Chapter 8
MAEVE
The note in my hand grows heavier the longer I hold it, like an anchor pulling me down into the muddy depths of my soul.
What I should be doing is finding out who sent it, how it’s connected to the orphanage. That’s what the sender wants, right? For me to stop investigating the murders.
But all I can do is stare at it, as though the words themselves might jump off the page and finally make sense.
If only I had a sample of Caleb’s handwriting. He’s suspect number one on my list, mainly because everyone else keeps showing up dead.
It would be fitting, really. He saves animals by day, but by night? He murders people, guts them like they’re no more human than him.
Would I blame him, though, for getting revenge on those who hurt us the most?
Before this investigation, I would have said yes. Now? The answer isn’t so clear-cut.
Perhaps, I’m completely barking up the wrong tree, and Caleb is no more capable of murdering someone than I am.
Or, my mind is just blurring fiction with reality, and maybe Bethany didn’t die. Maybe she’s the killer.
The note. Little Shadow. The name is familiar, but I can’t place why. And now, anything feels possible.
I’m so close to finding the truth, I can feel it. But close to what? The truth about Bethany? The murders? Or something even darker, something I haven’t yet considered?
I’ll keep digging, but it’s possible I’ll only be digging my own grave.
A phone rings out a few desks over, startling me out of my daze.
The fluorescent lights above me buzz, their cold glow humming against my skin like static, making the hairs on my arms stand up.
Faces blur as I scan bodies behind desks.
No Terry this morning.
I frown, eyeing his closed office door. That’s odd.
Hungover maybe? It’s possible, although not probable, he’s realised the error of his ways and is hiding from me. Or . . . he’s dead.
Yeah, right. I should be so lucky.
I shove the note back into my handbag, then rub my temples, the pressure of my fingertips easing my growing headache.
I’m getting sloppy, bringing my personal shit-show to work. If Holloway finds out I’m slipping, he’ll bench me, and I can’t have that.
My instincts are telling me Thornhaven Orphanage and Pinnacle are connected, their relationship deeper than just the funding Pinnacle may have provided.
There’s more to the story. There are reasons there are gaps in our memories.
Exhaling sharply, I sit up straighter, playing the part of the perfect little journalist, and open the list of employees from the orphanage’s last ten years before it closed its doors.
Margaret Ashford. Now deceased.
Patrick Mahoney. Now deceased.
Michael Sinclair. Now deceased.
Doctor Ernest Hendry. Now deceased.
Dennis McCosky. Still alive.
For now.
He’s my next lead. I really should confront him sooner rather than later—I have no idea how much time he has left. But doing that, seeing him in the flesh after all these years . . .
I swallow hard. He should be in prison, not living out his old age like he’s deserving of the oxygen he breathes.
I flip open my notebook and jot down his address. There has to be another way to get the information I need without facing the man I’ve had nightmares about for the last ten years.
He had to have kept records. Someone of his nature needs a security blanket, a way to make a noise if things go sour. And if I can get inside his house while he’s out . . . maybe, just maybe, I can finally get some damn peace.
Tomorrow night.
I’ll scope the place out, and with some luck, I’ll be in and out before Dennis even breathes in my direction.
An email alert dings on my computer. I snap my attention to it, clicking it open. Holloway has set an appointment with an executive from Pinnacle for next week. I click ‘Accept’ even though by then, with my luck, I could be another body strung up to a ceiling.
If I believed in a god, I’d be praying for him—or her—to show me the way, give me some sign I’m on the right track.
Is that so much to ask for?
I’m numb, lost to a past I can’t seem to forget, yet also can’t seem to remember entirely, either.
Six months, and the only time I haven’t felt soul-crushing guilt is when I’m around Caleb—the veterinarian version, and . . . the other version.
My life has hit a new level of low.
Footsteps approach, and I glance up from my laptop screen. Lydia rushes over, a small box in her hands.
The grin on her face unnerves me as she gives the item a slight shake. “Someone has a secret admirer,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “You meet someone last night I don’t know about?”
I frown. “Sorry?”
She holds the box out to me. “It’s addressed to you. Sonny gave it to me on my way up.”
I stare at it, Lydia’s red fingernails a stark contrast against the light timber.
“Come on.” She thrusts the item at me. “It’s not going to bite you.”
I let out a tense laugh, and tentatively take the box from her hands, pulling the card from under the red ribbon.
Maeve. You’re welcome. A x
A?
First the note. Now a gift? If I can even call it that.
The handwriting . . . it’s the same as the one on the note, I’m sure of it. Although, I can’t exactly just whip it out to compare.
Lydia would chain me up and demand answers. Ones I can’t give her.
Is this how Caleb felt when I barged into his clinic and asked way too many personal questions?
Trapped.
“Well?” Lydia bounces on her toes beside my desk, her blue eyes wide as she waits for me to open the box.
But I don’t want to do that right now.
And is that . . . blood? A small, faint red mark, almost like the remnants of a fingerprint, is smudged on the very edge of the lid.
I smile up at Lydia. “I’ll open it later.”
“What?” Her mouth falls open, and she stares for a long moment, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re seriously going to make me wait to find out what’s in it?”
“Afraid so.” I glance at my watch. “I have a meeting in two minutes with Holloway.”
The lie falls easily from my mouth, but if it gets the biggest office gossip off my back for five minutes, I’ll try anything.
“Fine.” Lydia pouts, swatting at my shoulder. “But just so you know, if there’s chocolate in there, you better save me one.”
Chocolate. Something tells me it’s not chocolate. Call it intuition, or the fact there might be blood on the outside, it’s a fair assessment.
“Deal,” I say, tucking the box under my arm.
Out of sight, out of mind.
“Well, get going. Chop, chop.” She claps her hands, then practically shoves me off my chair. “Don’t want to keep Holloway waiting.” Her hips sway as she saunters off, waving at any co-worker who gives her more than a few seconds’ glance.
All the tension leaves my body, and I sink back into my chair, pressing my fingers against my burning eyes.
The box digs into my ribcage, reminding me it’s still waiting to show me its contents.
Guess there’s no time like the present.
I shove to my feet, clutching the box to my chest, and make my way into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
My heart races faster, harder, until I’m out of breath. Even the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, blinking like they’re waiting. Watching.
With trembling hands, I tug on the end of the ribbon, and it flutters to the floor at my feet. Licking my dry lips, I slowly pry open the lid of the box.
Oh god?—
The smell . . . metallic and putrid. Like something rotting, something dead. It’s unmistakable.
My throat constricts, saliva flooding my mouth. I press the back of my wrist to my lips, and squeeze my eyes shut. It doesn’t help the stench of death.
Holding my breath, I open one eye, then the other.
What. The. Fuck.
Two pale, bloated fingers sit side by side, blood staining the cream velvet, now an off-brown colour.
My vision blurs at the edges, the world shrinking as my stomach recoils, bile rising into my throat.
I slam the lid shut, and bolt for the toilet, my knees slamming against the tiles as my breakfast surges up my oesophagus in a violent reappearance. Gripping the cold porcelain, I retch until there’s nothing left but stomach acid and the sour taste of fear.
Tears stream down my face, purely from the stench, and my body collapses against the inner wall of the cubicle, weak and useless. I snatch a handful of toilet paper from the roll and dab it against my clammy skin.
Who would do such a thing?
And why?
But more importantly, whose fingers are they?
My breath wheezes out of me, short and sharp.
Is this another warning, like the letter? You’re welcome , the note read. Like whoever is behind the neat handwriting has done me a favour. It’s personal, someone’s twisted version of a gift.
You’re welcome .
Those words race around inside my skull, unrelenting.
Oh . . . shit.
My hand flies to my chest as realisation slams into me hard and fast. Images from last night flood my brain. The fractures are beginning to reform, only they’re twisted, warped.
Terry.
Caleb’s last words to him—I’ll be seeing you.
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes, the cold calculated way he spoke as though he was almost inhuman, a force of nature rather than a man.
That kind of intensity should have terrified me. Instead, it pulled me in like gravity, sucked me right into that black hole, and forced me to confront, not only Caleb’s darkness, but my own.
In the car, Caleb asked me his name, and like a love-struck teenager, I handed it over, sealing Terry’s fate without even realising the danger he was in.
Have I been right all along? Is Caleb the killer? It’s clever, really. Who would suspect the town’s gentle veterinarian with the face that could melt the panties off any woman.
Everything I thought I knew is wrong. Caleb pulls a string, and I move, without thought, without hesitation.
And why doesn’t that scare me as much as it should?
Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I throw my head back against the wall. This is my fault. Yet, I can’t seem to conjure up the guilt that someone is possibly dead because of me.
The laughter turns to a choked sob, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.
Minutes pass as I sit on the cold tile floor, tears streaking my face, the fight I started with draining away with the scent of my vomit.
I swallow hard, swiping at my wet cheeks just as another thought strikes me with brutal force. My entire body goes rigid, every muscle tensing.
Teddy.
He’s still at the clinic . . . with Caleb.
I snatch up the box from the tiles, its gruesome contents rolling around inside, and stumble out of the bathroom, sweat sliding down my back. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a thunderous reminder of the danger Teddy is in.
Lydia catches me in the hallway, a frown etched on her face. “Maeve, are you alright? You look pale.”
I shove the box under my arm to hide its secrets and brush my hair from my face. “I’m fine,” I say, trying on a smile. “Just . . . something’s come up. I need to go.”
She narrows her eyes as if she doesn’t quite believe my lie. Christ, I don’t have time for this.
“Alright . . .” she finally says. “Do you need a ride?”
“No!” The word bursts out of me, louder than I meant. I don’t have time to worry about her feelings right now. “No,” I repeat, steadier this time. “I’ve got my car. Thanks.”
I shove past her. The hallway stretches, too bright, too loud. Every conversation I pass is muffled, like I’m underwater. Even my lungs seize with each pressing second. I snatch my belongings from my desk, my movements mechanical, and race to the elevator.
It takes an eternity to arrive, and the parking garage is a maze of concrete and shadows just waiting to snatch me from behind.
I fumble with my keys, almost dropping the box.
Shit.
By the time I unlock the car, I’m sweating through my blouse. The door groans as I open it, and I throw myself into the driver’s seat, slamming it shut.
My hands twist around the steering wheel as the box sits on the passenger seat, all smug like.
Screw you Caleb Blackwood. You don’t scare me.
Twenty minutes later, the veterinary clinic appears like a mirage, its big sign more like a threat than hope. I pull into a parking spot, and yank on the hand brake, the tyres screeching to a halt.
With trembling hands, I snatch the box up, leaving everything else behind, and race towards the building, bursting my way inside.
The waiting room is a blur of concerned faces and nervous pets. But I don’t care who’s waiting to see the good doctor.
He’s a monster.
Sarah calls after me as I charge down the hallway, following the sound of Caleb’s deep voice as it filters out of an open doorway at the back of the clinic.
My breath catches in my throat as I rush into the room. Caleb is kneeling by Teddy’s cage, reaching through the bars, petting his head. The man who saves animals by day and severs fingers by night is smiling at my dog like he’s not a psychopath.
Teddy lets out a low whimper, shifting on unsteady legs. Caleb murmurs something under his breath, something too soft for me to catch.
His fingers brush over Teddy’s fur. Too gentle for a killer. Or is that exactly what a killer would do?
I snatch up the first weapon-like instrument I can get my hands on—a pair of scissors—and hold them out in front of me. “Get away from him!” My voice is raw, ripping at my throat, the scissors heavy in my hand.
Caleb’s head snaps up, his eyes widening. His expression shifts as he rises to his feet, something flickering in his eyes I can’t quite place.
Surprise? Confusion? Or guilt?
He raises his hands. If it’s meant to placate me, it’s not working. No placating will be happening until I have Teddy in my arms.
“Maeve, I was just?—”
“Step. Away. From. My. Dog.”