1
Westport, Connecticut
“At this time,” Police Chief Aubrey Myers says, his voice breaking with the nerves rattling his weary bones, “we only know she’s missing. It’s been more than forty-eight hours since anyone has seen her, and we’re taking the situation very seriously.”
A collective gasp echoes across the gathered crowd.
Some are worried parents, others are concerned friends and neighbors, but far too many are reporters.
Aubrey understands this case is different from any other he has worked in his thirty-year career.
The fact is, terror holds a relentless grip on his heart.
This is bad.
Bile churns in his gut. Deep breath. He tells himself that it doesn’t have to be connected to the others he’s heard about, even if she does fit the profile.
Could be coincidence. No need just yet to assume the worst. It’s entirely possible the girl just took a break.
Kids her age get upset with their parents or friends and take a time-out.
It happens. Julia Anderson might show up anytime, and all this will have been for nothing.
Another knot ties in his gut. Except it would be just his luck—this close to retirement and all.
A few months have gone by since any of that bad business was in the news.
Any good lawman would recognize it’s getting to be time for it to happen again.
Aubrey’s lips tighten. If it is the worst-case scenario, everyone in the whole northeast will know what that means.
He swallows the fear rising in his throat.
A serial killer waltzed into his town and took one of their own. Not just any young girl either. The only daughter of Carlisle Anderson—a man who owns this whole fucking town. A man with the power to make anyone who fails him wish for a miracle.
Aubrey has prayed fervently for the past thirty-odd hours—ever since he received the call.
Please let her be safe. Please let her be found alive and unharmed.
But most of all, please don’t let it be the Judge.
Don’t let her be the latest selection in a long line of far too many dead girls.
Don’t let her be found all dressed and painted up like a promising young model who didn’t make the cut.
The images of all those pretty girls—all obviously tortured before being murdered, with failure scrawled across their foreheads—twist like a macabre carousel in his head.
“Chief Myers,” the lady from the Connecticut Post calls out, “do you have any suspects?”
Aubrey would love nothing better than to shout his suspicions and to surrender the case right now to the FBI agent already en route, but for the moment, his orders are to keep mum about that part. They actually know nothing with any certainty at this point. There is only his fear of the worst.
“We are not prepared to discuss details of the case at this time,” he explains, hoping that will be enough.
“Rumors,” the relentless woman goes on, “are circulating that this is the work of the Judge. We all recognize Miss Anderson’s abduction fits the timeline and the profile of his preferred victim.”
Aubrey clears his throat. “I cannot confirm any details at this time.”
Rather than continue to lie to the camera, and ultimately to the people of his community, Aubrey shuts down the conference.
They will all know the truth soon enough anyway.