In a matter of seconds, he stood before her as an entirely different person. No longer unsure of himself or his role in this investigation, but volatile. Provoking. With a murderous edge that could surely destroy her. He shrugged, but the movement didn’t feel natural. A leftover from one of his stolen identities. “And maybe one day, I’ll find one that sticks.”

A laugh ripped free without her permission. Most likely from a concussion, because this certainly wasn’t a funny moment. “I don’t think you’ll ever stop. You like the challenge too much. Staying in one place or in one identity too long equates to death for you. You’ve gotten a taste for it, and now you’re addicted. You couldn’t stop if you tried.”

---