Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

I have the sample. On my way.

33Copy

After a while, they all knew.

Not from the start, hope a thick veil of disbelief and self-deception, keeping them clinging to the thought they would soon regain control over what was happening to them.

But they all knew, sooner or later, and when they finally realized their fate, they lost their appeal so quickly he had to will himself to give them more time. More chances, more nights to keep him company, more attempts to make it work, although he already knew the outcome.

Kirsten was about to have the realization that would change her attitude toward him entirely. He’d sensed that about her, in her misguided disobedience, the stiffness of her body lying in bed by his side, the untamed, hateful glimmer in her eyes. She would probably be changed by the next time he visited, and, just like others before her, armed with some strategy deemed to help her escape.

It never worked out well for any of them.

It only poisoned his nights, having to constantly stay vigilant, ready to defend himself against an attack that could come without warning. Her fear of him would only go so far; beyond that certain point, she, like all the others who had walked in her shoes, would decide she had nothing left to lose.

How sad.

When she could have a life with him others only dreamed of, not a worry in the world, being loved with all his heart. If only her eyes would stop throwing poison-dipped daggers and soften a little, just enough to fuel his dreams of Mira. If only she could learn to slow down, relax in his arms, and run her fingers against his face like she used to do. Then he’d be able to close his eyes and relive the love he’d lost, even if only for a fleeting moment, before being forced back into the reality that hollowed his heart, touching it with death’s wing.

But after a while, tired and filled with the despair of repeated failure, they settled in their cage, slowly losing their will to live. And the memory of his beloved Mira would fade away again, tainted by the girls’ defiance, their rejection, their inability or unwillingness to replace the sacred vision with a living copy of the woman who once had filled his heart with joy.

A copy, never the original, even if the copy sometimes tried to lie to him, to get him drunk on his own fantasy, to entangle him in a web of deceit so thick he’d lose all sense of reality. Regardless of her lame attempts, she’d still be a copy.

Never Mira again, never in his arms, never to touch her flawless skin, never to feel her breath against his cheek while she whispered tender words in his ear. Only copies he used for a while then dealt away with, when their own derisive vileness stained the image he held most sacred, burning through the dream like acid through paper.

Soon Kirsten would be there too, at that point of no return. There was nothing he could do to prevent that from happening.

34Invitation

Kay wasn’t patient enough to drive back to Mount Chester and start searching for the information she wanted while the DNA sample whirled in Doc Whitmore’s centrifuge. Despite the cold darkness, she chose to squint in the fading light at the information in Rose Harrelson’s case file, until she finally gave in and turned on her flashlight, holding it above the pages while the other hand turned them, one by one, after she’d perused them patiently, reading every word.

The information she was looking for had to be in there somewhere. Had Shelley Harrelson been acquainted with Bill Caldwell or with someone else in the Caldwell family? The two families were worlds apart in terms of everything, from social status to circles of friends and the geographies of their daily routines. But what did she know about Shelley Harrelson’s daily routine, to be sure she never crossed the Caldwells’ path?

Exactly nothing. Zilch. Big, fat goose egg.

If she were investigating a federal case, she would’ve had access to data analysts and a support team. She would’ve been able to run detailed histories of employment, residential addresses, even bank records for all those involved, immediately identifying any point where their lives had intersected. But she wasn’t a profiler anymore; she’d chosen to return home, against all odds, and become a detective here, in Mount Chester, where the entire sheriff’s office didn’t have an analyst. They only had a geek who reset their passwords every now and then, and fixed the printers, someone’s kid most likely, because he wasn’t permanently on staff. The small-town sheriff’s office couldn’t afford a full-time techie, and Mount Chester would probably have to pass half a million inhabitants before the sheriff would consider adding an analyst.

Nevertheless, the information should’ve been in there, in the pages of the worst-handled case in the entire history of kidnapping investigations. Maybe this has a chance to take the gold in nationals, she thought bitterly, the memory of Shelley dying alone in that hospital room still haunting her. The man who’d done such a bad job finding her daughter was just as guilty of her death as Rose’s kidnapper was, at least in Kay’s own system of values.

There should’ve been a list of persons of interest in the case. Everyone who had come in contact with the parents and the missing girl in the week prior to her disappearance, the parents’ employers and any relevant work contacts, anyone who could’ve carried a grudge against either of the parents, anyone who visited their home on a regular basis or in the week prior to Rose’s vanishing, anyone who took care of the little girl, like her nanny and her kindergarten teacher. All those people should’ve been clearly identified on a list, interview notes with each person attached to the file.

Almost none of that existed on record. The detective who’d so-called