Raven followed Lucien back out to the SUV without argument, and she didn’t comment on the fact that he paused to tell the uniformed officers to trail them back to the former safe house. She kept silent as they climbed into the vehicle, and said nothing as they started their short journey.
One of Lucien’s thumbs tapped the slightest beat on the steering wheel. But even if he hadn’t been moving at all, Raven would still have been able to feel his energy. It had breakthrough quality, and she was sure that whatever theory had come to mind, it was a good one. She was relieved. But she didn’t let herself get carried away by it. Jim’s and Juanita’s lives were still on the line, and she didn’t want to get her hopes up too high, only to have them swept away.
I’ll breathe again when they’re found, and when Hanes is back in jail.
The minutes in the car went by quickly, though, and in what felt like not much more than a blink, they were sitting outside the familiar house while the two officers did a security check of the perimeter. As they made their stealthy movements, the familiar guilt at keeping Lucien from his real police work crept in.
Raven let herself steal a glance in his direction. If he resented letting his fellow law enforcers do the job that he was more than equipped to do, then he was covering it up perfectly. Aside from the still-tapping thumb, he showed zero visible sign of agitation. It didn’t do much to assuage Raven’s self-reproach, and she wasn’t quite able to stop herself from wanting to apologize for holding him back. But she barely had a chance to open her mouth before the other two cops signaled the completion of their task, and Lucien’s quick reaction stopped her from speaking at all.
He swung open his own door and hopped out, stepped briskly to Raven’s side of the SUV and pulled the handle there, as well. He helped her climb out, then spun toward the house. His movements were determined and sure, and they propelled Raven to hurry along beside him. Together, they moved up the walkway and into the house. Once inside, Lucien still didn’t slow. He quickly locked the door behind them, kicking his shoes off before the click was even complete, then calling over his shoulder as he moved up the hall.
“Let me show you something,” he said.
Raven scrambled to unlace her own shoes, and by the time she caught up to Lucien in the kitchen, he’d already procured a pad of yellow paper and a pen from somewhere. He set them on the table, then yanked out a chair and gestured for her to sit. As she plopped herself down—slightly breathless from the hurry—Lucien joined her and immediately began to scrawl something across the paper. For a second, the scratch of the pen was the only sound. Then Lucien slid the notepad across the table. But he no sooner had it in front of her than his hand slapped down and covered whatever he’d written.
Puzzled, Raven lifted her eyes to his face. She could clearly see that his urgency had taken a backseat to hesitancy.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Hanes’s pattern,” he told her.
He didn’t offer any further explanation. But Raven didn’t need him to. She knew the murderer’s pattern perfectly. She’s been inside it. And the idea of seeing it laid out on paper was an altogether unpleasant one. It was too clinical. Too detached. No words could properly encompass the fear that filled the yawning days of being held captive.
But if he wrote it down, he has a good reason, she assured herself.
She swallowed. “It’s okay. I can handle it.”
“You sure?” he replied.
She nodded, and after studying her face for another moment, he released the pad and let her take it. For a second after he lifted his hand, the words swam in front of Raven. But then Lucien’s fingers came to her elbow, grounding her as he always had, and the tidy lines of his block-letter printing solidified enough that she could read them.
DAYS 1 & 15: HUSBAND
DAYS 5 & 17: WIFE
DAYS 10 & 19: DAUGHTER
DAYS 15 & 21: SON
Lucien’s hand tightened on her arm. “Raven?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay. I just... I need a minute.”
She glanced down again. She knew exactly what the numbered days meant. The first was when Hanes’s victim was taken. The second was when the evil man killed them. The time in between was how long he felt was sufficient for the police to find them. It was precise. Almost to the hour, she’d heard the lawyers say. And as she’d suspected, seeing it on paper—trying to label the moments as a part of a plan rather than just as something purely heinous—fell short. It didn’t come close to knowing intimately how the pieces fit together. It was also impossible not to be thrown straight into the middle of the memories. Raven couldn’t help but see just how she fit in. She was the daughter, of course. Taken nine days after her father’s disappearance, which was five days after her mom went missing, and five days before Hanes got to her brother, too. The fear had already been surreal.
Raven shivered. She’d lived in the cold and the dark for more than an entire week. She didn’t lose track of time because Hanes didn’t let her. Each morning, his voice had trickled in—disembodied and, more disappointed than pleased—to announce just how long her family had been under his control. Then he’d toss in a half-empty bottle of water and disappear again.
Over the course of those almost nine days, Raven had had no illusions about what was coming. She’d been well aware that the whisper of day fifteen meant her brother had been captured and that her father was undoubtedly dead. On day seventeen, when she knew her mother was gone, too—she’d wept so hard that her lungs burned and her body ached and she doubted that she’d even make it to her own, predetermined date of expiry. But for some reason, she’d still tried to survive. She’d tried to chew through the bonds on her hands, cutting her lips horribly in the process. Attempted to climb up and out. She’d begged and pleaded and bargained. All her futile fight to escape had earned her was hurt. Plenty of pain and suffering. Torn-off fingernails and a broken foot. Countless bruises. Gashes that eventually needed a total of eighty-three stitches. She was starving and half-dehydrated and so delirious than when the ninth day of captivity came, she simply assumed that she was dead already.
But then came Lucien.
His voice—strong and reassuring and not Hanes—had cut through the dark and freed her. He’d called her by her name and told her to hang on. A dream taking over from a nightmare.
Raven didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until Lucien spoke, his words sliding into the fog of memories, and pulling her out, just as they had three years earlier.
“We don’t have to do this,” he told her gently.
She dragged her lids open and stared down at the words. She started to say that they did have to. For Jim and Juanita, and for every other person who might come into contact with the man who murdered her family. But as she looked at the timeline again, she saw something she hadn’t noticed the first time around. Under the little list, Lucien had added another word.
HOURS?
Raven jerked her attention up to the detective. “You think he’s speeding it up.”
“With Hanes’s preference for order, I think there’s a strong possibility that he’s adjusted his pattern. Made it syncopated. Here. Let me show you.”
He dragged the paper toward himself and made a couple more marks on the pad. But before he even finished writing, the next piece of Hanes’s pattern slammed into Raven head. It was like a physical assault. Her brain reverberated like she’d been struck with something hard, and it nearly took away her breath.
“Their daughter.” Her voice was so low that she could barely hear it herself, and Lucien clearly didn’t hear it at all, because he’d started talking again.
“So we have to work slightly backward,” he was saying. “But since we know his wife couldn’t be found after about eleven this morning, we can guess that Jim was taken quite early. Probably seven or so, which fits with when Juanita last saw him, too.”
Raven was barely listening. She was too busy thinking about the photograph on Jim’s desk. A young, blonde woman with a crooked smile. She was roughly the same age as Raven, and had recently finished medical school somewhere down in the United States, then bought herself a house locally. Jim was so proud of her. What was her name? It seemed imperative to remember.
Samantha? No. That wasn’t right. Sandra? No. Not it, either.
Lucien at last noticed that she wasn’t paying attention. “Hey. You still with me?”
“You have to call it in, Lucien,” she urged, ignoring his question.
“What?”
“Their daughter,” she said again, this time loudly. “If Georges Hanes took Jim at seven this morning, he’ll be after her by four o’clock. That’s less than an hour from now, Lucien.”
God. What is her name? Sarah?
“Sally!” she gasped abruptly.
“I’m sure the guys at the station have got it under control,” Lucien replied, his voice infused with both confidence and reassurance. “With Hanes’s involvement, they would’ve contacted the family first thing.”
“I was Sally,” Raven told him.
And she knew the statement was enough, because he stopped arguing, grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialed a number without another word.
As the line rang on the other end, Lucien was tense. He thought he shouldn’t be. The VPD were thorough. Sergeant Gray would’ve followed up with the Ricksons’ children immediately. He would’ve ensured that both the daughter and son—assuming there was one of each, as per Hanes’s pattern—were under close watch. Except for some reason, knowing all of that didn’t ease the tightness in his jaw. By the time his boss’s voice mail picked up on the fifth ring, Lucien was holding the phone so hard it stung. He slammed his forefinger to the screen without leaving a message.
Raven spoke up right away, her voice wavering. “No answer?”
Lucien refused to let her see any of his own concern, and he kept his reply on the lighter side. “As much as I’d love to believe the sergeant’s at my beck and call, I’m sure he thinks otherwise.”
“But you’re going to try someone else, right?” Her eyes were pinched in a way that made him sure she was holding in tears.
“I’ll give Dispatch a call right away, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but if Raven noticed, she didn’t say.
She just gave him a quick nod. “Hurry, Lucien. Please.”
He turned his attention back to the phone and hit the second number on speed dial. This time, the call was answered quickly.
“This is Dispatch,” said a perky, female voice on the other end.
“Is that Geraldine?” Lucien greeted, relieved to have reached someone he knew well enough that he wouldn’t have to offer a big song and dance in exchange for information. “It’s Lucien Match here.”
“Detective! I heard you were on vacation! You calling in while you’re sipping a mai tai somewhere?”
“Hardly.”
“Yeah,” Geraldine replied ruefully. “I guess I would’ve been surprised if you’d said yes to that. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You in the loop about this deal out at the cemetery?” he asked.
“The Hanes thing? Yeah, I know a little bit. Everyone on shift does.”
“What I’m trying to figure out is who was assigned to contact the family. Specifically Sally Rickson, the daughter. Any way you can get me that info?”
“Yeah, just a quick sec.” The sound of a keyboard clacking carried through the line. “You worked the original case on this one, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Lucien replied.
“I remember the girl. The one you saved. She was the same age as my daughter. Pretty. Not too tough looking. But she had to be, to come through that ordeal in one piece. What was her name? Rachel?”
“Raven,” he corrected automatically, then glanced her direction.
He expected to find her attention on him and the call, but her eyes were pointed at the window, her face pale. Her lower lip was pulled in under the upper one, and she held her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Lucien had enough experience with the victims of violent crime to recognize the signs of imminent collapse.
If she has to go through this a second time, she won’t come out in one piece again.
The thought hit him like a punch.
He didn’t know how true it was. He sure as hell didn’t want to assume that Raven lacked the strength to overcome more adversity. But a person could only have so much resilience. They could lose only so much before they hit a breaking point.
“Detective?” The dispatcher’s voice jerked him back to the phone conversation.
He cleared his throat. “You got something for me, Geraldine?”
“Sure do. Looks like Sergeant Gray was in attendance at Sally Rickson’s home.”
“I tried Gray on his cell already. Who was he with?”
“Um. Let’s see.” There was another quick clack. “Detective Singh, and Constables Friesen and Lewis. They’ve got one patrol car, plus the sergeant’s vehicle out. You want me to try their radios?”
“Please.”
Lucien waited, strumming his fingers impatiently on his thigh as silence filled the air. He wanted to reach for Raven. To pull her in and offer her reassurance. But the desire to do so had nothing to do with maintaining a professional calm, and he wasn’t sure he could pretend that it did.
How did I keep it under wraps those other two months?
Right then, it didn’t feel like it would’ve been possible. Every time he looked at her, the emotion crept in a little stronger. It hadn’t even been a day, and already it wanted to overwhelm him. It made his chest ache. He couldn’t possibly have been numb to it before, could he?
Without meaning to, he let his gaze slip back to her again. She was watching him now, her oh-so-blue eyes trained on his face. Her expression was as worried as it had been a minute earlier, but there was still hope underneath. She believed in him, and instead of making him feel more pressure to deliver, it filled his rib cage with warmth. The need to drag her into his arms grew again. He wanted her close. Closer than close. Flush against him, her scent filling her nose, her warmth seeping into him. He wanted to taste her lips again, and not feel like he needed to apologize for it, or excuse it. He started to pull the phone away from his ear, but Geraldine cut in once again, forcibly reminding him why he couldn’t give in to his urge.
“All right,” the dispatcher said. “Sorry about the delay. Had a hard time getting anyone, but I finally got in touch with Constable Lewis, and the news isn’t good.”
Lucien did his best to keep the blast of nerves to himself, eyeing Rave as he said, “Hit me with it.”
“The uniforms picked Ms. Rickson up from a shift at the hospital and escorted her in for questioning. She agreed to waiting things out in a secure location, but requested to grab a few things from home. The uniforms took her to her apartment, where she disappeared from her bedroom.”
“From her bedroom?” Lucien repeated, his puzzlement temporarily overriding his deep concern.
“The uniforms were equally confused. And this is where it goes from bad to worse. Lewis said that in retrospect, she thinks someone was in Ms. Rickson’s room when they arrived. The consensus is that the culprit dragged her into the closet, held her there until her MIA status was noticed, then used the ensuing chaos to take her away from the scene.” As Geraldine explained, her voice lost any and all hints of its perkiness. “Clever son-of-you-know-what, isn’t he?”
“Clever,” Lucien agreed. “And sick.”
“No doubt.”
“Any news on where the sergeant is at the moment?”
“According to Lewis, he took a team out to canvass Ms. Rickson’s neighborhood,” the dispatcher stated. “You want Lewis’s direct line?”
“Please.”
“Got a pen?”
Lucien reached for the notepad and paper, and as he finished scrawling out the number, his eyes landed on Raven once again. It was obvious that she’d heard some—if not all—of what he’d just been told. Every ounce of color was gone from her cheeks. She was swaying a little in the seat. He signed off as quickly as politeness would allow, then reached for her hand.
“It’s going to be all right,” he promised.
Raven shook her head. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”
“Have I ever done that?”
“Yes.”
“What? When?”
“Every time we’ve ever been faced with a dangerous or frightening situation. So. A lot over the two months we lived together.” She smiled for the barest second before her mouth drooped again. “She’s got to be so scared.”
Lucien debated refuting the statement, but there wasn’t much point. No one would know better than Raven did just how Sally Rickson was feeling.
“You know that first and foremost, I’m a cop,” he said. “And cops don’t give out false promises. So every reassuring thing I’ve ever said to you has been either the truth, or something I believed to be completely true.”
Instead of brightening at all, Raven looked even more despondent. She actually pulled her hand away, and dropped her eyes, too.
Surprised, Lucien spoke up right away. “Hey. What did I say wrong?”
“Do you seriously not—no, I guess not.” Her blue gaze came up, and she let out a sigh. “You’re right. You’re an amazing detective. And if you really believe you can save them from Hanes, then I believe you can, too.”
Her words had an edge, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source. It was an edge he didn’t like. His fingers shot out on their own, and brushed over her chin—as if they were trying to wipe away the unidentified undertone—and for a second, she leaned into the touch. Then she gave her body a small shake and pulled away again.
“You said you were going to ask for some digital files to be sent over?” Now her voice was cool, and Lucien liked that even less. He wanted to demand to know what was going on in her head. She didn’t give him a chance.
“We’re running out of time,” she said. “If we’re using your theory about the shortened pattern, then we’re at hour nine already.”
Lucien wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. She was right. It was an extraordinarily small window, and their task was a daunting one. Only four hours until things escalated again. So he set aside his personal needs in favor of his professional obligations, and nodded instead.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll fire off a text to Sergeant Gray and ask him to call me as soon as he can. I want to know that status of the Ricksons’ son, too. And in the meantime, let me grab the old laptop from the desk in the office, and we’ll see what the station’s given us.”
Relief flooded Raven’s face. “Okay.”
He fought both a desire to touch her face again, and the bit of resentment that reared up at not being able to do it, then pushed to his feet and slipped out of the room.