The First Victim (4 page)

Emily woke up gasping for air, trying to breathe past the scream lodged in her throat. The fear was crushing her. Pressing down. Stifling her. Sitting up in bed, she pulled her knees into her chest. She tried to stop the violent trembling that racked her body. If she held on tightly enough, maybe the shaking would stop. Hugging her knees, eyes squeezed shut, she rocked back and forth. It wasn’t long before she found comfort in the primitive, steady rhythm.

After her racing heartbeat slowed, and her breathing returned to normal, she dared to open her eyes. Morning sun shone through antique draperies. It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings. Then she remembered. She was back in Lakeside Acres at The Garden Gate.

The bitter taste of all the fear and resentment that she’d felt the day before mixed with the horror of the dream, and she gagged before muttering, “There’s no place like home.”

The scent of freshly brewed coffee reached her. She wasn’t the only one awake. It was time to get up and face the world. She threw off the bedclothes and shuffled into the bathroom, hoping that standing under a spray of hot water for a few minutes would wash away her problems.

Emily smelled breakfast cooking as soon as she stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself in an oversized towel, she sniffed the air appreciatively. Something was definitely baking, hopefully pistachio muffins, a Garden Gate staple and her personal favorite. Her stomach rumbled, a not-so-subtle reminder that she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.

Emily had skipped lunch the day before, too busy working on the Armstrong account. Then she’d missed dinner trying to get up to Lakeside Acres. Running on adrenaline, she hadn’t been hungry last night, but now she was ravenous.

Skirting around the bruise forming where the seat belt of her car had cut into her last night, she took her time toweling off. Wiping away the condensation from the steamed-up mirror, she took a good look at herself. She wasn’t sure if the dark circles around her eyes were a result of her restless night or the airbag’s deployment. Either way, she looked miserable.
I am miserable.

Shaking off the self-pitying admission, she reviewed what she had to do. Once she figured out how to get a car, she’d go get Laurie. Not that she had a clue what she’d do with her once she had her. She wasn’t equipped to take care of a fifteen-year-old girl she barely knew.

A floorboard creaked outside her room. Someone else was up.

She scrambled into a fresh outfit, not caring that it stuck to her still-damp curves. Hiding the canister of pepper spray in one hand, she cautiously opened the door of the Primrose Suite to peer down the hall. No one was in sight. Tiptoeing down the floral runner, just like she had when she and Ginny were kids, obeying her father’s admonition to stay out of the way of the guests, Emily reached the breakfast nook. A former sunroom, it had been converted to year-round use and was now used to serve morning meals to visitors.

Slipping inside, she saw that coffee was already set up. That explained the noise she’d heard: Ginny’s dad was putting out the coffee. Snatching up a bone-china cup, she filled it with the steaming, fragrant brew. With no cream in sight, she sipped it black. Venturing farther into the room, she looked closely at the antique doll perched on a shelf in the far corner of the nook. Remembering her mother’s collection, Emily examined the piece, all bisque,
too fragile for little girls to play with.

Emily admired the craftsmanship of the doll’s painted eyes, cheeks and lips, along with the perfect curls of its sorrel hair. Emily reached out and touched the toy’s ivory hand.

Sensing she was no longer alone in the sun-filled room, Emily froze in place like the doll. Slowly, she turned to face whoever was standing behind her.

The tall, bald man standing there was an imposing figure. Well over six feet, with a barrel-like chest, he was staring at her.

She tried to quell the panic rising in her as she realized he was blocking her escape route. There was something unsettlingly familiar about him. She had the distinct impression she should know who he was, but she couldn’t place him.

“Hello, Emily.”

Fear choked off her air supply. How did he know her name? She took a step backward, desperate to put as much distance between them as possible. She wanted to scream for Ginny’s dad to come rescue her, but her throat had constricted painfully.

The man cocked his head, an almost birdlike movement, as though trying to look at her from another angle. “You startled me. I wasn’t expecting to find you standing there.” Focusing on her cup, he asked, “Cream?”

Emily blinked, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Then she realized he was balancing a doily-covered tray laden with pitchers of milk and cream.

Raising her eyes back up to his smiling face, she finally recognized him. Sad Sam. That’s what Ginny had called her uncle when he’d moved to Lakeside Acres the summer they’d turned fifteen.

Relief flooding through her, Emily exhaled the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding.

“Yes please, Sam.” She stepped forward and plucked the pitcher labeled Cream off the tray. “Thank you. I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“It’s been a long time. Last time you saw me I still had hair.” He slid the tray beside the coffee carafe, and opened a cabinet to pull out a sugar bowl and a basket of artificial sweetener packets. “Sugar?”

“No thanks.” She hadn’t seen him in twelve years, not since she’d graduated from high school. He’d been on vacation when she’d come home for her mother’s funeral.

“Heard about your father’s accident. How’s he doing?”

“Not sure.”

Sam Castle gave no indication that he found that odd. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Breakfast today is stuffed French toast, but if that doesn’t appeal to you, I could make you something else. We’ve only got one other guest, and I’m pretty sure he’ll eat whatever we put in front of him.”

“French toast sounds great. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble. Make yourself comfortable. I’ve got to go pop the muffins out of the oven.” Waving a hand, he indicated she should sit, before hurrying out, leaving her alone in the breakfast nook.

Emily rubbed her thumb along the scar that stretched across her right palm. Normally she didn’t give it a second thought, but now it itched. The old wound seemed to taunt her, reminding her that she hadn’t really healed, that only time stood between her and her abduction. Ashamed, not only of her wayward thoughts, but the way she’d been overreacting to every perceived threat since she’d returned to town, Emily balled her hand into a fist. In her
real
life she was an independent, self-sufficient woman, not this trembling coward afraid of her own shadow. There was no reason to be scared.

“Good morning, Emily.”

Startled, she looked up to see Ginny’s dad watching her with concern. Not wanting to worry him, she did her best to cover her distress. “Good morning, Mr. Castle.”

Shaking his head, he put a basket of steaming blueberry muffins down in front of her. “You’re a grown woman. How many times do I have to ask you to call me Mark?”

“Sorry…Mark.”

“You gave Sam quite a shock.”

Reaching for a blueberry muffin, she muttered, “That makes us even.” The muffin was too hot and she had to toss it from hand to hand to keep from getting burned.

Grabbing a plate off the sideboard, Mark slid it in front of her to catch the crumbs just as he’d always done when she was a kid. “He said he’d thought for a second he’d walked in on your mother.”

Dropping the muffin onto the plate, she licked off the blueberry that had oozed onto her thumb. “I can understand why he’d be alarmed if he thought he was seeing a ghost drinking from one of your china cups.”

Mark chuckled. “I forgot to tell him you were here. You
do
look a lot like her.” There was no mistaking the wistful sadness in his voice. Emily had long suspected that he’d carried a torch for her mother. In fact, before Laurie had been born, Emily had entertained fantasies of her mother leaving her father for Mark, making her and Ginny not only best friends, but sisters too.

Wanting to chase the sorrow from the sunny room, Emily fell back on a safer topic. “You forgot to ask me for my credit card. My purse is in my room. I’ll get it.”

Before she could stand up, he was pressing down on both of her shoulders, holding her in place. She stiffened reflexively, her breath catching in her throat.

“I didn’t forget. How many times have you slept under my roof, Emily? Don’t you dare offend me by trying to pay for your stay.”

“But—”

“We’re practically family! I told you when you left Lakeside Acres so many years ago that you’re always welcome here. No turning our relationship into a business deal. It hurts my feelings.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Castle.”

“Mark.” Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Grabbing a carafe of coffee and a cup, he slid into the seat opposite her. “No harm done. Bailey called a little while ago, said to tell you that your car’s been towed. They’ll keep it at Swann’s Garage until an insurance adjustor can take a look at it. Awfully nice of him to do that.”

“Mr. Swann’s a nice man.”

“
Mister
Swann had an accident. His kid’s taken over for him, but I wasn’t—”

“Evan? Evan’s running the garage?”

Scowling at her interruption, he continued on. “I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about Bailey taking care of that for you with all he’s going through.”

“Going through?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” A knot of guilt bunched in her stomach. Hadn’t she known that Bailey had wanted her to ask him what was wrong last night? Hadn’t she selfishly chosen not to?

Mark set his cup of coffee down, reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Bailey’s father died yesterday. From what I heard, he was rushing to the scene of an accident, actually to your father’s accident, and lost control of his car. He died instantly.”

“Sheriff O’Neil died?”

Mark nodded.

“But…Bailey…he didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me.” No wonder he’d seemed so spooked when he’d found her car in the woods.

Mark patted her hand. “He probably figured you had enough to deal with. I’m sure he was trying to protect you.”

“But…” She trailed off, realizing that her arguments meant nothing. They were just empty, shallow words. She’d seen that Bailey needed to talk, and she’d ignored him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hoped that when she opened them, this conversation would be just another nightmare. It didn’t work. She was still sitting in the breakfast nook opposite Ginny’s dad.

“I think that’s my phone I hear ringing in the kitchen. Apparently Chef Sam can’t be bothered to answer it.” Releasing her hand, he got to his feet. “And yes, Evan Swann is running the garage.”

Evan Swann. Now there was someone she never thought she’d see again. He’d been just as eager as her to escape from Lakeside Acres. Even more so, if the fact he’d skipped their graduation ceremony was any indication. If Bailey O’Neil had been the All-American football star who could do no wrong, Evan Swann had been the town’s very own James Dean.

He really had been too cool for school. Long-haired and leather-jacketed, an unlit cigarette always dangling from his lips as he wandered the halls of Lakeside High, he’d practically oozed a bad-boy charm that sent the collective blood pressure of the school administrators soaring, and had the girls’ hearts racing at the mere thought of getting to hold his hand.

Emily turned her hand over to look at the scar. He’d held her hand once. Her lungs stopped working as she remembered.

Sixteen-year-old Emily held her breath as she shoved at the crawl-space doors overhead. Miraculously they opened upward and outward.

Half-crawling, she dragged her bruised body out of the basement hell and staggered outside. Blinking against the bright sunshine, she greedily gulped in the fresh air, tasting freedom. She’d made it!

She didn’t even feel him grab her ankle. She didn’t even have time to put out her hands to protect herself when he yanked at her from below. Yelping, she crashed face-first into the dirt. The impact forced the air from her lungs in a painful whoosh. He’d caught her.

“You’re not going anywhere, Emily.” His voice was distorted by the hideous latex clown mask that hid his face.

Gasping for breath, she felt dread sweep through her. Icy cold, it pooled between her shoulder blades, paralyzing her as he slowly dragged her back toward the dank shadows. Whimpering like a trapped and injured animal, she was powerless to stop him. She knew she was never going to escape. She was never going to see her mom or dad or her baby sister Laurie ever again. She was never going to finish growing up. It was so not fair.

Then it came to her, the mantra she’d instilled in herself over the past days.
I am not going to die. I am not going to die.
The mantra triggered a rush of adrenaline. Freed from her paralysis, she burst into action, fighting back. In a wild frenzy of movement, she twisted and writhed trying to escape the grip locked on her ankle. She clawed at the ground, in an effort to slow her descent back into the hellhole.

“I am not going to die,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Still she slid relentlessly backward.

“I am not going to die!” The shouted words burned her throat, tearing at the tender flesh, but they were loud, strong. “I am not going to die!”

She kicked at him with her free foot. The blow glanced harmlessly off him. She kicked again, connecting solidly with his chest. Searing pain raced up her leg, but his hold on her loosened. Frantically she scrambled for leverage. Driven by her basest survival instinct, she ignored the pain and kicked at him again with everything she had.