Chapter 19
Barton watched from the window as Sarah Newton parked her car, then hurried inside. He stayed in the shadows on the far side of the lobby as she rushed up the stairs. He touched his cheek and fury tightened his lips.
There was no reason for her to stay in Youngstown now.
She should have left today.
But no. She wasn’t finished ruining lives.
He shuffled across the lobby, around the reception desk, and into his office. He closed and locked the door. For a full minute he stood staring at his desk.
What did he do now?
If she wouldn’t leave . . .
With a burdened breath, he ambled behind his desk and dropped into the chair.
What the hell did he do?
His hands shook as he unlocked the desk and reached into the bottom drawer on the left. He withdrew the journal and held it in his hands without opening it.
He didn’t have to open it.
He knew the words by heart.
. . . the first plunge of the knife split the porcelain flesh and blood bloomed forth like a river of crimson . . . the heart quivered . . .
Barton shuddered. Squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to stop the words. But they would not go away . . . they were permanently etched in his brain.
. . . the tip met bone and he was forced to grind and slide sideways until the blade sank deep into muscle and tissue . . . each plunge of the knife sent blood gushing, spilling onto the cold stones . . . yet he did not stop . . . not until he was done . . .
. . . and they were both dead . . .
Dear God . . . what had he done?