Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (9 page)

Chapter Nine

S
he couldn’t breathe
.

He jabbed the tip of the knife into her throat, and she tried to scream, but the sound came out as a gurgle, and she felt blood trickle down her neck.

Sorrow wrenched her chest.

He was going to kill her, and no one would know what he’d done. She’d never finish the case. Get justice for her mother.

Get married and have a family.

Her mother’s voice whispered for her to fight, and she grabbed at his hand, trying to yank it away. But he was stronger than her, and he pressed his knee into her chest and held her down . . .

Suddenly Rafe’s voice broke into the night. Rafe was here . . . Rafe would save her. They’d take Harlan to jail, and she’d have
justice for her mother.

Liz jerked awake, panting for breath as she rubbed the scar on her neck. Sunlight streamed through the window. She pushed the covers aside and stood, surveying her bedroom.

Harlan wasn’t inside. She’d had another nightmare.

She was safe, and he was gone.

But when she glanced in the mirror, that confounded jagged line on her neck mocked her. Trembling, she reached for her pills on the nightstand and tossed one down, inhaling deeply to fight the panic.

God . . . she had to get a grip . . .

Determined to get back to work, she jumped in the shower. The hot water helped to alleviate the tension in her muscles, and she shampooed her hair and rinsed it. Harlan’s scent still clung to her as if he’d actually touched her again.

Hoping to elicit a confession from Truitt today, she dried off and dressed, then pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck. She added a scarf to camouflage her scar. But as she grabbed her phone, her calendar reminded her of the date.

Her mother’s birthday.

Grief welled inside her. But as she stepped into the den for her purse and keys, she froze. Chilly morning air assaulted her—cool air blowing through the open French doors to the screened porch.

Doors that had been locked last night.

Or had she been so upset she’d forgotten? Sometimes the antianxiety meds clouded her mind.

Her training urged her to call for backup, but if she cried wolf every time she saw a shadow, she’d surely get pulled from the case.

Perspiration beaded on her neck as she hurriedly checked the house. There was no one inside, but the same aftershave she’d smelled the night before lingered in the air.

No, he was not back. This case was simply triggering her paranoia.

When she was first released from the hospital after the attack, she’d suffered terrible nightmares. A few times she’d even walked in her sleep—or, rather, run outside, wandering mindlessly, terrified, trying to flee her demons.

Sometimes she’d woken in the woods or her car. Her therapist said she was suffering from PTSD, that sleepwalking was her way of trying to escape.

Irritated with herself, she locked the door, then walked outside to her car. She scanned the edges of her property for Harlan, but didn’t see him, so she opened the car door.

Her breath caught in her throat. A bouquet of white roses lay in the passenger seat. White roses just like the ones she placed on her mother’s grave every year on her birthday.

She’d planned to pick up some today and take them by the cemetery.

But she hadn’t bought them last night.

Her chest constricted at the message scribbled in red on the card.

“Till we meet again.”

Rafe sipped his coffee while he checked the police databases for information on Truitt.

Although the man had no priors, complaints had been filed against him for inhumane treatment of his pigs. He made a decent living with his pork business, but in the last few years bad publicity from animal activists and competition from more progressive pig farmers had cut into his profits.

So he needed that settlement.

Rafe drummed his fingers on his desk and then called the crime lab. “Any word on the forensics from Ester Banning’s house?”

“Blood was the Banning woman’s,” Lieutenant Maddison said. “Truitt’s prints were not in the house.”

“So he wore gloves. What’s new?”

“The mud on Truitt’s shoes came from his farm, but it didn’t match the dirt we found in Banning’s house either.”

Damn. “Any sign of the missing hand?”

“No. We also found more human blood at Truitt’s, and will compare it to Truitt’s when we get a sample.”

“How about the stun guns? Did any of them match the size of the marking on Banning?”

“Afraid not.”

Rafe chewed over the facts. Did they have the wrong man? “He could have ditched the stun gun he used, or buried it somewhere.”

“True. Oh, but there’s something interesting,” Maddison said. “We did find a grave on his property.”

“What?” Rafe’s pulse jumped. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that up front?”

“Because we haven’t identified the body yet.”

“What
can
you tell me?”

“It was a female.”

Liz’s hand trembled as she debated whether to take the flowers to the crime lab. If Harlan had left them to torment her, he would have worn gloves.

He
always
wore gloves.

Hate for the man who’d stolen so much from her mushroomed. If he was alive, she’d find him, and this time she’d make certain he was dead.

Determination renewed, she decided she had to play it by the book; she would take them in. She glanced around her property again, half expecting to see him watching her, but he was clever.

If he was alive, she’d see him only when he wanted her to.

Survival instincts kicked in. She wouldn’t let him win by falling apart.

Tamping down her fear, she drove to the florist and purchased her own white roses, then stopped by the cemetery. Wind tossed dry leaves across the graves, fake flowers bending and swaying beneath the force. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes. She glanced at the church next to the cemetery, willing some peace into her soul, and then hurried to her mother’s grave.

For a moment, she simply sat, taking in several deep breaths to calm herself, a technique her therapist had taught her.

As her nerves calmed and her hands stopped shaking, she removed the dead flowers from the vase at the head of her mother’s tombstone and arranged the white roses in it instead.

The activity brought a sense of peace. Memories of her childhood resurfaced. When she was a little girl, Liz used to crawl onto the bed and watch her mother brush her waist-length hair, then braid it. She’d insist her mother help her fix her own hair the same way.

Her mother’s warm smile lit up the room at breakfast, and she had the voice of an angel. A refrain of “Stand by Your Man” played in Liz’s ears, making her smile. Her mother could have made it in Nashville as a country singer.

But instead of pursuing fame, she’d devoted her life to social work, helping lost children find homes and raising money for needy children, especially orphans. Liz had spent dozens of holidays helping her decorate children’s wards at hospitals for parties and handing out gifts at Christmas in various orphanages.

Guilt swamped Liz. The morning before her mother disappeared, they’d argued. Her mother wanted Liz to help her at a charity that day, but Liz insisted she had more important plans.

Sneaking off to make out with her boyfriend.

That argument was the last conversation the two of them had before she died. Her mother had known that Liz loved her, hadn’t she?

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mom. If I had it to do over, I’d go with you. I’d spend every minute I could with you.” If she’d been with her mother, she might have been able to save her from Harlan.

Liz touched her throat, swallowing hard as emotions pummeled her.

The sensation that someone was watching her swept over her, and she turned and scanned the graveyard.

“Where are you, you bastard? If you want me, come and get me.”

But only the sound of the wind rustling the trees and her voice drifted back.

A second later, an engine rumbled. Liz jumped up and ran across the graveyard toward the church. A dark sedan squealed from the parking lot and swerved onto the road. She strained to see the driver, but the windows were tinted.

Furious, she hurried to her car—but went cold when she saw the passenger’s seat.

It was empty.

The flowers—her proof—were gone.

She jumped into her car to chase the sedan. Her tires squealed as she peeled from the parking lot, speeding away and veering onto a side road ahead.

Liz pressed the accelerator, gaining speed. By the time she made it to the turn, though, the dark sedan had disappeared. She slammed the steering wheel with her hand in frustration then swung onto the road.

Suddenly the sedan shot out from behind a tree, racing straight toward her.

Liz swerved to avoid hitting it head on. Tires screeched, gears grinding as she braked, but she lost the fight for control. Her car careened to the right and dove nose first into the ditch.

“I need to talk to you, Truitt.”

Truitt sat up with his knees spread, his elbows braced on top of them. He’d been pulling his hair, and the mangy ends looked scraggly and damp with sweat. “What now?”

Rafe leaned against the bars. “Tell me about the body on your property. The
female
body buried by the house.”

“Ah, shit.” Truitt dragged out the last word as if it had three syllables.

Rafe crossed his arms. “Who is she, Truitt? Did you practice on her before you killed Ester Banning?”

Truitt stomped toward Rafe, then pressed his face against the cell bars. “Listen to me, I ain’t killed nobody. That body belongs to my mama.”

Rafe tensed. “Your mother?”

“Yes.” Truitt’s beard bristled as he rubbed his hand across his chin. “And before you go asking, that’s what she wanted, to be buried at home.”

“It’s illegal to bury someone on your property,” Rafe pointed out.

“Mama said that farm was home, and she wanted to stay there forever.”

“Do you have any proof that those were her wishes? Maybe you just decided to save yourself some money on a funeral service and tombstone.”