Blood in the Water(78)

Byron went in the apartment first and did a quick sweep before letting her inside.

“I want you to brace yourself for what you’re about to see.” Byron took her by the shoulders, but Jane pushed him away and raced down the hall, then skidded to a halt in the doorway of Georgia’s bedroom.

Georgia was lying on the bed like some sort of sacrifice—cold and still. Valentine had shorn her hair, leaving only a couple of inches around her scalp. Her wrists and ankles were slashed open. Her mouth was open, frozen in a forever scream.

And the tears were still wet on her face.

Jane bit the palm of her hand to stifle a scream.

Valentine had dressed Georgia in the brand new Olivia Pope suit she’d bought for interviews.

She tasted the sharp tang of vomit rising in her throat. Jane didn’t have words for the scene in front of her, couldn’t process it, and certainly couldn’t comprehend it. The grief, the despair battered her. Strong emotions were too much to handle, and she fought to get a grip on them.

Byron also said nothing. He was a cool presence at her back, staying out of the way of her anguish and sorrow.

Georgia was only twenty-seven years old. She had her whole life ahead of her—but it was gone, snuffed out in an instant. She’d never see her thirtieth birthday—never become a full-fledged lawyer.

Never see Brady grow up.

Oh, God. Brady.

“Brady!”

She’d been too stunned by the sight of her best friend’s body to wrap her head around the full implications of this crime. The blood roared in her ears. And for a hazy second, Jane thought she might be losing her mind.

“Oh, fuck.” Byron pulled his weapon once more. “I didn’t think…shit.”

Why isn’t she crying? Where is she? What if Valentine…?

“Brady, honey, where are you?” Jane raced further down the hall.

“Let me go in first.” Byron pulled out his gun.

“Forget it.” Grasping the doorknob, she started to turn it, but Byron grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back.

“You don’t know what might be in there.”

Like Brady’s body?

“Get out of my way.”

“No, you might see something you can’t un-see. Trust me, you don’t wanna remember her like that.”

“What about you?”

His features smoothed into an inscrutable mask. Jane wondered how long it’d taken him to build those kind of defenses, and she envied his composure. She felt like a raw, gaping wound.

“I can handle whatever’s in there.”

Jane nodded sharply, and he threw open the door. Shivering, Jane waited outside until he checked all four corners and the closet before he motioned her inside.

On unsteady legs, she walked inside.

Instead of Brady, there was a pink teddy bear laying on her bed, one ear was stained with blood. A hand-scrawled note hung around its neck suspended by a string, like a noose.

Jane flipped it over to read it. You and me. Brady makes three. I’ll see you at your place tonight, Jane. Alone. If you call the FBI, she dies. If you bring your mobster boyfriend, she dies. In case you missed it, it’s your life for hers—I’ll be in touch.

She crumpled to her knees. “Oh, God, he has her.”

“I’ve had fuckin’ enough of this bastard.” Byron paced, clearly having a meltdown of his own.

“Get in line.”

“What kind of sick, twisted son of a bitch snatches a child?”

“No clue.” She couldn’t begin to fathom what went on in the dark recesses of Oscar Valentine’s twisted head.

Jane felt jumpy, jittery from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. The monster had Brady. He’d murdered her mother and then kidnapped her—if he hadn’t killed Brady already.

The crime scene photos played on an infinite loop in her head. What if he was hurting her? Torturing her? Molesting her? She was a sweet, innocent little girl.

Jane couldn’t bear it. She tugged at the necklace around her throat, but it didn’t soothe her. One of those rages was bubbling up. Her plan had failed miserably. Georgia and Brady had paid in blood for her failure.

She wanted to hit something. No, she wanted to beat the hell out of someone—Valentine—with a baseball bat. She envisioned stringing him up and pummeling him to death like a piñata at a party. It’s what he deserved—a violent, brutal death, the kind he put his victims through.

She slammed her fists against the carpet, but it didn’t quell the pain and rage inside.

“Okay, we gotta think about this.” He stopped moving. “Jane, I know you’re hurtin’, but you gotta pull it together.” His voice was low and urgent, bringing her back to reality. “If we’re gonna save her, we need to be cool and calm.”