Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The ringing of the phone jarred her from a sound sleep. Bleary red numbers on the digital clock relayed that it was just shy of four a.m., and Hannah rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Propping herself on an elbow, she disconnected her phone from where it lay plugged in on the nightstand. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen as the phone pealed its third ring. Biting back a yawn, she swiped her thumb across the screen and held it to her ear. “This is Dr. Whitmore.”
Deep, raspy breaths filtered through the phone, and she waited a beat, but the caller remained silent. Fatigue pulled at her, and frustration rose to the surface. Keeping her voice as even as possible, she tried again. “How can I help you?”
The man’s voice was low and dangerous, and she had to strain to make out his words. “Hello, Carrie.”
Oh, God.
Hannah’s blood ran cold, the unmistakable sound of the man’s voice transporting her ten years into the past. Her heart thudded heavily against her ribcage, her pulse thrumming wildly as her lungs seized with fear.
Swallowing hard, she tightened her grip on the phone. “How…” Her voice cracked, and she tried again. “How did you find me?”
A cruel laugh crackled over the phone line, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “Still so na?ve, aren’t you?”
“What do you want?”
She heard him draw in a deep breath before exhaling. “I want you.”
“I don’t—”
“1143 Cypress Drive. Monique needs your help, Carrie.”
“What did you do?” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she gripped the phone.
“It’s almost time.”
“Wait, I don’t—”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the blank screen. Shivers racked her body, and her hands shook as she dialed the police.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“M-my name is Dr. Hannah Whitmore.” She swallowed hard and tried to modulate her voice. “I just received a phone call from someone asking for help. 1143 Cypress Drive. I… I think she might be hurt.”
“Ma’am—”
“Just send help!”
She hung up before the dispatcher could say another word.
Springing from the bed, heart racing, she yanked on the closest pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to ward off the chill that snaked through her body.
Grabbing her phone, she ran down the steps, taking only a moment to gather her hair into a ponytail and check her reflection in the mirror that hung in the hallway.
She snatched up her keys and purse from the side table and threw the front door open, then quickly relocked it before sprinting toward the driveway.
Heart still racing, she backed down the driveway and sped toward the exit of the allotment.
She braked as she passed the guard station, suddenly realizing she had no idea where she was going.
Digging her phone from her bag, she spoke into the microphone. “Find directions: 1143 Cypress Drive.”
The stilted voice in the phone called out directions, and she cut across a back road to a small suburb of Miami.
Blue and red lights pierced the dark sky, and dread congealed in her stomach as she pulled up in front of the small house.
The men and women on scene moved slowly, milling around the lawn, and her heart dropped to her toes. She was too late.
“What exactly did the caller say?”
She wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup, trying to absorb what little warmth filtered through the thick material. “He called me Carrie, told me that the woman—Monique—needed help. I… I was still half asleep, but I remembered the address. I called you guys as soon as I hung up.”
“You said that a male called you, not Ms. Henderson herself?” Detective Sanchez propped a hip on the table and crossed his arms over his wide chest as he inspected her.
“Yes. He had a deep voice, and the way he said it, to send help soon, I had a feeling something bad had happened. He seemed… familiar.”
“Because he called you Carrie?”
“Yes.” She gave a jerky nod. “But there was something else. I can’t describe it, but… I feel like it’s him.”
Detective Sanchez studied her. “You believe this is the same man who killed Selah Wilson?”
“He sounds older, more mature… but there was something about his voice. The tone, maybe. Just the sound of it…”
A shiver raced down her spine at the memory of his words grating over the phone line, and the coffee sloshed precariously in the cup.
She leaned forward and set it on the table before lacing her fingers together and pressing them between her thighs, a gesture that always made an appearance when she was nervous.
“The only person who knows about my past is my friend Audrey—Dr. Stanton. We’ve known each other since college, but I haven’t told anyone else.
I moved in with my grandparents in Snyder before my senior year of high school and changed my name.
No one here has ever known me by anything other than Hannah. ”
“I see.” Sanchez dipped his chin. “Ms. Henderson was a nurse at St. Mary’s Hospital. Were you ever in contact with her?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not a licensed physician, so I don’t have to make rounds. I’ve never met her that I’m aware of.”
“Did the caller say anything else?”
“No, not that I can remember.” She wrung her hands together. “Oh—he did say something like ‘it’s almost time.’”
“In reference to Ms. Henderson?”
“I don’t know.” She lifted one shoulder. “He hung up before I could ask.”
The detective nodded as he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over to her. “Thanks for calling it in and for answering our questions. I assume you’ll be around if we need anything?” At her nod, he continued. “Let me know if anything else comes to mind.”
“Thank you.” She accepted the card and stood. “I appreciate your help.”
Detective Sanchez held the door for her as she left the small interrogation room.
Over the past few hours, the sun had risen fully in the sky, and its bright light streamed through the glass doors.
She walked outside, shielding her eyes, debating what to do.
Still shaken from the call that morning, she debated canceling today’s appointments but quickly nixed the idea.
It would give her something to do—something to keep her mind off the woman’s murder.
Shortly after she arrived at Monique’s house, reporters had flocked to the scene in droves, the information apparently leaked by a neighbor or someone working the case. She’d spoken with the patrolmen as well as the coroner, but it seemed they’d never had a chance to save Monique.
The killer must have spent several hours with her, judging from the damage inflicted on her body. The deceased woman had several defensive wounds, as well as the deep laceration that stretched from ear to ear and ultimately ended her life. Just like Selah.
She shivered at the thought. She’d tried for so long not to think about that night, but it always loomed in the back of her mind.
She recalled each detail as if it were yesterday instead of almost ten years ago now.
Selah had put up a good fight, but her killer had overpowered her, taken advantage of her before killing her with a vicious slice across the throat. And now he was back.
Looking left and right, examining her surroundings, she strode quickly through the parking lot and climbed into her car.
As soon as the door closed, she locked it.
Even the oppressive heat couldn’t dispel the chill that had seeped into her bones, and she ran her hands briskly over her arms. Starting the car, she headed toward her office building and made her way to the top floor.
Fiona met her in the lobby. “Good Lord, girl, what in the name of all things holy happened this morning?” Dogging her steps the entire way back to her office, she continued, “I turned on the news this morning, and there you were. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
She scrunched up her nose. “They already ran the story?”
Fiona shook her head. “They only showed a little clip this morning. Said they’d have the ‘full story’ at six.”
She rolled her eyes. “Vultures.”
“So?” She stood next to the desk, hands propped on her generous hips. “What happened?”
Sinking into her chair, she leaned back and rubbed her temples.
“I got a call this morning from the killer. He said a woman needed help and gave me her address, so I called it in to the police and drove to her house. I’m sure the police would have stopped by to check things out, but I needed to see for myself. ”
“Why in the blue blazes did he call you?”
She bit her tongue. She’d never told Fiona of her past, and she didn’t intend to now. No use worrying the poor woman until the police were able to find more information. Little spooked Fiona, though; the woman would probably take it upon herself to be her personal protector.
“I’m not sure. The police are trying to figure that out.”
Concern settled over her face. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and relax?”
She shook her head. “No, I need something to take my mind off it all.”
Fiona nodded sagely. “Well, if you change your mind or if you need anything, you just let me know.”
She shot her an appreciative smile. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Shutting off thoughts of Monique’s murder, she turned her attention to the computer, determined to lose herself in work.
Four sessions and several hours later, she walked through the front door and dropped her purse and keys on the console table in the foyer.
Exhaustion pulled at her, her mind and body tired from having been roused from bed so early.
Too tired to cook, she poured herself a bowl of cereal and carried it to the living room.
Curling up in a corner of the couch, she flipped on the TV.
Immediately, her face filled the screen, and a female reporter spoke in the background.
“… local doctor was called to the scene early this morning. Monique Henderson, a resident of a quaint community just outside of Miami, was the victim of a brutal…”
She flipped channels until she landed on a home and garden show.
She couldn’t believe the news had spread so quickly.
And why did they have to involve her? It was bad enough that a woman had been brutally murdered, but now everyone would think she was somehow involved.
They hadn’t attended college together, nor were they even passing acquaintances.
She’d told the cops the same thing that morning, but the reporters didn’t know that.
Hopefully, no one leaked any details of her past. She’d reserved that information until speaking with Detective Sanchez, and he seemed intent on keeping it secret as it wasn’t yet relative to the case.
If they found new evidence, though, they might have to dig further into her background.
She had no desire to dredge that up again.
She’d spent months after Selah’s death working with the local police, appealing to the community, trying to find the killer. It seemed he’d just vanished into thin air. No one had seen him, no one had recognized him or come forward.
But now she knew—he’d always been there watching, waiting for the right time.