Final vow, p.12
Final Vow, page 12
Years ago, she’d been on the cusp of having it all. The ring on her finger, the honeymoon suite, the future stretching out before her like a promise.
Then everything changed in a single, terrible night.
She pushes the memory aside and focuses on her food. The taquitos are crispy and perfectly seasoned, the rice fluffy, the beans rich with cumin and garlic. Oh, she’ll definitely be back here. The Jamaica goes down sweet and tart, ice cold against her throat. She scarfs it all down, surprised by how hungry she was.
Back at the Cactus Court, Avery changes into loose shorts and a tank top, grateful to shed the professional armor. It’s blessedly cooler now that the sun is setting, the sky outside her window shifting from white-hot to orange to purple.
She spreads the contents of the postal box across the bed.
Letters. Dozens of them, all handwritten on cheap lined paper. The handwriting varies—some neat and precise, others cramped and hurried—but they all share a certain formality. A biblical cadence to the language.
Many are from Elder Jebediah Walker. Eden’s father. The name sends a chill down her spine despite the warm room. She’s read his file. Seen the photos of the compound he rules and heard testimony from the survivors who escaped his control.
His letters are all addressed to the same recipient: Miles Crowther, in Eglin, Arizona.
She frowns. The name isn’t familiar. He isn’t one of the elders she’s identified or connected to any of the satellite compounds her team has documented.
She pulls out her phone and jots down the name in her notes, then continues sorting. Other letters are from other elders—familiar names. They’re addressed to various recipients, but several also go to Miles Crowther.
Avery selects one of Jebediah’s letters and leans back against the headboard to read.
Brother,
The harvest is plentiful, and the Lord has blessed us with many daughters ripe for the gathering. As it is written, “Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.” We prepare to deliver unto you the first fruits of our abundance.
The daughters of Zion shall be purified and made ready. Expect the shipment within the fortnight. May the Lord bless and keep you.
Elder Jebediah
Avery’s stomach turns.
The language is dressed in scripture, but the meaning is clear enough: They’re moving girls. And soon, it appears.
She grabs her laptop and types “Eglin, Arizona” into the search bar. She huffs with annoyance as the results load slowly—the motel’s Wi-Fi is as unreliable as everything else in this town—but eventually a map appears.
Eglin is a speck in the southern part of the state. No major roads, no significant industry.
But less than an hour from the Mexican border.
Avery peers at the screen, her mind racing. If they’re moving girls to Eglin, it’s not for any of the satellite compounds she knows about. It’s likely to get them out of the country entirely. Beyond the reach of American law enforcement and into the hands of whoever this Miles Crowther is and whoever he’s connected to.
Once the girls cross that border, the chance to save them becomes infinitesimally small.
Her jaw tightens as she reads through more letters, looking for dates, specifics, anything that might tell her when this “shipment” is planned. The language stays maddeningly vague—within the fortnight, when the Lord provides, as the spirit moves—but the urgency is clear. They’re preparing to move. Maybe already packing.
Avery gathers the letters into a neat stack and sets them aside. She pulls up satellite imagery of the compound on her laptop, visualizing her approach. The main buildings. The outlying structures. The single road in and out.
She needs to see it for herself. To see whether the preparations have already begun.
Tonight.
She’ll wait until full dark, then drive out to the compound and observe.
CHAPTER 18
The waterfall in the lobby makes its gentle trickling sound as Kacie reaches behind the bamboo screen to flip it off. Silence settles over the studio.
She moves through her closing routine on autopilot—rattling the front doors to confirm they’re locked, logging out of the computer, switching off the salt lamp at the reception desk. The parking lot beyond the glass doors sits empty and dim. Down at the other end of the shopping center, vehicles cluster near the bar and grill.
She backtracks through the lobby, her sandals slapping softly against the bamboo flooring. Kacie pokes her head into the main studio, checking that the mats are all rolled and stacked in the corner. Good. The mirror along the far wall catches her reflection—a tired twenty-three-year-old with her hair in a bun, a thin sheen of sweat still at her temples.
She walks down the hall, past the cubbies and the bathroom, and into the back storage room where the extra blocks and straps are kept. She wrinkles her nose. It always smells faintly of frankincense and feet.
She pushes out the metal back door. The temperature has dropped along with the sun, making her shiver from the cooling sweat. The sky is that deep blue that comes just before true dark. Almost nine. David will have already eaten without her. He better have saved her some of the pasta.
She fishes her keys from her purse and turns to lock up behind her, the little canister of pepper spray dangling from the ring. The employee lot runs in a long, narrow strip behind the businesses—yoga studio, nail salon, that smoothie place that never seems to have any customers. Dumpsters. A few cars. The back of the dry cleaner’s with its rumbling exhaust vent.
She’s pestered the owner about keeping someone at the front desk until evening classes finish. But the woman just makes sympathetic noises and does nothing. Kacie huffs. The owner cares more about her profits than her employees’ safety.
The intermittent streetlamps cast pools of orange across the cracked asphalt. Kacie walks toward her little two-door Subaru, keys biting into her palm. She slows.
Several spaces down from her car, a sedan sits with its driver’s side door hanging open. The dome light glows pale against the gathering dark.
She stops, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. She scans the lot. No one. The sedan just sits there, door yawning wide, light on, like someone stepped out and never came back.
Maybe they’re getting something from the trunk.
She waits. Nothing moves.
Her hand is in her purse before she consciously decides, fingers closing around her phone. She dials David. It rings twice.
“Hey, cutie. You on your way home? Boots is meowing for you to—”
“I need you to stay on the phone with me.” Her voice comes out low, barely above a whisper.
A pause. When he speaks again, the ease is gone. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a car. In the lot. The door’s open, light’s on, but I don’t see anyone.”
“So don’t go over there. Get in your car and leave.” His voice rises with concern.
“I know. I’m going. Just stay on the phone with me in case.”
She’s near the bumper when she gets a better look inside the sedan. There’s a dark shape in the driver’s seat.
Someone slumped behind the wheel. Head bowed forward. Not moving.
“There’s someone in the car,” she breathes.
“Who cares, Kacie—leave.”
“They’re not moving.”
“Probably asleep or something. Not your problem. Get in your car, drive home, call the cops if you want.”
She should do that. But there’s something wrong about the stillness of the figure. The hair rises along her arms.
“Hello?” she calls out, the word sounding thin in the empty lot. “Are you okay?”
Nothing but the sounds of crickets and the buzzing hum of the streetlights.
“Kacie.” David’s voice is sharp in her ear. “Don’t be stupid. It could be a trap. Someone could be waiting—”
“It’s a woman.” She inches across the asphalt, straining to peer inside. Long reddish hair spills forward over the steering wheel. “She might need help.”
“Then call 911. Let them help her.”
Her feet keep moving. “Ma’am?” She’s near the open driver’s door. “Ma’am, are you—”
Crunch.
She freezes and looks down. Glass glitters under her sandal. Lots of it. Her gaze snaps to the car.
The driver’s side window is gone. Shattered. Just a few teeth clinging to the frame.
Her heart slams against her ribs. The phone feels distant against her ear, David’s voice a tinny noise she can’t quite parse.
The glass crackles under her feet. Long auburn hair hangs over the woman’s face. Dark stains down the front of her shirt. Across her lap. Everywhere. Broken glass caught in her hair.
She isn’t sleeping. She’s covered in blood.
Kacie screams.
CHAPTER 19
The coffee at the Warrenton station is terrible, so I fueled up at the Daily Grind before we drove up here. It’s not stopping Hanks from drinking it, though.
Shadow sits at my feet, nose working overtime—stale donuts, industrial cleaner, the competing colognes of several detectives. His tail thumps against my leg when Detective Jerry Harlan reaches down to scratch behind his ears.
“Hey there, big guy.” Harlan’s round face creases into a smile. “You keeping Eden out of trouble?”
Shadow grins up at him.
“Other way around,” I say. “I’m the one keeping him out of trouble.”
Harlan chuckles. He’s got dad energy. Not my dad—the good kind. I’ve heard him talk about his five kids often enough to know he’s the type who coaches Little League and makes pancakes on Saturday mornings.
“Jenny’s been asking when you’re going to bring him by the house,” he says. “The girls would lose their minds.”
“Anytime. Just say the word.”
Across the room, Detective Malcolm Johnson is giving Hanks a hard time about something, his deep voice carrying over the hum of the ancient percolator.
“…telling you, Gordon, I could hear that thing backfiring from two blocks away.”
Hanks scowls into his coffee. “There’s nothing wrong with my car.”
Johnson’s eyebrows shoot up. “That thing is older than half the deputies in this building. It’s held together with duct tape and stubbornness.”
“It’s a classic.”
Johnson shakes his head, but there’s warmth in his eyes. “One of these days, it’s going to leave you stranded on the side of the 101, and I’m going to drive right past you. I’ll honk and wave.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I look down at Shadow to hide my grin. Those two have been on the force and working together for almost as long as I’ve been alive.
Hanks takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. “It’s never let me down. More than I can say for that overpriced SUV of yours.”
“Hey now.” Johnson holds up a hand. “Leave the Tahoe out of this.”
Detective Alex Ramirez is already seated at the long conference table, his laptop open in front of him. He’s dressed in his usual smart-casual—fitted button-up, tie. His shiny black hair is perfectly styled, as always. His fingers fly across the keyboard, probably running some algorithm or cross-referencing databases. The guy’s a tech genius.
The door opens and Wilder walks in, the last to join us. I still get a little zip of excitement whenever I see him. But the flutter fades quickly when I take in his appearance. His hair is mussed, almost like he’s just woken up, and he’s sporting a five-o’clock shadow. He’s always clean-shaven.
His eyes find mine, and he gives me a weary smile. “Hey, you.”
Shadow tips his nose in the air, looking back at me for permission. “Go ahead,” I tell him. My K-9 leaps to his feet and bounds over to Wilder. Some of the tension eases from the detective’s shoulders as he ruffles my dog’s fur.
Hanks and Johnson have paused their banter to watch. Hanks looks Wilder over. “Coffee?”
Wilder throws himself into his usual spot beside me at the end of the table. “Please.”
Shadow’s tail wags harder. I get it, buddy.
“Rough night?” Johnson asks as Hanks pours a cup.
“You could say that.” Wilder stifles a yawn. “Got called out around nine thirty last night and barely got a couple of hours of sleep.”
Hanks hands over the steaming coffee.
“I’ll fill everyone in when we get started.” Wilder takes a long drink, grimacing slightly at the taste. “Going to need more of this first.”
We settle into our seats, and Shadow curls up at my feet, his warm weight comforting.
“Everyone ready?” Hanks asks from his spot on my other side, glancing around the table.
Nods all around.
“Ramirez, you want to kick us off?”
He looks up from his laptop, dark eyes sharp behind his stylish square lenses. “Still working with Agent Carver on the SoulBound case. We’ve made some solid progress tracking the financial trails—offshore accounts, shell companies, the usual. The forensic accountants are having a field day.” He pauses. “She thinks we’re getting just about ready to move on some of the bigger players.”
My pulse quickens at the mention of Carver’s name.
“Speaking of which.” Ramirez turns to me. “Carver said things are moving on your family’s case?”
Everyone’s attention shifts to me. Hanks and Wilder already know most of this, but I haven’t talked much about my father’s cult with the others.
“Yeah.” I keep my voice steady. “She’s been building the case against my father’s compound. Warrants are in the works. If everything goes through, they’ll be executing a raid soon.”
“That’s good news,” Harlan says gently. He doesn’t know all the details, but he knows enough to understand this is personal.
“It is.” I manage a small smile. “Just trying not to get my hopes up until it actually happens.”
Wilder’s hand brushes against mine under the table. Brief and reassuring. I appreciate that he doesn’t make a big deal of it in front of everyone.
“Carver’s good,” Ramirez says with a nod. “If anyone can nail these guys, it’s her.”
I hope he’s right.
Johnson clears his throat, shifting us along. “I wrapped up that meth ring situation in Seaside. Got all three of them—they’re looking at serious time.”
“Nice work,” Hanks says.
“What about you, Jerry?” Johnson asks. “What’ve you got?”
Harlan sighs. “Not much. Normal summer car break-ins and noise complaints about bonfire parties.” He shrugs his big shoulders. “But quiet is good.”
Hanks gives a brief update on our case—the Samantha Winters murder, the evidence we’ve been combing through. He keeps it high-level, mentioning Grayson Taylor’s basement apartment. We searched it yesterday evening after securing a warrant and found a disturbing collection. Most of the evidence is downstairs with the forensics lab right now.
“Shrine to the victim,” Hanks says, his gravelly voice flat. “Photos, personal items, journal entries about her. Guy had been stalking her for nearly a year.”
Johnson whistles low. “Open and shut?”
“Getting there.” Hanks glances at me. “Still have a mountain of evidence to process, but he’s looking good for it. Wilder.” Hanks turns to him. “You said you caught a case last night?”
Wilder sets down his coffee cup and scrubs his face. “Homicide in Astoria. Victim is Melody Mathers, thirty-four years old. Found in the parking lot behind a strip mall around nine last night by an employee of one of the businesses.” He pauses. “She’d been shot. Two rounds to the chest and head.”
Poor woman.
“Any leads?” Johnson asks.
Wilder shakes his head. “Her fiancé has a solid alibi—he was at a work dinner with a dozen witnesses until almost midnight, then went straight home. He’s devastated, and he couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt her.”
“Robbery?” Hanks leans forward. “Assault?”
“Neither. Purse was still on her, wallet untouched, no signs of sexual assault.”
Harlan hangs his head, face pinched with disgust. “So it was personal.”
Wilder nods. “Seems that way.”
Something pricks at the back of my mind. “Fiancé,” I say slowly. “Was she getting married soon?”
Wilder looks at me, a small furrow forming between his brows. “A few months away, I think. Why?”
I shake my head. “We’re working a case where the bride was murdered on her wedding day. The bride-to-be angle just caught my attention.”
Hanks shifts in his seat beside me. “Samantha Winters was killed about an hour before her ceremony. Strangled in the bridal suite.” He rubs a hand over his scruffy chin. “And we’ve got her ex in custody.”
“Different MOs,” Ramirez observes without looking up from his screen. “Strangulation versus shooting.”
“Yeah.” I tap my fingers against the table. “Probably nothing.”
But the thought won’t let go. It’s odd, at least.
We wrap up the meeting after another twenty minutes of discussion. As everyone gathers their things, I stay seated, my mind still circling.
Johnson claps Hanks on the shoulder on his way out. “Drive safe.”
“Goodbye, Malcolm.”
Harlan gives Shadow one last pat and heads for the door.
Ramirez closes his laptop and tucks it under his arm, nodding to me as he passes. “Hope you get good news from Carver soon.”
“Thanks, Ramirez.”
Then it’s just me, Shadow, Hanks, and Wilder in the quiet conference room.
I turn to Wilder before he can stand. “Tell me more about your victim. Melody Mathers.”
He settles back in his chair, fatigue evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Like I said, thirty-four. Lived in Astoria with her fiancé, Sean Hanson. She worked the front desk at a dental clinic. By all accounts, she was well-liked—big family, lots of friends. No enemies that anyone can think of. Fiancé has no idea what she was doing in that parking lot last night. To his knowledge, she wasn’t shopping at any of the businesses, and we didn’t find any receipts from nearby stores.”
