“We’ll be watching,” Bryce replied.
“Don’t you trust me?” Ellie asked, raising a brow.
“About as much as you trust me.”
Well, there you have it. They were in a standoff.
Derrick glanced between them. “Just get him to talk, Detective.”
Shooting Derrick a look of contempt, Ellie squared her shoulders and walked to the interrogation room. Before entering, she braced herself for whatever Cord had to say. She could handle the truth, she told herself.
At least she hoped she could. If it turned out he was a murderer…
Pushing her doubts aside, she entered the room. Cord drew in a breath, his gaze so intense it sent a chill up her spine.
Her heart pounded as she slipped into the chair across from him.
“They’re watching, listening, aren’t they?” he asked in a gruff tone.
Ellie nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Cord’s eyes flickered with regret. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I should have told you earlier.”
“Told me what?” she asked, gently laying her hand on his. He tensed, but instead of pulling away, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“About my past,” he said in a strained voice. “But you have to believe me. I didn’t kill those women, Ellie. I swear I didn’t.”
Relief flitted through Ellie––she believed him––but she steeled herself again. Something was still very wrong here, her instincts were alight. “Then how did those pictures and that blood get in your locked workroom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Cord, you asked to talk to me,” she said quietly. “So talk.”
“Someone’s framing me.”
“I had the same thought initially. But who would go to all those lengths to set you up? And how would that person know about your past, how you grew up?”
“I can’t be sure. But I have an idea.”
“Go on.”
His breathing became unsteady, as if he was lost in the throes of a dark memory. “Felix Finton was a sadistic monster. He did all kinds of sick things to the bodies before preparing them for visitation. He liked to play with the corpses, especially the women. One night I caught him violating a young girl and he wanted me to join in the fun. When I refused and threatened to tell, he was furious, and then he told the social worker I did it.”
The grisly images played through Ellie’s mind like a horror show.
“Do you think he’s capable of committing these crimes?”
Cord gave a slight shake of his head. “Mentally, yes. But he was in poor health back then so I doubt he could pull it off now. But his son Roy hated me. And he took after the old man.”
“Why did he hate you?”
“Finton took in a little girl, eight years old. I caught Roy pulling her into the prep room. He wanted to show her what he liked to do with the bodies. Sick fuck. But I intervened.”
“You protected her?”
He turned his hands over, staring at the nicks on his fingers. She’d asked him once how he got them, and he said he cut himself when he was whittling.
“She was so little and scared, I had to. Roy liked to dress the bodies with his father. He’d spend hours combing their hair and painting their lips.”
He stuttered, as if the memory pained him, then continued. “He was a year older than me and a mean bully. We fought a lot, especially that night.” His voice sounded tormented. “That’s another reason his father told the social worker I was the one who played with the bodies. He wanted to protect himself and his son.”
The tension in Ellie’s chest eased slightly. She believed him. And if he was right, Roy Finton might be the unsub. “Where’s Roy now?”
“He used to live in the apartment above the funeral home, but I have no idea where he is now.” Cord’s shoulders slumped. “When I saw the way the bodies were left, the ghoulish makeup and the flowers, I thought about Roy, though. Sometimes he stole flowers from the arrangements people sent into the funeral home and spread them on the bodies.”
Ellie felt nauseated. She remembered the odd way Cord had been looking at the victims they’d found––suddenly it made sense.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” Ellie asked.
Cord averted his eyes. “Growing up, seeing that, it’s not exactly the happy childhood you want to share.” His throat muscles worked as he swallowed, his voice like gravel. “Besides, I was afraid if you knew, you’d think I was like them.”
One Hundred Two
Somewhere on the AT
“It’s time to go, Cathy.”
Cold fear swept through her. He called them all Cathy. And if she tried to tell him her real name, tried to convince him to see her as the person she really was, it only made him angrier. It only made him beat her harder.
But she had to fight. Knowing every second counted, she struggled against the masked man as he hauled her into the woods.
Guilt over not being able to help the others weighed on her, but survival instincts kicked in.
He was almost done with the game, he’d told her. Now it was her time to die.
She kicked and fought and screamed, but he simply laughed, dragging her through the forest. That damn rhyme was on repeat in her head. She’d asked him about it, but the only talking he did was with his fists.
Her body ached and she was sure her ribs were cracked. But physical pain was nothing compared to what she’d witnessed.
She could still see the blood draining from Shondra. Hear the steady drip of it and see the blood spattered on the wall from where he’d beaten the others.
Ignoring her agony, he hacked away weeds and hauled her over a tree stump. Rough stones stabbed at her and a tree limb smacked her in the face. Insects buzzed around her face, worsened by the wet ground and mud.
She tried to resist him, but he carried her like a sack of flour over his shoulder. Ahead she heard the rush of water over rocks.
“Help!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!”
The wind whistled, and the other women’s shrill screams echoed in her ears, just as her own boomeranged off the sharp mountain ridges and faded into nothing. No one else was out here. No one would hear her.
She was going to die, just like the others.
He’d only kept her as leverage if he needed it. Now he didn’t need her anymore she would simply become another part of his ritual. Another one bites the dust.
He reached a clearing near a waterfall, stopped beside a large boulder and propped her against it.
Slowly he began to pull the bag of wildflowers from his duffel bag, then a red dress and the makeup. He’d shown her the photos of his handiwork.
It was the only time she’d seen him smile. Even through the eyeholes of his facemask, a perverse exhilaration lit his eyes. She could sense his pulse quickening, his body radiating heat and excitement. The sharp knife blade glinted in the shadows as he laid it on the rock.
Panicked and knowing she only had minutes, maybe seconds to live, she wrestled with the ropes behind her back. She rubbed her hands against the sharp edge of the rock, sawing back and forth. The stone cut into her wrists and hands, blood trickling down her fingers. But she moved her hands up and down, sawing away at the ropes, biting at her lip to mask the pain.