“Don’t answer it!” The exclamation fell instinctively from Jeannette’s lips as Warren reached for the phone.
The phone trilled again, not at all muffled by Warren’s oversize palm.
“It’s probably a wrong number,” he said.
“Even more reason not to answer it,” Jeannette replied.
A third ring seemed to reverberate through the room.
“Or it could be the lady we’re renting from,” Warren reasoned.
“Why wouldn’t she just walk over?” asked Jeannette.
Another ring blasted out. Then another. Then one more, which finally cut off, midway through. In the newly still air, they both sat silently for several moments before Jeannette spoke up again.
“See?” she said. “It was just a—”
The phone blared noisily, making her jump.
“I’m going to answer it,” Warren told her.
“We could just unplug it instead.” It was more of a plea than a suggestion.
The next ring felt like an assault.
“If someone knows where we are—be it for good, bad or indifferent reasons—not answering won’t change it,” Warren said.
The phone rang again, as if to agree with him. And he was right. And maybe it was better to know which of the three things they were facing. But that didn’t mean Jeannette liked it. She cringed as he lifted up the receiver and positioned it midway between their heads, and she clenched her teeth together as he tapped the answer button.
Warren issued no greeting, and Jeannette leaned in a little closer, straining to hear something from the other end. There was an equal amount of silence on the phone. The seconds dragged by. Jeannette actually got as high as a count of seven in her head, and as she rounded to eight, Warren moved as though he was about to click the phone off again. But then a sound carried through the line. A whimper, followed by a frightened, feminine voice.
“Hello?” said the unseen woman. “Is anyone there?”
Jeannette felt Warren’s body go stiff, and his response was guarded. “I’m here.”
“Is this Warren?” replied the woman. “Warren Wright?”
His frame was practically rigid, and he replied through clenched teeth. “Who’s speaking?”
“My name is Glenna,” the caller said. “They said you’d know who I am.”
Jeannette’s heart slammed against her rib cage. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be the missing girl, Glenna Montgomery. It wasn’t possible, was it? She pulled back just enough to meet Warren’s eyes. His expression told her that his doubt matched hers.
“Glenna who?” he replied, his voice even but not entirely unkind.
“They said you could help me.” The statement was punctuated by a near sob. “Please...please, if you can...”
Warren’s eyes closed, and Jeannette couldn’t say she blamed him. She felt a strong desire to leap in and offer immediate assistance, and she knew the emotional reaction wasn’t brought on by reason. Thankfully, Warren seemed to be keeping a good grip on his feelings.
“I asked you your last name,” he said.
“Montgomery.”
Coldness sliced through Jeannette. But anyone can claim to be someone else, she reminded herself.
Warren, too, appeared to want some kind of affirmation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely sounding like he meant it. “But if this is Glenna Montgomery, you’re going to need to prove it.”
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Jeannette’s hands squeezed into fists. It was far too easy to imagine the suffering going on at the hands of Jimmy and the biker and God knew who else.
“Tell me something that only Glenna would know,” Warren said, opening his eyes once again.
A few sniffles followed the request, and then there was a clatter and the distinct sound of a smack, followed by a cry. And a new voice—unfamiliar, angry and male—took over.
“She can’t prove who she is to you,” he growled. “Even if she offered up every detail of her existence, you don’t know enough about her to confirm that it’s true.”
Warren stayed calm, at least on the outside. “Then what do you suggest I do? Just take your word for it?”
“That’d be in her best interest. And in yours,” replied the man.
“Then I guess you had better offer up some proof. And maybe tell me who you are, while you’re at it.”
A dark chuckle emanated from the receiver. “Oh, Warren...if you haven’t figured out yet who I am... I’m not sure you’re smart enough to know.”
Jeannette felt her throat go dry. The words were enough for her to posit a working theory as to who was on the other end of the call. And apparently Warren’s thoughts went the same way.
“You want me to believe you’re him,” he said.
“I want you to believe I’m who?” countered the other man.
“If you’re just calling to play games, I’m going to assume that the person claiming to be Glenna is playing, too, and I’m going to hang up.”
There was a pause on the line, and Jeannette pictured the scruffy-faced biker narrowing his intense eyes as he considered whether or not Warren meant it. Jeannette wondered that herself. After another moment, the man seemed to decide not to risk it.
“How about I tell you this little story?” he said. “Ms. Montgomery has a sister. Fourteen years old. Very bright, very curious. She got a good look at me. I mean a really good look. And she’s got a pretty talented hand for drawing, too. Did a nice little sketch of me, and she was even so kind as to give it to Detective Harper, who has since informed her that—sadly—the lead didn’t pan out. And he tossed out the picture, of course.”
Jeannette was sure that the sketch was the same one that had made its way onto the conspiracy website, and she wondered if the caller knew that its disposal hadn’t been quite so thorough after all. She exchanged a look with Warren, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. But he left it out of his response.
“That’s a good story,” he said with casual indifference. “But I’m not sure how it proves that Glenna is alive and well and in your possession.”
The man on the other end released another of his dark chuckles. “Well. She’s alive and in my possession, but I don’t know if I’d say she’s doing well.”
Jeannette’s stomach twisted, and tears pricked at her eyes. Whether the man was lying or not—and whether the crying woman had been a decoy or not—didn’t matter. It was clear that whoever he was, he was not only capable of unspeakable acts, but also that he enjoyed them.
We’re on the phone with a murderer. The thought was so overwhelmingly chilling that Jeannette nearly missed his next statement.
“I’m trying to show that I’m a man of my word, Mr. Wright,” he said.
“How so?”
“As I told you...the little sister is smart and curious. When her parents received a call from someone claiming to have an interest in Glenna’s case for a blog a short while ago, she thought that was odd. Her parents are understandably distraught and distracted, and they told her to let it go. But the intrepid girl went around them. Can you guess who she called?”
Warren’s mouth set into an unimpressed line. “Harper.”
“Indeed,” said the other man. “He pulled a few police strings, grabbed the phone records, and lo and behold...here you are. I wanted to just come in and kill you. The younger sister, too, even if she is a little too blonde and a little too young for my personal tastes. I suggested as much, but apparently things are already messy enough. Or so my big brother tells me.”
“You mean Jimmy.” Warren met Jeannette’s gaze as he made the statement—this was the confirmation they were looking for. He was Alexander Galbraith Junior, just as they’d suspected.
“Glad you’re following along,” said the murderous man. “And that brings me to my point. I made my brother a promise, and I’m doing my best to keep it.”
“And what promise was that?”
“That I wouldn’t harm Glenna if you came here. And in exchange... I get you.”
Jeannette’s stomach did another flip, and she held her breath as Warren answered in a steady and strong voice.
“And where, exactly, is ‘here’?” he asked.
“A lovely little cabin out in the woods,” replied Alexander. “I believe your last visit may have been cut short.”
“I’ll be there.” Warren sounded grim for the first time since the start of the conversation.
“Perfect.”
“And I’m sure you know what will happen if you call the police.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“Just to be extra certain...” said Alexander. “I’ve got a little list here of people I’m prepared to have pegged off. It starts with that nice little neighbor of Jeannette’s, and it includes those three high school boys who interned—”
“I told you I understand,” Warren snapped.
“Good, good. And one other thing, Mr. Wright.”
“What?”
“I’d hurry if I were you,” said the murderer. “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my hands off of sweet Glenna.”
The line clicked off and Jeannette exhaled. “You didn’t really believe any of that, did you?”
“I assume he tossed in a bit of truth here and there,” Warren said.
“What about Glenna?”
“Do I think that was really her? No, I don’t. I’d put the chances that it was her at below one percent, which I know isn’t a good thing. And if I had to guess, I’d say that Glenna’s role was played by Priscilla Galbraith.”
Regret and relief washed over Jeannette at the same time.
“It’s not good about Glenna, but that’s a smart theory,” she said. “And I’m glad we’re not actually going back to the cabin, because—” His expression stopped her short. “Warren?”
He shook his head. “It’s impossible not to go, Jeannie. You have to see that, right?”
She did see it. Or at least she saw where he was coming from. Even with his 99 percent surety that the woman on the phone hadn’t been Glenna, that other 1 percent meant everything to him. But that didn’t mean she agreed with his solution.
“There’s another way to do this,” she said.
His fists clenched, then unclenched, then clenched again. “What is it, then? Call the police and risk those other lives?”
“I don’t know. But if we sit down for a few minutes and—”
“We’ve been sitting. We’ve been doing nothing but sit. For I don’t even know how long. Now I’ve got a chance to act, and I’m going to take it.”
“We don’t even have a vehicle.”
“We have enough cash to get one that’ll take us there.”
“Please, Warren.” Jeannette sounded desperate now, but she didn’t care.
“This guy killed Stephanie. He killed those other girls, too. I don’t want to confront him, but there’s no way I’m letting him go. So there’s really no sense in fighting with me about it. I’m not going to change my mind.”
Every word had as much fever as the last, and Jeannette knew that unless she came up with some immediate, entirely infallible plan, then he wouldn’t be swayed. She made herself take a very deep breath.
“Okay,” she said. “Can you just give me a minute to do something about this?” She gestured to the disastrous state of her appearance, and she was relieved when Warren nodded.
But as she stood and moved toward the bathroom—fully intending on stalling as long as possible—his hand landed on the crook of her elbow. Wordlessly, he spun her to face him. She barely had a moment to realize he hadn’t figured out that she was just delaying things and wonder what he was actually doing before his mouth crashed into hers. As he kissed her with an intensity she’d never experienced before. One that was full of promise and longing and something else she couldn’t quite define. At some point during the onslaught, his arms encircled her, and he crushed her to his body. When at last he pulled away, Jeannette was breathing like she’d just run a marathon. Her muscles ached like it, too.
“What was that for?” she gasped.
Warren slid a slow finger down her cheek. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t value you or your opinions.”
She smiled, then pressed to her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his. “Over-the-top way of showing it. But thank you.”
He kissed her again—this time gently on her forehead, then each cheek. “Just being thorough. Hurry and get ready.”
She turned and stepped through the bathroom door without answering. She didn’t want to agree, because it would be a lie. She had every intention of taking her time. Of using every second she had to form some kind of reasonable alternative. But scrubbing her face brought no inspiration. Neither did getting rid of the knots in her hair, nor changing from her grimy work clothes. And the minutes were racing by. She kept expecting Warren to knock on the door and demand to know what was taking so long. Thankfully, he didn’t. Not so thankfully, Jeannette realized she was getting to the point where she was going to have to concede defeat. It wasn’t until she’d done almost every little bit of self-grooming that she could, in the slowest means possible that something struck her.
Warren hadn’t said we.
Jeannette’s mind slid back, going over the conversation. She tried to tell herself she was wrong. But no. She was far, far too right. Not once had he included her in his need to go to the cabin. And when he’d kissed her, so passionately and so forcefully...
“He was saying goodbye,” she murmured to her reflection.
Panic surged up. She spun and grasped the door handle. It turned, but when she tried to push the door open, she got her confirmation. It was barricaded shut from the other side.
Leaving was easier than Warren had thought it would be. Lifting the dresser and placing it in front of the bathroom door had been a surprisingly silent endeavor. Sneaking out had gone off without a hitch. Even getting the car had been simple. A man just up the block had an old beater for sale in his yard, and since Warren had a fistful of cash and no reason to hide his identity anymore, it’d been easy enough to complete the purchase. For an extra hundred bucks, the former owner had even agreed to leave the old plates on the car. Now—quicker than he would have thought possible—Warren was on the road and making his way out of Joss Lake.
But that was just the physical side of things. Emotionally, it was a different story. His feet had tried to argue with him, urging him to turn and run back. Though he’d won the brief battle, it had left scars. His chest was empty. Cavernous. His breath burned. No way in hell could he pretend not to have a serious helping of guilt over abandoning Jeannie.
You’re not abandoning her, he told himself firmly. You’re keeping her safe.
That much was true. Or he hoped so, anyway. There was a chance that she might try to come after him. But he’d placed a quick phone call to try and stop that from happening, too. She wouldn’t make it any farther than the end of the driveway at the B and B.
The guilt hammered at Warren a little hard, and he squeezed the steering wheel in a futile attempt to get some counterpressure. It was a relief to spy the turnoff onto the highway. Without looking back, he pulled the car onto the exit.
The leaving itself wasn’t what made him ache, anyway. What earned him the pain was how Jeannie would feel about it. She was going to be angry. Beyond mad, probably. Possibly heartbroken, though Warren didn’t want to get too egotistical about the situation. Hell. He just knew how he felt himself. It was like grief, magnified by a thousand.
So turn around, said a little voice in his head. She didn’t want to run away, but maybe if you put that out there as an alternative to this madness...
He stepped on the gas a little harder and shoved aside the urge to listen to the suggestion. He’d already gone over all the options. He knew he couldn’t let the biker go. Even if the woman he supposedly held captive wasn’t Glenna Montgomery, there was nothing to stop him from carrying on. From killing again. The conspiracy would continue. On top of that, Warren had already imagined himself—and Jeannie—at the end of a half dozen possible scenarios. Most of them didn’t give both of them a fighting chance. His only choice was to ensure that she got out alive. To make sure that the police understood she had no role in any of it. That part was key. His whole plan would be for naught if Jeannie just wound up hurt or behind bars.
“She’s going to be fine,” he said aloud.
Jeannie would be mad. Hurt. All of that might even last longer for her than Warren wanted to consider. After that, though, she’d move on. She was a resilient woman who’d overcome her share of adversity. Inside, she was strong. There was no doubt that she’d overcome this.
What’s ‘this,’ Wright? Hmm?
He didn’t really want to acknowledge the question, let alone answer it. Except once it was out there in his mind, Warren couldn’t turn away from it. And he had to admit something. A truth that made him want to swerve off the road. The thing that Jeannie would have to overcome was losing him. Because he was walking into a death sentence, and he knew it.
He sucked in a shallow breath. It wasn’t as though he wanted to die. Odds were, though, that one man—armed with a gun he barely knew how to use—didn’t stand much of a chance when going up against a pack of seasoned criminals. Oh, he’d do his damnedest to fight back. Talk his way out of it. Whatever it took. That didn’t mean that Warren couldn’t see just how slim his chances were.
“Dammit,” he muttered, feeling suddenly—selfishly—bereft himself.
Dying didn’t just mean that Jeannie would lose out. It meant he would, too. He wouldn’t get a chance to show Jeannie his rustic, small-town home. He would never be able to hold her close while they sat in front of his wood-burning fireplace on a cold, Alberta winter night. There were things he hadn’t told her. Stories he wanted to share. Parts of his life and his heart that he wanted her to know.
“Dammit,” he said again.
This time, his curse seemed to draw some attention from the car. Under him, the tires kicked up a sudden, groaning protest, and a glance down told him that he’d brought his speed up to a point well past the limit. He eased his foot off the pedal. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over. He wasn’t exactly eager to be coming face-to-face with the man who’d killed his high school girlfriend, either. Especially not now that he’d realized something all-encompassing. He should’ve told Jeannie that he loved her while he’d still had the chance.