CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Riley stared at the three-story Victorian house looming before them—three stories of faded grandeur, set back from the street, partially obscured by overgrown shrubbery. Perfect for hiding someone. Perfect for hiding Jilly.
Eleven hours had passed since Jilly was taken.
Eleven hours of dead ends, false leads, and mounting dread.
Riley pressed her palms against her burning eyes, then blinked hard.
She and Bill had been moving non-stop all night, fueled by coffee and fear, chasing Leo’s ghost from one location to another.
She and Bill had crossed paths once or twice with Ann Marie, who was working separately with others.
This house, with its darkened windows and air of neglect, was one more address on their seemingly endless list of properties with connections to Leo Dillard. But this one stirred something in Riley’s gut. Not hope—she couldn’t afford that luxury—but a cold certainty that Leo had been here.
“Property records show he bought this place three weeks ago,” Bill said, coming up beside her. His voice was rough from lack of sleep. “Cash transaction through a shell company. Same pattern as the others.”
“Let’s go,” she said, already moving forward.
The front yard was more a tangle of weeds than grass, the walkway cracked and uneven. As they approached the porch, Riley noticed the curtain in one of the upstairs windows shift slightly. Or was it just a trick of the light deceiving tired eyes?
“Was that …?” she asked Bill.
“Someone watching, I think,” he replied.
His hand moved to his holster as they climbed the creaking porch steps.
He positioned himself to one side of the door while Riley took the other—a move they’d performed countless times.
But never with stakes this personal. Never with her daughter’s life hanging in the balance.
Riley reached for the doorknob, expecting resistance. Instead, the door yielded easily, swinging inward with a low groan. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even fully closed.
Their eyes met in silent communication. Bill drew his weapon; Riley did the same.
“FBI,” she called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “We’re coming in.”
No response came from the darkened interior. Riley took a deep breath, then stepped over the threshold, gun raised in both hands. Bill followed, moving to clear her blind spots as they entered a dusty foyer.
The house smelled of neglect—mildew, dust, and something else. Something human. Someone had been here recently.
A staircase rose from the hallway, disappearing into shadow.
To their left, a sitting room with sheet-covered furniture.
To their right, what appeared to be a dining room, chairs stacked atop a long table.
Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, yet there were clear pathways through it.
Someone had been walking these floors and those stairs.
From the looks of it, maybe just one person, Riley thought. Maybe whoever had been at that upstairs window. But that didn’t mean that Jilly couldn’t be locked up in a closet.
“Before we go up,” Bill said softly, “we have to make sure there’s nobody down here.”
They did a room-to-room and found no one, nothing to indicate anyone else was there.
They had finished checking out the first floor when a thump sounded from above, followed by the unmistakable creak of footsteps trying to be quiet.
Time to find out who that was. Although they couldn’t take the person completely by surprise, they could be ready for anyone who threatened them.
Riley pointed upward, then to herself, indicating she would take point. Bill nodded, falling in behind her as they approached the stairs.
Riley’s gun remained steady in her hand, aimed slightly upward as they ascended. Bill’s breathing was controlled and quiet behind her. The familiarity of moving in tandem with him was the only comfort in this moment of crushing uncertainty.
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched before them, doors on either side.
All closed except one at the end, which stood slightly ajar.
Riley knew that would be a room at the front of the house, where they had seen a curtain move.
Now another noise came from inside that room—a rustling sound, then silence.
Riley moved forward fast, but the hallway seemed to elongate with each step. When they finally reached it, she positioned herself to the side, then pushed it further open with the barrel of her gun.
A bedroom. Empty except for a bare mattress on the floor and a wooden chair in the corner. No sign of anyone, but the closet door at the far wall was closed. As they entered the room, Riley could hear rapid, shallow breathing from behind that door.
She signaled to Bill, who moved to the opposite side of the closet. With three fingers, she counted down silently. Three. Two. One.
Riley yanked open the door, weapon aimed into the darkness. “FBI! Don’t move!”
A cry of terror erupted from inside as a figure pressed itself deeper into the corner of the closet, arms raised protectively. Not Jilly. Not Leo. Instead, a stranger—a man who was thin, disheveled, and clearly terrified—cowered before them.
“Please don’t shoot me,” he whimpered, his voice cracking. “Please, please, I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Riley lowered her weapon slightly but kept it trained on him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The man’s face was gaunt, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but hardship had aged him beyond his years. His eyes, bloodshot and watery, darted between Riley and Bill.
“Name’s Smitty,” he mumbled. “Just Smitty. I ain’t got no other name.”
“Come out of there slowly,” Bill instructed, his tone firm but not threatening. “Hands where we can see them.”
Smitty edged forward, his movements jerky with fear. As he stepped into the light from the window, Riley could see the telltale signs of prolonged drug use—the sores on his skin, the nervous tic at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m Special Agent Riley Paige,” she said, holstering her weapon once she was certain he posed no immediate threat. “This is Special Agent Bill Jeffreys. We’re looking for someone who might be in danger.”
Smitty’s shoulders slumped slightly. “You ain’t here to arrest me for trespassing?”
“That’s not our concern right now,” Riley said. “Are you here alone?”
“Yeah,” Smitty replied. “Ain’t nobody else here.”
“Have you seen a girl?” Riley demanded. “A young teenager?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t seen nobody since I started stayin; here.”
Bill asked, “How did you come to be in this house?”
Smitty scratched nervously at his arm. “Been on the street most of this year. Maybe longer. Days blur, you know?” His gaze wandered, then snapped back to Riley’s face.
“Then this fella came up to me, maybe a week ago? Could’ve been more.
Or not as long. Not sure. Said I could stay here, out of the elements.
Said the house was his and nobody was using it. ”
“This man—what did he look like?”
“Nice-looking fella. Clean-cut. Like a doctor or a lawyer or something. Talked real proper.” Smitty’s forehead creased as he concentrated. “He had these eyes that seemed to see right through you, you know? Made me nervous, but I was desperate for a roof.”
“Did he tell you his name?” Bill asked.
Smitty nodded eagerly. “Abel. Said his name was Abel something.” He frowned. “Keen. That was it. Abel Keen.”
Riley and Bill exchanged a glance. Leo had used the same alias when he abducted Stanley Pope the previous day. The connection sent a chill through Riley’s exhausted body.
“Did Abel tell you anything else?” she pressed. “Did he mention a young girl? A teenage girl?”
“No ma’am, no girls,” Smitty said, shaking his head vigorously. “But he did leave me with a message. Said I was supposed to tell an FBI agent named ‘Riley something’ if she ever came looking.” He paused, his eyes widening. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
Riley nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. “What was the message?”
“He said, ‘Seek and you shall find.’” Smitty recited, as if he’d been practicing. “That’s it. But I think he meant you should look for something in this house. He seemed real particular about that.”
Hope and dread collided in Riley’s chest. If Leo had left something here for her to find, it could be a clue to Jilly’s whereabouts. Or it could be something unspeakable—a message written in blood, a piece of clothing, a lock of hair.
“Bill,” she said quietly. “We need to search this place. All of it.”
He nodded, already understanding. “I’ll take the top floor, you take this one. Then we’ll do the main floor together.”
“Smitty,” Riley said, turning back to the man who was now perched nervously on the edge of the bare mattress. “I need you to stay right here while we search. Don’t leave. We’ll have more questions for you.”
“Yes ma’am,” he agreed readily. “I ain’t going nowhere.”
Riley moved methodically through the second floor, checking every room, every closet, every possible hiding place.
As she opened each door, she braced herself for what might lie behind it.
But she found nothing—no sign of Jilly, no message from Leo, not even evidence that he’d been here beyond Smitty’s testimony.
When she and Bill joined up on the ground floor, his grim expression told her he’d had no better luck.
“Nothing upstairs,” he confirmed. “If she was here, she’s not here now.”
“Let’s finish this,” Riley said, gesturing to the rooms on the main floor.
They moved together through the dusty sitting room, pulling sheets off furniture, looking under tables, tapping on walls for hidden compartments. The dining room yielded nothing. A small study off the main hallway contained only empty bookshelves and a desk with nothing in its drawers.
Riley felt frustration building. Another dead end. More precious time wasted while Jilly remained in Leo’s hands. She wanted to scream, to put her fist through a wall, to unleash the howl of anguish that she’d been holding back since she’d first seen that security footage.
Instead, she kept searching.
The kitchen was the last room on the main floor—a dated space with yellowed linoleum and cabinets hanging askew. Bill systematically opened each cabinet while Riley checked the pantry. Nothing but cobwebs and mouse droppings.
Her gaze fell on the refrigerator—an old model with rounded edges, probably from the 1990s. It stood unplugged, its door closed. On instinct, she reached for the handle and pulled it open.
The interior was empty and dark, save for a single folded notecard placed precisely in the center of the middle shelf. With gloved hands, Riley carefully lifted it and unfolded it.
The message inside, written in Leo’s elegant script, made her stomach clench.
“Made you look! And now you’re wondering... what next?”
She stared at the words, bile rising in her throat.
This wasn’t a clue. It was a taunt. Leo had set this up days ago, anticipating that she would eventually find this house, interview Smitty, and search until she opened this refrigerator.
He had calculated her movements as if he could read her mind.
“Riley?” Bill’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “What is it?”
She handed him the note without a word. His face darkened as he read it.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “He’s playing with us.”
“No,” Riley said, her voice hollow. “He’s playing with me. Demonstrating how well he knows me. How he can predict my every move.” She leaned against the kitchen counter, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. “And I have no idea what his next move will be.”
She looked back at the mocking note, the elegant handwriting swimming before her tired eyes. What next, indeed? What was Leo’s endgame? Was this all just an elaborate form of psychological torture, or was there some greater purpose to his twists and turns?
Wherever he was, whatever he was planning, she knew that Leo Dillard was watching her stumble from one false lead to another. And while she chased shadows, Jilly remained in his hands—a hostage to his obsession, a pawn in his game of cat and mouse.
What next? Riley didn’t know. And she was afraid that uncertainty might cost Jilly her life.