Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel (8 page)

A
s Abby settled
into a chair on Teige and Kayla's deck, Hanny ambled over and made herself comfortable across Abby's feet, the large German shepherd's warmth making her feel safe and comfortable. Hanny had always had that calming effect, and while Abby was recovering last year, Hanny had been so concerned that she'd refused to leave Abby's side until she was truly up and about.

She'd done the same for Kayla when Teige had been away, before Kayla had moved in. "When's Kayla coming home?" she asked.

"She just texted—she's on her way but stuck in traffic. Told us not to wait for her to eat."

Abby reached down and scratched behind Hanny's ears, hearing the low, approving hum from the big dog. "She's been working a lot."

"It's been great for her. I try to schedule my work around her busy times but lately, they're all busy. You back at work yet?" Teige asked, deftly putting the focus on her as he passed her a burger.

She spooned potato salad onto her plate, then added pickles and lettuce and ketchup to her burger as she said, "Today, in fact."

"Your side's better, then?"

She shrugged it off. "Still hurts like a bitch, but that's to be expected."

Teige nodded, and for a few moments, they ate in comfortable silence. Until Teige told her, "Listen, I already told Kayla I was thinking about this, but I'm cancelling our trip."

Teige and Kayla were planning a vacation that was due to start a week from today. Some beautiful Caribbean island that Teige no doubt would make sure was as safe as anything. "Don't you dare," she warned her brother. "Please. I'd never forgive myself."

"I'd never forgive myself, Abs. Neither would Kayla."

"But I'm fine. Really, Teige. The Ethan thing—I was part of his cover. I should've known. I overreacted."

"Or he shouldn't have put you in that position."

She wondered briefly if what she'd just said could actually be true. If Ethan used her as a cover. If he was giving her a warning to be passed on.

"Please, Teige. I know from recent experience that getting away is the best thing," she lied.

Teige looked like he was ready to relent. "I wouldn't mind. Neither would Kayla. We both owe you everything."

She hated that, didn't want people owing her their lives. It made her feel like some kind of saint, and she wasn't even close.

Teige, of all people, understood. He hated the hero-worship crap even more than she did.

But it was hard to fight gratitude. Harder still to fight a suspicious motherfucker, as Knox had correctly pegged her brother.

"Something's going on, Abby. I know it," he said evenly. "I haven't said anything about it to Kayla because I don't want to worry her."

"Then don't," Abby shot back. "I can take care of myself. I did it for a long time."

Teige stared at her hard, then got up, slamming his chair back. He stood with his back to her, staring out into the woods that ran behind their houses.

She sighed. She hadn't meant it like that, but Teige already felt guilty as hell for going into the military and quote unquote "leaving her behind" when she was still dealing with the fallout of the Black Magic Killer. After that, he was gone more often than not, which was what she'd been used to from her father too. That's why the relationship with Ethan felt so damned normal—it was all she'd known. Having someone live and in person 24/7 was weird. Unnatural. It made her buck.

And now, Vance was in her face 24/7…and she was bucking. But she couldn't deny that she had feelings for him. It was just all caught up in so much shit she was having trouble picking it apart. "Teige, come sit down."

Her brother didn't answer her, just stood stock-still. Hanny looked between them, obviously feeling the tension. There'd been a lot of healing over the past couple of years, but obviously there was still a lot needed.

It was probably more about being constantly watched by Vance that made her angrier than normal, made her feel like the men in her life didn't trust her at all, but she wasn't going to sit here and placate a grown-ass man. Instead, she gave Hanny some big pets and a hug, murmuring, "See you later, sweetheart," before she got up to leave.

"Running again, Abs?"

She laughed. "Seriously? You're one to talk. And no, I'm not running—I'm walking. If you can't trust me—"

"I worry about you."

"It's translating a lot differently."

He turned to face her. "I've seen a lot of shit—"

"And I haven't?" she demanded. "Come on—you've got to give me more credit."

"I do. You can bitch all you want about me but you can't change the fact that I worry about you. I always have and I always will," Teige shot back.

"Ditto. But unlike you, I don't pretend to your face that I think you can take care of yourself and then undermine you by trying to coddle you at every turn."

"You think I don't notice that you've got a tail?" he asked, crossing his arms. "You gonna explain what that shit's all about?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it."

He looked up at the sky and laughed. "You're kidding me with that shit, right?"

She stood. "I wouldn't joke about this, Teige. Trust me."

"Trust you," he muttered.

"Either you do or you don't, but you don't have another choice in the matter." She walked out, angry and sad that this might create a rift between her and her brother. She hoped Kayla would smooth this over, that she and Teige would take their vacation and, by the time they came back, Abby could give them an explanation.

This crap with Vance had to be over soon. How long could it take to catch a murderer who seemed to be everywhere?

M
ary was still pissed
off but calming down. At least that's what Sarah said, although it seemed to become a different story once Abby came back into the picture.

It was like Mary was a penitent teenager angry at her mom for abandoning her. And Abby was unfortunately the mom in this situation.

Abby forced herself to remember that Mary, like Abby herself, was in a life and death situation. One that had been thrust upon her as a punishment for liking nice things and bad boys. Probably in that order.

Abby had grown up with the danger. It was natural to her, which was a sick thing, really. She was prepared, while Mary was sorely lacking.

It was time to teach her more than hiding. "Mary, we need to talk."

Mary scowled. "Right. And then we can braid each other's hair and bake cookies."

Abby had only told her story to a witness once before and not in great detail. Not at first, anyway, but with even that little bit, Kayla swore it changed her enough to give a shit about more than surviving. Abby was tired of not making a difference and the only one who could change that was her.

"It's a little rougher than that," Abby explained as she took the six-pack out of her bag and put it on the table between them.

Mary stared at the beer and then put her gaze on Abby's. "Finally, you're actually going to be fun."

Abby laughed.

* * *

A
bby had been
about to go away to school for spring semester. Finally, she'd be escaping her father and his drinking. She'd still have the protection, and the worry of being hunted by one of the most active serial killers of her time, but hey, a girl couldn't have it
all
be perfect, right?

Part of staying home had been about taking care of her father, and the other part had become pure fear. She'd promised herself she'd never live like he was forcing her to do, because worrying didn't make it happen or keep it from happening. Caution was important, yes, but she made sure nothing would ever stop her from living.

Except that night had nearly destroyed her.

She wasn't supposed to be home. That night, when she should've been hours away, sleeping in a strange room on borrowed sheets on a extra-long twin bed and feeling both alone and excited, she was instead dragging her bag inside the hallway of her house and calling out, "I'm home."

When silence answered her, she continued, "I'm a day early, I know—sorry I forgot to call. But I hated the place. Didn't see any reason to torture myself any longer…"

The last word caught in her throat. She'd been shuffling through the mail as she spoke and she'd glanced up at the figure in the hallway maybe fifteen feet from her.

She smiled, expecting it to be Dad.

It wasn't.

But instead of screaming, she stared into the eyes of the Black Magic Killer, and then glanced at the gun he'd trained on her.

She knew immediately who he was. He'd been sketched so many times by the FBI, and no matter what else changed—hair length, color, beard or mustache—there was no disguising his eyes. There were the dark, dead eyes of a predator, an unmoving shark's eyes. She wondered why he never wore contacts, but seeing him in person, she knew.

His eyes had the ability to strike fear in any soul. He wanted that. Lived for it.

He wanted people to know exactly who he was when he killed them. His eyes were as much his trademark as his methods of killing.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He frowned and then…then he laughed. "Isn't she something? I expected you to be on your knees, crying, and of course there's time for that, later. But instead…well, aren't you something?” he repeated, then called over his shoulder, "Ryan, your daughter's home."

"I'm not supposed to be."

He stroked his goatee thoughtfully and the look that flashed across his face was equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing. "I know. This changes everything."

Oh God.
She fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, stood still and tall. She wouldn't give him anything more—he'd taken too much already. "The police are on their way."

"Nope."

"My marshal will be here to check on me and if I don't answer the door…"

The BMK smiled. "Shut the fuck up. Sit down."

She was going to defy him, but her father's voice drifted into the room. "Do what he says, Abigail. Exactly what he says."

"Yes, Abigail," he echoed sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes. "Sit and shut it."

He pointed to the closest chair, an extra formal dining room one directly to her left. She sat in it—it faced the window—and called, "Yes, Dad."

"Your father's been telling me all about you for years," the BMK told her.

"Same," Abby told him defiantly.

He stroked his goatee again. "Be a good little chicken and sit tight. Your father just broke the rules. If you want him alive, you sit and stay."

He walked out of the room and she wanted to bolt, out the door and toward anyone and anything who could help. But the BMK would kill her father immediately—it was an unspoken truth, and if there was any hope for them, Abby would have to pray that Hoss would stop by unexpectedly, the way he usually did.

From the other room, she heard her father say, "We made a deal."

And the BMK laughed a little—a chilling sound, like he was unused to making it. "Ryan, you fucked this whole thing up. We're doing things my way now."

"Let her go."

"She wasn't supposed to be here."

"Exactly," Dad reasoned. "Let her go. She won't call anyone."

"Of course she will—she's your kid. I told you that if you change anything, you change the whole game and I can't promise anything. You know that!" he roared. He was so damned angry. Serial killers were methodical, Dad said, in control so they could enjoy their kills.

This man wasn’t in control or showing any signs of enjoyment.

Dad called him here.

She took a deep breath to try to stop herself from throwing up and gagged. When Mom was here, it was flowers and occasional cigar smoke and bourbon. Dad equaled bourbon and cigars and usually that meant a good mood. After Mom, the good moods vanished and the booze increased to slurring, nauseating levels.

The house was dark and depressing, but how could she blame her father? She missed her mother with every ounce of her being as well.

"That's why, Abs," Teige would later explain. "He's the parent. He's got to know she'd hate him for not being there to comfort you."

"What about comforting you?"

Teige had just snorted and gone back to his book.

Teige.
God.

She attempted another breath and practically tasted the metallic tinge of blood that flooded her senses. It was quiet in the other room, but the smell was enough to tell her that her father's torture had begun.

What
had
he agreed to?

"Don't move, Abby. Please—just stay there and then it will be over, okay? I promise—you'll be safe." Her father sounded broken. Leaving wouldn't be signing her own death certificate, it was ensuring his death as well.

Later, she'll think about the value of staying through it all, what it taught her and what it cost her. If she'd do it again if she had the same thing to do over, and she could never truly answer that. Because, in that moment, there was nothing else to do but stay and listen to her father being killed, slowly, tortured to death by the Black Magic Killer.

Abby heard her Dad say, "When this is done, you'll be the greatest. And you'll leave my family alone. Start with a new person, or quit. That's up to you, but leave my family goddamned alone."

She clutched the arms of the chair, hard enough that she'd later find nail marks dug deeply into the fine mahogany. The only thing keeping her in the chair was a promise, to her father, to a killer.

Shakily, she stood, only to hear heavy footsteps coming her way. She sat back down and stared into his demonic-edged eyes.

"Going somewhere, Abigail?"

"I thought I was going to be sick."

He smiled grimly and backed away. It was only then she saw the knife he held at his side, bloodstained.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood. And then she did vomit, and she continued to gag, long after her stomach was emptied. Because the stench of blood grew stronger and her father's moans, audible.

And then came the screams. But it wasn't until the BMK dragged her by her hair into the kitchen that she truly lost it.

Her father, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Terrified. In pain. And his legs…

"No," she whispered before she passed out. But the BMK kept waking her, throwing ice cold water on her, trying to get her to watch.

It had been unsatisfying for the killer—even through terrified eyes, Abby could see the BMK's frustration. It was palpable. Growing.

There would be no promises kept tonight…except Abby's to her mom.

Never give up.

But the Black Magic Killer had. Before that, he'd always insisted that everything and everyone remain on the board and in play.

But her father had stopped playing. It hadn't let the BMK have his victory—it was a hollow, unsatisfying one instead.

"I thought I'd finally found someone worthy, a real nemesis," the BMK said. "Instead, you're nothing. You failed me. You ruined everything."

Abby always wondered if, by doing that, her father had saved her. That the BMK was wounded mentally, and because of that, Abby was able to escape.

She also wondered if the BMK stopped killing after that because he was, in some way, probably broken too. She used to wonder if she'd find him someday, a feeble old man in his eighties, waiting out death brokenly.

Because of that, she always let herself believe that her father had won against the BMK, and on his own terms.

Abby wasn't even supposed to be home that night. Had Dad purposely enticed the BMK into his home?

He'd known Hoss would be coming by later, so Abby never would've seen the horror of his body, the product of the secret, sacred covenant between profiler and killer:
Here I am, letting you do exactly what you've always said you wanted to do with me…and then we're both done.

Was there a silent acquiescence? Was he going after Abby for show, a way to prove to the world he'd tried…or had he been unable to keep his promise because his killer instincts could never ever be counted on to make those kinds of promises?

"You'll get what's coming to you, Abigail, just like your father did."

"You promised him," she managed.

"I told you—your father just broke the rules!" he roared. "I can't let you get away with that. I can't."

She believed he meant it, as though killing was an OCD-like compulsion he had zero control over. His rules were serious business and breaking them sent him into a tailspin of killing rage.

There was no reasoning with this man. There was only fighting.

There was only the will to live…and she hoped that would be enough.

* * *

A
n hour later
, Mary was stone-cold sober despite the beer. Wide-eyed and sweating at first, she'd been in disbelief. Accused Abby of trying to scare her.

The thing was, there was no denying the scars. The ones on her calves, ankles and feet were the most effective, ghosts of fingernails that dug into her skin and refused to let go. Needing to drag her into hell with him.

She refused to go.

The serial killer her father hunted for most of his career was killing him, slowly and painfully, as she listened helplessly, just a room away. She forced herself to hear every scream, because he couldn't muffle them anymore. He was out of his mind with pain. The air was thick with the scent of fear that permeated her nostrils so much so that she'd smell it for weeks. Whether it had been his or hers hadn't mattered.

Suddenly, she realized she could move. Whatever tranquilizer the Black Magic Killer had given her to paralyze her was wearing off and she kicked her legs, looking for any kind of leverage. A few seconds later, smoke billowed.