Chapter Forty-Two
Monsters in the Dark
Dale
The only thing Dale was happy about was his former employers’ absence when it came to the investigation. Deputy Taylor from Navajo County arrived at the scene and offered to help.
Russel had no problem accepting.
“I ran both plates through the traffic cam database, and neither vehicle passed the intersection,” he said.
“I have no doubt Willow was meeting Deputy Wallard out here. My guess is blackmail or some type of coercion. He scared her, and she wouldn’t have met him without a very good reason.”
“I heard he was trouble,” Taylor said emphatically.
“Yeah, and I didn’t need to search far to find the things he was up to.”
“I need to take these to the station,” Russel said, lifting a bag that held the evidence they’d collected. “I know someone at the state lab, and I’ll try to put a rush on the results. I also need to get a warrant for the phones, but I’ll send the cell companies a preservation request.”
“Thank you,” Dale said. “I’m going to drive around the lake and try to get a feel for what happened.”
“If something comes up, get in touch,” Russel said.
“Same here,” said Deputy Taylor. “I’ll give you both my cell so we can stay in touch. Do you want me to notify Apache County?”
“No,” said Dale. “Wallard’s father is a VIP in town, and he also has a big mouth. The more they know, the more they’ll interfere.” He looked at Russel, who nodded in assent.
Dale went to Roger and Louisa’s to pick up the dogs and give them an update.
“That poor girl,” Louisa said, fighting tears. “Please bring the dogs back here tomorrow. They are no problem.”
“Thank you.”
He opened the door to Willow’s home ten minutes later, and the dogs bounded in, searching for her. Max whined.
“I know, boy, but I’ll find her.”
He fed them dinner and pulled out a can of chili that had been in the cabinet for months. He wasn’t in the mood to cook or eat, for that matter, but he had to. Tomorrow would be another long day.
◆◆◆
Willow
Butch took her upstairs again in the morning so she could eat breakfast. Scrambled eggs and a fruit bowl waited for her. Had he realized she was afraid of what he would put in her food? Nothing he did added up.
She didn’t complain about the eggs because she had no intention of telling him she was plant-based. When she finished eating, he cleaned the kitchen while her food settled.
“I’m heading to town and will pick up some clothes for you at the thrift store,” he told her before leading her back to the chain.
She remained in the dark while he was gone and managed to sleep a bit.
He allowed her to shower upstairs and change clothes that night. He’d purchased dark blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt. They were a cheap brand, but she didn’t care. He’d given her fifteen minutes to shower, and she used every second.
Dutifully, she followed him downstairs.
“Tomorrow is processing day,” he said before leaving her alone.
Now that she was clean, she thought he would rape her, but he’d simply left her alone again.
Nightmares assailed her sleep. The echo of boots struck the tiled floor, each impact reverberating through the cold stone walls.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The rhythm was like a countdown.
She sat on the floor in the corner of her prison cell, knees drawn to her chest, her thin nightgown clinging damply to her skin.
The air was heavy with mildew and the sour odor of fear.
The footsteps grew closer.
Her breath hitched as a long, narrow shadow spilled across the floor. Then came the rasp of a heavy key sliding into the iron lock. It turned with a low, grinding click that echoed in her bones.
The door creaked open on shrieking hinges.
A figure filled the doorway, haloed by light from the corridor behind him. She could only make out the silhouette of broad shoulders and the slow sway of a key ring at his belt. The boots stepped forward.
The smell reached her before he did: cigarettes, whiskey, sweat.
Her throat tightened. She tried to shrink farther into the corner, but there was nowhere left to go. Her palms pressed against the cold wall, and her fingernails dug into her skin.
He stopped before her and bent down, his shadow swallowing the light, but it fell across his face, and her stomach dropped. It wasn’t the guard.
It was her father. The man she’d killed.
His eyes glinted now with something unrecognizable. His mouth curved into a smile that didn’t belong to him.
“Don’t cry, sweet Willow,” he whispered. His voice was almost tender, which only made it worse.
His hand reached out to her. They were calloused and trembled slightly. She wanted to scream, but her voice was strangled somewhere deep inside her chest.
The back of his hand brushed her cheek, and the walls closed in further. Beneath his touch, her skin turned to flame and skyrocketed her fear.
His hand slid lower, cupping her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. His eyes had changed; they were hollow now, black pits of death.
She shook her head, trying to pull away, but the dream held her tightly. Her father’s whisper deepened, layered with voices that weren’t his; men, monsters, memories, all spoke through him. She fell to her back; his fingers wrapped around her throat.
“Don’t cry,” he repeated. “You knew this was coming.”
And when she finally managed to scream, it wasn’t her voice that filled the room.
It was his laughter.
Willow shot upright on the camp bed, sucking back another scream. Her racing heart didn’t slow for several long minutes as she attempted to breathe. The dream had never been that vivid.
Light filled her new prison, and Butch walked in.
“Are you okay, Willow?”
It was the voice of the monster.