Page 88 of Noble Neighbor
Sunny surged from the chair and darted to the opposite side of the desk. “I have to go. Just …” She reluctantly met his distressed stare. “Give me … space. Don’t follow me. Not today. I need to think. Please,” she ended and rushed from his presence.
Reaching the end of his lane, she stopped, her stomach finally giving up the battle, expelling the contents of her breakfast. Wiping the back of her trembling hand across her mouth, she looked at the vomit marking the pristine snow.
How fitting. A perfect analogy for her fucked up life as Lathan reached from hell and spewed his evil all over her, her girls, and the people they loved.
Oliver called out. She looked back. He was making his way toward her, shouting at her to wait, that they needed to talk.
“Stay away,” she shouted. She had nothing to say to him. Not now. Maybe never.
There was no way Oliver — or Clement — would ever want to haveanythingto do with the Jones girls.
Sunny turned tail. And ran.
*
Five years ago …
Savannah huddled close to her father on the hotel sofa, staring at the screen broadcasting the public statement on the evening news the day after her meeting with the FBI. Horror, intermingled with numbness, vied with disbelief.
It was true. All so awfully true. Her husband was the Silk Rope Strangler.
And the murdering bastard she’d spent eight years of her life with had been a spineless coward, too. Afraid to face the consequences of his heinous deeds, Lathan had grabbed a gun hidden in his desk drawer and fired at the FBI when they arrived at his office to take him into custody.
They had returned fire in self-defense, fatally wounding Lathan Randolph.
“On behalf of my sister, Savannah, and my family,we offer our deepest condolences to the grieving families.I ask that you respect our privacy and give us time to process the shocking events that have transpired over the last days.” Aleck’s eyes blazed with annoyance as he looked across the pack of hyenas masquerading as members of the press.
“Did Savannah know?” one called out.
“The moment my sister stumbled upon evidence, she contacted the FBI. Savannah is as much a victim as those poor women,” Aleck said.
“That’s a lie!” a man called out from the audience. The press parted, cameras clicking, cellphones recording, allowing the upset man to storm ahead.
Savannah leaned forward. She recognized him. The man had been very verbal in the period following hisdaughter’s murder. Father of Sue-Ellen Vance, restauranthostess in Culpeper, Virginia. Victim number three. Her death had alerted the police they were dealing with a serial killer, and the FBI had become involved.
“That perverted bastard killedmybaby,” Vance yelled. “But hiswifeis going about her privileged life; hisdaughtersare still breathing. May they all burn in hell.”
Tears streamed down Savannah’s face as the man raged on, hurling invectives against Savannah, her girls, her family, until the hotel security took hold ofhim and removed him from the conference room. It was telling neither the DC police nor the FBI intervened.Then again, the last victim, Agatha Newton, was the wife of a DC cop.
“Daddy,” Savannah whispered, broken, falling back into her father’s arms.
The lid she’d kept on her emotions since finding the pendant finally blew off, and sobs of outrage and heartbreak racked her body.
She cried for the poor women her husband had violatedand killed; the families grieving the loss of daughters, wives, and dear God, mothers; and she cried for her own girls, innocent children, their lives forever altered by the evil actions of their father.
“Darlin’. My Sunny-girl,” her rancher-cum-pastor father consoled. “Don’t listen to them. You’re not to blame for anything. Aleck was right — you, Kitty-kat, little Mary — you’re his victims, too.”
Later, for the second night in a row, Savannah lay in a hotel bed, staring into the dark room, unable to sleep. Going home was not an option. She could never sleep under that roof again.
When Aleck and her mother had gone there today to collect some clothes, toys, and baby stuff, enough for the next few days at least, the press had set up camp, waiting for a glimpse of her and her girls.
She tightened her grip on Kate, safely snuggled in her arms as they shared the large bed. On her other side, Mary slept in the portable baby sleeper her mom had purchased today.
“Over my dead body,” Savannah whispered into the dark, promising to protect her girls in any way possible.
*
Chaos. Madness. Turmoil. Good and strong words, yet too weak to describe the next few days, and Savannah wondered if she’d ever be able to return to a normal life. Probably not. The wife — widow! — of a serial killer deserved no normal.
