Page 62 of Dirty Liars

As I turned to leave the viewing room, a floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs. I paused, head tilted, listening. It was an old house, random noises were common—the settling of wood, the expansion and contraction of pipes, the whisper of air through vents. But something about this noise felt different. Deliberate.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet space. “Sheldon? Emmy Lu? Is someone there?”

No answer came, only the continuing silence and the steady ticktock of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I shook my head at my own jumpiness. Between the murders, the cult, and Jack’s warnings, I was letting my imagination run wild.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, checking the time. Still early. I sent a quick text to Lily, confirming when she’d be in to assist with the autopsies, then tucked the phone back in my pocket.

The paperwork for the cemetery was in my office, and I needed to make sure it was ready for the record keeper at the cemetery. I made my way down the long hallway, past the arrangement room and the casket showroom, toward Emmy Lu’s office at the front.

The hallway seemed longer this morning, the shadows deeper in the corners despite the sunlight streaming through the windows. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I turned around, scanning the empty corridor behind me, but saw nothing out of place.

“Get it together, Jaye,” I muttered to myself. “You’ve got pregnancy brain.”

Emmy Lu’s office door was ajar. I pushed it open slowly, eyes sweeping the room. Everything looked normal. Her desk was stacked neatly with files, my chair pushed back at the angle I’d left it. The blinds were closed, casting the room in shadow.

I flipped on the light and moved to the desk, rifling through the stacks of paper until I found the cemetery paperwork. I slipped it into a folder and placed it right on top so it was easy to find, then headed back into the hallway, pulling the door firmly shut behind me.

The sound of movement came again, this time from the direction of the arrangement room. A soft shuffling, like feet on carpet.

“Hello?” I called again, my heart rate picking up. “Is someone here?”

I stood perfectly still, straining to hear over the suddenly loud pounding of my heart. The building fell silent once more, but the prickle of unease had become a cold weight in my stomach. I wasn’t alone.

“Sheldon, is that you? This isn’t funny.”

I began walking quickly back toward the kitchen and my lab. I’d be safe in my lab. I could lock myself inside, and no one could get in. My hand reached for my phone, ready to call Jack, when another sound stopped me in my tracks.

A door closing, followed by footsteps—not bothering to be quiet anymore.

I spun around, adrenaline surging through my body. The hallway behind me was empty, but the footsteps continued, getting closer. My eyes darted to the nearest exit, calculating whether I could reach it before whoever was approaching turned the corner.

I never got the chance to find out.

The blow came from behind, a sudden, explosive pain at the base of my skull that sent white-hot sparks shooting across my vision. I was falling before I registered what had happened.

My last coherent thought before darkness claimed me was of the baby, a desperate prayer that it would be safe even as consciousness slipped away like water through my fingers.

Then, there was nothing but blackness.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Consciousness came in waves,each one bringing me closer to a reality I wasn’t sure I wanted to face. The first thing I registered was the smell—musty carpet, hot metal, and the faint copper tang of my own blood. The second was darkness, absolute and suffocating. The third was movement—a nauseating, lurching motion that told me I was in a vehicle.

I was in a trunk.

Terror seized me, my heart hammering so violently I thought it might crack my ribs. My wrists were bound behind my back, plastic cutting into my flesh when I tried to move. My ankles were similarly restrained with zip ties, cinched tight enough to numb my feet.

Just like Derek Rogan.

The thought sent ice through my veins. I’d seen his body, the neat hole in the back of his skull, the calculated execution. I was being taken to die the same way.

The vehicle hit a pothole, and my head slammed against something hard. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and I tasted bile. I tried to orient myself, to think past the panic, but the car swerved sharply, and my stomach revolted. I retched, unable to turn away as vomit splashed back onto my face and neck. The acid burned my nostrils, blending with the coppery smell of blood and intensifying my nausea.

The baby.

A new level of fear gripped me. I wasn’t just fighting for my life anymore. I pressed my cheek against the rough carpeting, trying to steady my breathing. In. Out. Stay calm. Stay alive. For the tiny life depending on me.

The car took another sharp turn, then began to bounce over what felt like gravel. We were leaving paved roads behind. My body slid across the trunk, slamming against the wheel well. Something in the darkness jabbed into my ribs—a tire iron, maybe. I twisted, trying to position it between my bound hands, but another violent swerve sent it sliding away from me.

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