And how could she have done the terrible things the note said?
Not just to Angelina, but to the others?
It was impossible!
The others.
Were they real? Or had she merely concocted an insane theory to make herself believe she hadn’t killed anyone? Because if her theories were true, it meant she was innocent of any crime. It also might mean she was doomed. A monster that evil and that clever would never let her live. Once he found out she was alive, he’d come for her.
She had to find him before he found her.
Then another thought came to her that made her choke.
She should’ve realized it before, but she’d wanted so badly to believe she was safe, even if only for a short while. But now the unassailable truth confronted her. Whoever had done this might very well come back here. What if he’d had to leave in a rush and planned to return to dispose of her corpse? Or to set the scene to suit his purposes? Or to kill again?
There was no guarantee at all that he wouldn’t return.
She should go, and quickly. But . . .
She stared down at her palm for the hundredth time. She didn’t know what to do with the locks of hair—they were important evidence in a crime.
But they might get her locked up. The hair and the note made her look guilty.
She had matches.
She could burn everything.
But what if the hair could be tested for DNA and helped a family learn what had happened to a loved one?
From her purse, she took a handkerchief with little blue flowers embroidered in the corners. Carefully, she wrapped the locks of hair. Then she zipped them into an inside pocket of the backpack she’d prepared.
Time to go home.
Her parents would know what to do.
Or perhaps she ought to go straight to the police and tell them everything. That she’d been kidnapped. That she’d found these locks of hair. Show them the cuts on her throat that implied her innocence. Bring them back here to the cabin. But . . . would they believe her?
No one ever has before.
She definitely couldn’t show anyone the note. That was one thing she was clear about. The note was a lie that would only make it harder for the police to find the truth. Before she left the cabin, she had to burn that lie in the fireplace. She shuddered to think about what the note said and about the second lock of hair.
Believe in your own goodness.
She put on her jacket, slid the backpack on, then closed her eyes.
Reason dictated her path. She should go home, talk to her parents and to the authorities. But her gut clenched at the thought. How could she convince them with mere words? She needed evidence to back up her theories.
Proof of the others.
A thud sounded outside, and her eyes flew open. The sound of footsteps, crunch, crunch, crunching over the ground broke through her dizzy indecision. They were heavy menacing footfalls growing closer and closer.
His footfalls?
Her purse still sat on the plank table. She grabbed it and bolted out the back door.
Chapter 11
Thursday, October 24
1:45 P.M.
Task force headquarters
Highlands Hotel
Denver, Colorado
With the interview concluded, Grady left, giving a terse good-bye and offering yet again to join the task force should they come to their senses and recognize the value he could add. Caitlin was glad to see him go for more reasons than one. She had her eye on the powder room and was just about to excuse herself when a short, heavyset man barreled through the door Grady had just exited. The squat detective’s legs were scissoring hard enough that Caitlin could hear the slap of his polyester pants whipping against each other. What this man lacked in height he made up for in speed and alacrity.
Spense arched an eyebrow.
Hatcher replied to his unspoken question, “Cliff’s one of my best men.”
“Jordo!” The pitch of Cliff’s voice was much higher than Caitlin had expected from such a burly source. He was worked up about something. That much seemed sure. “Jordo, we got something.”
Her first thought, her first hope, really, was that someone had spotted Laura out and about. But since they hadn’t yet notified the press, a Laura sighting seemed unlikely. The public didn’t know she was missing.
“Get the usual suspects together for a press conference. Let’s say ten a.m. tomorrow,” Hatcher replied, apparently thinking along the same lines as Caitlin.
It was time to ask for the public’s help. And holding the press conference in the morning would give Hatcher time to craft a statement. She and Spense would be expected to come up with a preliminary profile by then, too.
A tall order.
Hard to profile the perpetrator when it wasn’t yet clear what crime, if any, had been committed.
“Consider it done. But Jordo, I just talked to Rhonda.” The detective bent and put both hands on his knees then quickly straightened up again.