Rob’s eyes filled with rage. “Because,” he gritted out, “they said they had proof he was helping the person who killed Claudia Silva and Janet Bowie and Gemma Martin.”
“And Lisa Woolf,” his wife added from the library doorway. “I just saw it on CNN.”
Rob turned to him, bitterness in every line of his face. “And Lisa Woolf. So you tell me what you know. And you tell me now.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”
Rob lurched to his feet. “You lie! I know you lie.” He pointed a trembling finger. “You wire a hundred thousand dollars to an offshore account Tuesday night. Then yesterday I get a visitor in the bank, checking out Rhett Porter’s safe-deposit box.”
He felt the color drain from his face. Still, he lifted his chin. “So?”
“So, when he left he said, ‘Tell Garth I have it.’ What does he mean?”
“You paid someone a hundred thousand dollars?” His wife’s expression was one of stunned shock. “We don’t have that kind of money, Garth.”
“He took it from the kids’ college fund,” Rob said coldly.
His wife’s mouth dropped open. “You sonofabitch. I have taken a lot from you over the years, but now you steal from your own children?”
It was unraveling. All of it. “He threatened Kate.”
“Who?” Rob demanded.
“Whoever’s killing all these women. He threatened Kate and Rhett. So I paid to keep Kate alive. The next morning Rhett was dead.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “And to keep Kate safe, I’ll pay again.”
“You will not,” his wife screeched. “My God, Garth, are you crazy?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not crazy. Rhett is dead.”
“And you think this guy killed him,” Rob said calmly. “Like he killed Sean.”
“I didn’t know about Sean,” he said. “I swear. He didn’t send Sean’s picture.”
Rob lowered himself to the chair. “He sent you pictures,” he said thinly.
“Yes. Of Kate. And Rhett.” He hesitated. “And of others.”
His wife slowly sat on the loveseat. “We have to tell the police,” she said.
He laughed bitterly. “That we definitely will not do.”
“He could come after our children. Have you considered that?”
“In the last five minutes? Yes. Before I heard about Sean, no.”
“You know why this killer is doing all this,” Rob said coldly. “You will tell me and you will tell me now.”
He shook his head. “No, I won’t.”
Rob’s eyes narrowed. “And why not?”
“Because I don’t know who killed Rhett.”
“Garth, what’s going on here?” his wife whispered. “Why can’t we go to the police?”
“I’m not going to tell you. Believe me, you’re safer not knowing.”
“You don’t care about our safety. You’ve gotten yourself sucked into some mess that involves us. Me and your children. So don’t give me that… bullshit. Tell me or I’m walking out of here and going to the police right now.”
She was serious. She would go to the police. “Do you remember Jared O’Brien?”
“He disappeared,” Rob said, his voice flat and detached.
“Well, yeah. He probably got drunk and ran himself off a road one night and…” She went pale. “Like Rhett. Oh my God. Garth, what have you done?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“Whatever it was, someone’s coming after you because of it,” Rob said. “If it was only you, I’d let them. But by God, this is destroying my family. We all know Sean wasn’t as bright as the rest of you. He used him, used him and killed him to send you a message.” He stood. “No more, Garth.”
He looked up at his uncle. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are you going to the police?” his wife asked, crying now.
Rob scoffed. “Not in this town.”
Garth stood. Looked his uncle in the eye. “I wouldn’t say anything if I were you, Rob.”
Rob’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And why not?”
“You have a few hours? Actually, it would only take me a few minutes. A few well-placed calls and you’ll have a bank examiner down your shorts so fast…”
Rob’s pale face mottled with angry color. “You have the nerve to threaten me?”
“I have the nerve to do anything I need to do,” he said calmly.
His wife covered her mouth with her hand. “I don’t believe this. This is a nightmare.”
He nodded. “True. But if you keep your mouth shut and your head down, we just might live to wake up when it’s over.”
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 9:15 a.m.
The little room with the two-way mirror was quiet as they sat waiting for Dr. McCrady. Alex propped her elbow on the table, leaned her cheek on her fist, and watched Hope color. “At least she’s using other colors now,” she murmured.
Meredith looked up, a sad smile on her face. “Black and blue. We make progress.”
Something in Alex snapped. “But not enough. We have to push her, Mer.”
“Alex,” Meredith warned.
“You didn’t see them pull that woman from the ditch this morning,” Alex shot back, her voice shaking with fury. “I did. My God. Including Sheila, five women are dead. This has to stop. Hope, I need to talk to you and I need you to listen.” She tugged at Hope’s chin until the child’s hand stilled and wide gray eyes looked up at her. “Hope, did you see who hurt your mommy? Please. Sweetheart, I need to know.”
Hope looked away and Alex tugged her face back, desperation clawing at her throat. “Hope, Sister Anne told me how smart you are, how many words you know, and how well you talk. I need you to talk to me now. You’re smart enough to know your mommy’s gone. I can’t find her.” Alex’s voice broke. “You have to talk to me so I can find her. Did you see the man who took your mommy away?”
Slowly Hope nodded. “It was dark,” she whispered, her voice tiny.
“Were you in bed?”
Hope wagged her head no, misery filling her eyes. “I snuck out.”
“Why?”
“I heard the man.”
“The man that hurt her?”
“He left and she cried.”
“Did he hit her?”
“He left and she cried,” she said again. “And played.”
“With toys?” Alex asked.
“The flute.” The words were only a breath.
Alex frowned. “Your mom played a big shiny horn. That’s different than a flute.”
Hope’s mouth set stubbornly. “The flute.”
Meredith put a blank piece of paper in front of Hope. “Draw it for me, baby.”
Hope picked up her black crayon and drew a round face in a childish style. She added eyes, nose, and a thin rectangle that went sideways from where the mouth would have gone. She then chose a silver crayon from the box and colored the thin rectangle.
She looked up at Alex. “Flute,” she said.
“It is indeed a flute,” Meredith said. “That’s a good picture, Hope.”
Alex hugged Hope. “It’s a wonderful picture. What happened to the flute?”
Hope’s eyes dropped again. “She played the song.”
“Your pa-paw’s song. Then what happened?”
“We runned.” Her words were barely audible.
Alex’s heart was thumping hard. “Where did you run?”
“The woods.” Hope whispered it, then scrunched into the smallest space she could.
Alex lifted Hope to her lap and rocked her. “In the woods, were you with Mommy?”
Hope began to cry, with a low mewling sound that tore at Alex’s heart. “I’m here, Hope. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Why did you run to the woods?”
“The man.”
“Where did you hide?”
“The tree.”
“Up a tree?”