Page 88 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Placing his gun on the ground, he slipped the gold phone out of his pocket.
It had only taken him a few minutes back in Florida to bypass Julia’s passcode with some firmware he’d downloaded onto his old laptop. The one that was probably now bobbing in the Catera’s backseat.
Now he accessed her device tracking app and saw where her synced Garmin smartwatch was. Less than nine miles away. Which, presuming it was still attached to her pretty little wrist, meant she hadn’t gone far.
He looked out the shattered front door, beyond the state trooper’s SUV, to where the rain was near horizontal. The road had become a river, and the gas station forecourt was half a foot submerged. Water was everywhere; it dripped from between cracks in the ceiling tiles; it trickled down the walls; it crept in from under the SUVs tires like a slow tide.
He took another hit from the bottle, thinking about what was awaiting Julia in her immediate future. Wondering if she had any inkling of it. He wondered if she could sense the fear that would soon be emanating from every pore in her body, the way that cats could detect a coming earthquake.
Fear.
In his opinion, it ruled the world. It dictated nearly every decision a person made. Fear of missing out. Fear of failure, fear of success. Fear of getting old. Fear of death. Fear of pain. The latter being the most powerful fear of all. He knew of places you could put a razor blade in a person that would make death feel like a kindness.
Roach had learned that himself the hardest way possible.
But he was getting ahead of himself. He had to play this right, and that meant taking it one step at a time.
After all, good things came to those who wait. He smiled around the mouth of the bottle.
Bad things, too.
* * *
Jessica jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed.
The house shuddered as a gust of wind slammed into it with the force of a wrecking ball. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She wasn’t sure if it was the storm or the nightmare that had wrenched her from sleep.
In the dream, she’d been lying on an old mattress—one disturbingly similar to this one—in a dark, damp room. Metal chains shackled her wrists to the wall, a cruel detail where, thankfully, dream and reality diverged.
Then Daniel had appeared, stepping out of the darkness.
That familiar jolt hit her—pain and happiness tangled into something unbearable. She’d strained against the chains, desperate to reach him. She’d tried to speak, to tell him again how sorry she was, but the words had choked into ragged sobs.
He’d knelt beside her, fingers tracing the metal cuffs. Then he’d smiled—that same sad, beautiful smile that haunted her—and said,“You better run, baby.”
Then Inglis had walked in, holding out her gun. His voice was calm, steady.“Shoot him where you have to, ma’am.”
And then, mercifully, she’d woken up.
Jessica let out a shaky breath and rubbed her arms, the cold seeping deeper than skin. The fear still clung to her, that creeping terror that lingers at the edges of sleep, threatening to spill into the waking world. The memory left a hollow ache in its wake, a yawning emptiness she couldn’t shake.
On the other side of the bed, the sheets were rumpled. Inglis must have come back after she finally passed out.
She checked her watch. The screen lit up in the gloom. Nearly seven in the evening. She’d slept longer than she thought. But her mind ached, as if it had been running at full speed while her body lay still.
She slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom, then wandered through the darkened living room. Outside, fingers of rain tapped against the bare windowpane. The wind howled through the trees, bending them violently. It rattled the roller door on the shed like something was trying to claw its way in.
The house felt eerie. Empty. Like she was the last person left alive.
Light glowed from the kitchen.
She went in, finding Inglis sitting at the table, nursing a glass of whiskey. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he swirled the liquid.
Jessica grabbed a second glass. “You drinking alone?”
He glanced up, studying her face like he could still see the remnants of her nightmare. “Didn’t think you’d be up.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
