Chapter 7
SEVEN
MINA
Amy Pasko bore an eerie resemblance to her missing sister, Lara.
“Do you want me to sit in on this?” I asked. Roy had Amy set up in a private room down the hallway.
Behind me, he had printed out a blow-up of the police sketch Amy Pasko had contributed to two years ago.
The longer I looked at it, the less it looked like Lock.
I’d let my mind play tricks on me. Nothing more.
Lock could never have had anything to do with hurting someone the way we thought these women had been hurt.
But I was still anxious to know why Roy had called me here so urgently.
“Actually,” Roy said. “I’d rather you had a look at the police report and file on Corrine Egan.”
“You said there was something you wanted me to see?”
Roy went to the table. A thin purple file folder sat on top of one of the boxes. He handed it to me.
“There’s not much there,” he said. “She was never able to provide the names of any witnesses to their encounters. The rental house she described does exist. I pulled the address up online.”
“What was the name on the rental?” I asked.
Roy shook his head. “It went nowhere. The landlord said it was a cash transaction. The name of the renter was Matt Woodson, just like Corrine said. Her story tracks with all checkable facts. But nobody ever found a trace of this guy. He’s a ghost.”
“Even if something Amy says connects to this guy as well, I don’t think Corrine would be able to take the stand.”
“I figured you’d say that. That’s exactly why I want your eyes and brain on that report. She’s got some screenshots of message exchanges. I want to know if there’s anything there you’d use that I haven’t thought of.”
“Assuming her bad guy is the same bad guy who abducted these other women,” I said.
“Right,” Roy said. “And right now, that’s just my instinct. But it’s a strong one.”
He picked up a pad of paper and headed down the hall. Part of me desperately wanted to follow him. I wouldn’t mind hearing what Amy Pasko had to say either. But I was equally curious about the file in my hand.
I sat down and flipped it open. The top sheet contained the Kalamazoo County detective’s disposition summary. He investigated it as a menacing case, not an assault. Its status remained open.
The summary of Corrine’s statement matched what she’d told us. She met the mysterious Matt Woodson online. They started a dialogue after that, chatting through the app for several weeks before deciding to meet in person.
I flipped the page. The detective had written a bullet point list. He’d titled it “Woodson’s Rules.”
My throat felt thick as I read on.
Place setting – silverware not touching, nothing closer than one inch from any plate.
Suspect directed the victim not to wear red of any kind.
Suspect ordered all food and would not allow victim to use any strong spices.
During sexual encounter, suspect took dominant role. Forced eye contact throughout. Light bondage using red silk ribbons.
Suspect asked to sign NDA
I slammed the file shut. I wished I could slam my mind shut. My heart hammered in my chest. This was wrong. I couldn’t read this. My mind flashed to the memory of my first time with Lock.
He’d been so tender, so gentle, but the demands he made mirrored what I was reading in this report…
“I need your eyes, Mina,” he had whispered. It sent a shiver of pleasure through me. “Stay with me, my little dove.”
As I got to know him better, I began to understand what made his insecurities flare.
When we were intimate, he wanted to know I was thinking only of him.
He wanted control. It awakened a dark part of me I hadn’t known existed.
To give in to it. To turn myself over to his deepest desires and realize they complemented my own.
He used red silk ribbons to tie me to the bed. The morning after, he’d cut a strand and tied it around my wrist. It had been the most loving, intimate gesture. I mattered to him. He made me feel as though I were the only woman in the world. Cherished. Chosen. Loved.
There was nothing sinister about it. Nothing violent.
It was a secret he trusted me with. He had been so vulnerable that morning.
So afraid of what I might do or say. Would I reject him?
I knew I held his heart in my hands. I touched the ribbon still encircling my wrist. I’d never let Lock’s heart go.
But the silverware. That was his mother’s rule when he set the table. One horrible night, when Lock was eleven, he’d gotten it wrong. When his father found out, he’d made Lock hold his hands on either side of his dinner plate and hit him with the wooden ruler he was supposed to measure with.
Certain smells made him sick. Clove. Though his mother didn’t cook often, she overused this spice when she did. Now, it made him violently ill. I turned the page. Corrine had printed out a message exchange on a single sheet of paper. Most of them were outgoing messages from her to Matt Woodson.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
It’s not too much? I was afraid I’d scare you away.
No. I liked it. I don’t know. I guess I don’t mind letting someone else take control.
From the date stamp on the messages, Woodson didn’t respond to her for several hours. This prompted a series of check-ins from Corrine.
Matt?
U ok?
***
I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?
Then finally, the next morning, he responded.
I’m here. Don’t worry, dove. I can’t stop thinking about you either. I want to see you again. I want to spend the weekend with you. Do you trust me?
My stomach rolled. He called her dove. Lock had called me his little dove ever since the first time I spent the night with him.
A pair of mourning doves had chosen to nest just outside the window.
They mate for life, he told me. He withdrew into himself just after, turning away from me.
He had been afraid he’d said too much too fast.
“I like that,” I had said as I put a hand on his shoulder.
It was then that I noticed the tattoo on his shoulder blade for the first time.
That unique design of two fish intertwined.
He flinched when I ran my fingers along the bold lines of ink.
I didn’t learn the story behind it that day.
No, that came much later and broke my heart anew each time I thought of it.
Yes! Just tell me when and where.
You’re absolutely sure?
Yes.
Will you let me plan everything? Do you trust me?
I trust you. I promise.
Ok. Friday night. I googled it. There’s a park within walking distance of your apartment. I drive a black Town Car. I’ll park there.
Where are we going?
It will be a surprise, my dove.
And then there was the NDA. But it was a coincidence. Of course someone who preferred an app like WhisprMatch would want to protect their privacy, especially if they were rich like Corrine suspected. I could explain it away without even trying hard.
But, dove. This was madness.
It was just a term of endearment, I told myself. Nothing terribly unique. Right? None of that would hold up in court.
My head spun. What was I thinking? How could I be thinking it?
I shoved the file under my arm. The walls of the conference room felt like they were closing in on me. I needed air. I needed to be far away from anything to do with Corrine Egan’s story.
The door across the hall was still closed. Roy hadn’t finished his interview with Amy Pasko. I raced down the stairwell and came out on the second floor. My office was at the end of the hall.
Everyone had already left for lunch. I could enjoy the solitude and try to clear my head.
Matt Woodson wasn’t Lock. It was ridiculous to even entertain the idea. I was just under too much stress. And even if Corrine Egan’s man was Lock, we had no concrete thread tying Matt Woodson to these missing women.
My phone buzzed, jarring me. I had an incoming text from Roy Dennison.
Just finished up. Getting called out to a potential homicide on the other side of town. That’s gonna be the rest of my day. I’ll drop by your office in the morning to get your notes.
I hovered my thumbs over the keyboard. I desperately wanted to hear his impressions of Amy Pasko.
He hadn’t said it, but I knew full well part of his objective with her was to determine if she could corroborate any of Matt Woodson’s reported idiosyncrasies.
Beads of sweat formed at the base of my neck.
I heard someone walking in the hallway. I’d left my door slightly ajar.
“Ashley?” I called out. It wasn’t quite one o’clock yet. Ashley rarely made it back from lunch early. I put the purple folder under the blotter on my desk and walked out into the hallway.
It wasn’t Ashley. It was Amy Pasko. She must have made a wrong turn coming down the stairwell. She saw me, and relief flooded her face.
“Thank goodness,” she said. “They pointed the way out of here, but I appear to have bungled it.”
“It’s easy to do,” I said.
She furrowed her brow. “I think I know you,” she said. “I saw you on the news. Er… the internet. You’re working with Detective Dennison?”
“I am,” I said. I extended a hand to shake hers. “My name is Mina Sobel.” Though she could have read that just as easily on the door behind me.
“Right,” she said. “I was actually hoping I’d see you today.”
“Oh?” I said. Then I don’t know what made me do it, but I found myself adding, “Why don’t you come in? If there are any questions, I can answer them for you.”
She looked unsure, but as I walked back into my own office, she followed me.
Amy wore a pair of purple scrubs. I knew she worked at a surgical clinic about an hour south of here. She took a tentative seat across from my desk.
“I hope Detective Dennison was able to put you at ease,” I said. “He can be a bit intimidating.”
“Oh, he was fine. But yeah. I can see that.”
“Why were you hoping to see me?” I asked.
“Sorry. I just meant that when I saw there would be a woman on this task force, I was relieved. I suppose that’s kind of prejudiced of me. I just want to make sure there’s someone looking at all of this with an objective eye. The detective I dealt with back in Ingham County was dismissive.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said. “I can’t imagine how difficult the last two years have been.”
“Do you have a sister?”
The question took me a little off guard.
She looked beyond me. I realized she could see the personal photos I had on the credenza behind me.
Most prominent was the last formal portrait my parents had taken for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, just a month before they died.
Beside it, I had my favorite picture of Lock and me.
A candid from our wedding day. The photographer caught us in a private moment.
I leaned against Lock’s chest; he rested his chin on the top of my head as we both watched the sunset from atop the bluff on his property. We were both in profile.
But there was another photo on the shelf below both of those.
From the position of my chair, I knew Amy Pasko couldn’t see it.
I’d framed my favorite photo of Lock. I took it with my phone at a benefit last year.
He wore a tux and had a glass of bourbon in his hand.
I’d said something a little naughty and his eyes glistened with mirth just as I snapped the picture.
“No,” I said. “I’m an only child.” With my pulse racing, I did something bold. I angled my chair so she had a clear view of Lock’s photograph.
The image of that police sketch swam in front of me. This was crazy. Foolish. But I had to know. I had to prove the absurdity of my own thoughts.
I saw her lean, taking a closer look at Lock’s photograph. She studied it, furrowing her brow. Then her eyes widened as she caught my gaze and she pushed her chair away from my desk.