Idiot. He told you he owned twenty-two acres of land, which means no one saw you running, no one heard you scream—and you didn’t tell a single person where you were going.

She let out a whimper. A restraint below her breasts kept her breath shallow.

This is the man who killed Angela Chapman, probably Paige Lauffer too. Not Amireau or Michelson, definitely not Lakshmi Anjale. A fucking acting teacher.

Her chest shook and she gasped, letting out a longer but somehow weaker noise, and a single thought echoed in her head.

This is how I die.

Something else made its presence known. A sound—rhythmic, excited, familiar. A mix of heavy breath and the slight slapping of skin.

A high whine escaped the back of Caitlin’s throat. She took another gasp, let her first scream out. She knew the sound of a man masturbating. The steady pace turned feverish.

His soft voice came through, almost serpentine. “You’re safe now.”

She screamed again, but still heard his breathy whispers. “You’re mine, Caitlin.”

She lost herself, screamed until she saw nothing, felt nothing. His own scream joined hers, an unbridled chorus. Her voice gave out; her tears did not.

He gave his own whimper. His voice sounded softer, further, perhaps turned away. “Oh, Caitlin, I’m so glad you’re here.”

She heard movement, then a zipper.

“So glad.”

The air pressure in the room changed. She heard a whoosh, then a footstep onto crushed stone.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he said, even further away.

A soft thud was followed by the metallic slide of a deadbolt being turned, then another.

Then silence.

Chapter 61

CHAPTER

61

Los Angeles

MIKE HAD CHECKED his phone first thing each morning. Still nothing from Caitlin.

On Monday, he’d had a follow-up call with Agent Martinez, who’d handed Michelson off to be transported to the Midwest, but Martinez hadn’t heard from Caitlin either. That afternoon, Mike emailed her an invoice for his Bahamas expenditures, the last line a stand-alone item labeled “Manure Transportation (Kieran Michelson).” Her lack of reply didn’t faze him, but he spent the rest of the day skimming news coverage of the Bloomington drug busts. Nothing mentioned Caitlin’s involvement.

A weekend without a debrief wasn’t unusual.

Not hearing back by Monday after a big story’s release wasn’t exactly unheard of either but did strike Mike as out of the ordinary. Caitlin often followed up for additional details she could use in supplemental pieces. That or she’d meet him somewhere to brag over cocktails.

By Tuesday night, almost seventy-two hours after he’d turned in Michelson, Mike got worried. Scrolling back through the Bro-duce stories, he found a trend, dialed the Indiana Daily Student, and left a message.

A young woman with a slight British accent returned his call Wednesday morning.

“Is this Mike Roman? My name is Lakshmi Anjale.”