Maura slapped the phone from her hand with such force, it hit the floor hard and slid out of reach. “You’re not calling anyone. This is between you and me.”
Ann spotted her phone on the floor a couple of feet away from her. “You need someone else to help you. Please, Maura, let me help you.”
“You’re the doctor, right? Don’t you deal with troubled people all the time?” Maura asked.
“You’re not troubled,” Ann lied. “You just need a little help.”
Maura chuckled. “Oh, I’m troubled. But in a good and productive way. After all is said and done, I’ll be famous and have the man of my dreams.”
Ann calculated the distance between her and Maura and then how fast she could snatch up her phone. Analyzing the risk versus reward, she lunged for her phone. As her fingers grazed the phone’s smooth case, the snap of electricity crackled, and then she felt the jolt of high-wattage voltage shoot through her body. Every muscle in her body spasmed, and she fell to her knees, her body trembling. “Why?”
Maura knelt down. “I tried to be like you. But I just wasn’t good enough. And then it occurred to me that no woman is going to be good enough while you’re alive. There’s no competing with you.” She ran her fingertips along Ann’s jawline. “But that’s fine. I know how to make it so Elijah will not be able to resist me.”
As Ann’s body still spasmed, Maura hoisted her to her feet, supporting her weight as she staggered out the door toward the truck. She settled Ann in the front seat, and just as Ann was recovering her wits, Maura pressed a damp cloth against her face.
“Breathe in deeply, Ann,” she said.
The sickly sweet, damp odor invaded her nostrils, and her head immediately swirled.
“I can’t have you running off while I’m getting Nate.”
“Leave us alone,” Ann whispered. “Please.”
“Oh, no, he’s the bait that will prove to Elijah I’m the woman he needs.”
PAUL THOMPSON’S CRIME FILES
Pemberton, West Virginia, is a small rural community an hour outside Martinsburg. A few folks in town commuted into Virginia and Maryland to work, but most of the two thousand residents lived and worked locally as farmers, as small-business owners, or in county government. This was an everyone-knows-your-name kind of town, where no one locked their doors and kids roamed free after school.
Judy and Donna Monroe, ages sixteen and fourteen, lived outside Pemberton in a small ramshackle home with peeling white paint and a yard filled with car parts their late father had collected. Their mother, Connie, worked twelve-hour shifts six days a week as a cashier at the go-kart park near Martinsburg. With Connie gone so often, the girls were on their own a lot. But that was the way it was in Pemberton. Kids looked out for each other while their parents put in long hours to put food on the table.
The Fourth of July was a big holiday for Pemberton, complete with a parade led by the town’s lone fire truck, barbecue cooked by the fire department, and fireworks that lit the sky on fire. Folks took off from work or left early on the Fourth of July so that everyone in Pemberton could enjoy the party.
Connie always took off for the parade because she knew how much her girls loved this rare day of family time. But on July 4, 2005, Connie’s boss had called her early, telling her she had to fill in for several employees who had called out sick. Connie had argued, been tempted not to go in, but when it came down to a choice between the parade and her job, she had no choice. She gave each of her girls a ten-dollar bill, kissed them on their heads, and told them to have fun.
That was the last time the three of them would be together again. Judy would later tell police that, during the course of the festivities, she had lost track of time and her younger sister. Donna had simply walked away. Judy, partying with a few local boys, did not sound the alarm until the fireworks exploded in the sky.
The town sheriff was called, but with night upon them, the search was futile. It resumed at sunrise, but despite hours and then days of searching by dozens of volunteers, Donna Monroe was never seen again.
The day Judy turned eighteen, she left West Virginia for a different kind of adventure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Missoula, Montana
Friday, August 27
1:00 a.m.
Bryce read through all Paul Thompson’s notes, and he was struck by how exhaustive and detailed the reporter was with his interviews. He categorized, analyzed, and drew conclusions better than many cops. Which was why it made no sense that Judy’s interview and all notes pertaining to her were missing. Thompson was not the kind of guy to lose information.
Bryce decided to spend the night in a Missoula motel located near the center of town. He was determined to stay close to Ann and Nate until this case had more clear-cut answers. The evidence was conveniently pointing to Thompson, but like the missing file on Judy, it did not feel right. In all his years of law enforcement, a case this complicated had not closed this easily.
Standing from the motel desk, he packed up his files and slipped his sidearm back into its holster. He swung his coat around and slid into it, and then, grabbing the files, he left his room.
The drive to the Missoula jail took under twenty minutes. Though it was well after visiting hours, Bryce’s badge got the attention of the night desk deputy, a reed-thin man with a thick black mustache and name badge reading TUCKER.
“I’ll call up to his block,” Deputy Tucker said.
“Appreciate it.”
When the door buzzed, Bryce entered the transition area, where cops locked up weapons. The next set of doors opened, and he strode toward the only interview room. Ten minutes later Paul Thompson appeared, wearing an orange jumpsuit. His neatly combed hair now stuck up, and his face looked pale and drawn.
Bryce rose. “Have a seat. I’ve got a few questions.”
“You can ask my attorney. He’ll be here in the morning.”
“I’m not trying to build a case against you,” he said. “I’ve been through all your notes. They’re careful and well done. You’re not the kind of guy who misplaces an important interview.”
“You’re talking about Judy?”
“That’s right. What can you tell me about her?”
Bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Why should I help you? You’re the reason I’m here.”
“Right now, I’m the only one standing between you and four counts of first-degree murder. Tell me about Judy. She’s the one that first told you about the Fireflies.” From one of the folders, Bryce pulled the Firefly list, which included pictures. He pointed to Judy’s DMV photo. “This is Judy Monroe?”
“Yes. Though the picture doesn’t do her justice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Judy is prettier than that. After our first interview she went through a kind of makeover, and when she showed up for a second one, she’d dyed her hair blond and traded the glasses for contacts. She looks like a schoolteacher there, but she was hot.”
“Hot.” Bryce tapped his finger on the woman’s face. “How long did you date?”
“About six months.”
“How did you meet?”
“She cleaned out my house and then the office. She became a kind of personal organizer and assistant. It was a big help.”