Keith? My stomach drops. How can that be? He’s in prison. He can’t get out. It’s my imagination. Thoughts of Keith Russell have flitted through my mind all day, despite my efforts to keep them at bay. It’s as though he inhabits the mold and decay in this basement, caught here like a demon spirit.

“Answer me, little girl.” His voice sing-songs.

I stay quiet in the dark, leaning against the wall. My heart thumps so heavily my body shakes with each pulse.

“Melinda?”

I hear the ladder scrape against the floor above.

“I just want to talk. For now,” he says.

It sounds like Keith, but not. Someone else. Someone familiar. I hear his footfalls slap against the ladder steps. I hear him advance toward me across the cement floor. A flashlight beam sweeps the basement, blinding me, then he switches it off. Despite the cold, sweat drips down my back.

He’s next to me now, breathing heavily, sitting beside me like two people just hanging out. I want to tear at him, fight my way out, but what will that get me? I close my eyes to push back tears and hope I don’t have a heart attack from sheer terror. Does that really happen?

“Let’s talk,” he whispers. “But don’t scream. It’s not worth the effort. Have you tried that already? I bet you did, and no one came, did they? Just like before. This whole street is deserted. This is an old row house. The whole neighborhood is going to be demolished soon. But it’s perfect for us.”

His voice. I know him. He’s sitting so close to me my shoulder touches his arm. I start to hyperventilate and have to talk myself down. I can do this. I can survive—again.

He clutches my chin and turns my face toward him. Through the darkness, my eyes meet his, and my heart seems to drop out of my chest. My captor is my friend.

CHAPTER 65 - Rita

CHAPTER 65

Rita

IT’S EARLY EVENING BY THE TIME DR. WESTMORE ARRIVES AT THE STATION. We have her escorted to an interview room, and Joe and I join her. This is as frazzled as I’ve seen the doctor. Her hair looks like it needs a good brushing, her clothes are wrinkled, and she smells distinctly of cigarettes.

“Any news?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Where’s your husband?”

She pulls her phone from her purse, scans the screen. There’s a furrow between her eyebrows as she types. “I’ve left him several messages.” Her red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “He’s not always where he has a signal, but he’ll get back to me as soon as he can, Detective.” She sticks her phone in her jacket pocket. Her fingers twitch as if yearning for a cigarette.