Page 53 of The Sleeping Girls

Ellie pulled a frown. “Yeah, give me a minute. You and your cameraman can set up in the press room.”

Angelica motioned for Tom to follow her. Ellie looked for Deputy Landrum but he wasn’t at his desk.

She adjusted her ponytail as she strode to the press room. Angelica offered her a tentative smile although Ellie found no comfort in it.

“Let’s get started.” Angelica signaled her cameraman. “This is Angelica Gomez, Channel Five News, coming to you live from Crooked Creek Police Station. Once again, Detective Reeves is here to update us on the investigation into Kelsey Tiller’s disappearance.”

Ellie swallowed hard and stepped up to the mic. “As we reported previously, fifteen-year-old Kelsey Tiller is still missing. We now believe she was abducted. Sadly, this morning another teenager Ruby Pruitt was taken. Anyone with information about these abductions should contact the police.”

“Do you have any leads or suspects?” Angelica asked.

Ellie paused at the sound of a commotion in the front of the station. “We are pursuing every possible angle.”

Suddenly heated voices grew louder, and she looked up to see the Tillers storming toward her.

“What the hell are you doing to catch our daughter’s killer?” Mr. Tiller barked.

Ellie clenched her hands. She hadn’t divulged to the press that they suspected the girls were dead. But now he had.

Mr. Tiller stormed over and grabbed the microphone from Angelica. “How many more kids have to die on your watch, Detective, before you stop this maniac?”

FIFTY-SIX

SOUTHERN LIGHTS STUDIOS

Caitlin O’Connor knew what it was like to be accused of a crime you hadn’t committed. She’d spent five years locked up herself for burglary when she was younger. Her early twenties wasted behind bars.

Although she had nothing to do with the break-in at her ex-boyfriend’s rich father’s estate, no one believed a scrawny poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks. She’d needed money, they’d said. She was from a broken home. She wanted to pay off her daddy’s drug dealer.

All true. But that didn’t make her a thief. Well, technically she was. She had stolen bread and peanut butter from the store once when she was starving. But she’d been desperate. Her daddy had been on a bender for days, there was nothing to eat in the house, and after six days with her stomach cramping, she’d given in. Even then she’d been ashamed and vowed never to do so again. She’d also vowed to get herself out of her crappy life and make something of herself.

Then rich, spoiled Keith Unger had pointed the finger at her for stealing an expensive painting from his father’s estate. A sarcastic laugh caught in her throat. Like at twenty, she would have known anything about how to fence stolen art or its value.

Finally, after five years of hell and screaming her innocence, Ethan Baldwin with the Innocence Project had taken on her case. Within months, he’d proven she was right—that Keith’s father had made some bad investments and was in dire financial straits so he’d arranged for the painting to be stolen to collect insurance money.

She’d walked free, completely exonerated. And mad as hell at the justice system and how it had failed her.

Now she devoted her time to making things right for others. That was why she’d taken on Darnell “Digger” Woodruff’s case.

The first time she’d read the transcript of his interrogation and confession she’d sensed something was off. The fact that the arresting officer had accepted it so easily when Digger’s statement sounded jumbled raised her curiosity. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Digger was innocent or the fact that he had a history of insomnia and sleepwalking and had been prescribed Ambien to help him get through the night.

She’d done some research, and after interviewing Digger and learning his memory of that night was still fuzzy, she’d started talking to neighbors, Digger’s teachers and other kids at school.

She glanced at her notes of her conversation with a woman named Hilary Johnson. She’d nannied for the family when the kids were small. Although the woman had allowed her to record her statement, she’d asked Caitlin to use a different name and to alter her voice for the podcast.

A noise sounded outside the studio.

Probably just the wind. Dismissing it, she turned back to the notes.

The floor creaked in the front office. She pivoted in her chair and called out. “Is someone there?”

Silence for a second. Then another sound… footsteps? She stood and held her breath for a minute, listening, then tiptoed tothe door. She scanned the reception area. Nothing. Then she ran to the door and looked outside.

She didn’t see a car. Only the trees bending in the wind. Exhaling in relief, she secured the door. But suddenly the lights flickered off. She brushed her fingers along the wall in search of the switch. She found it and flipped it but the lights didn’t come on.

The floor creaked again. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. And an odd smell.

Then everything went black.

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