Ian couldn’t find a switch. Frustrated, he tapped the flashlight on his phone and ran the beam over the room.

  He sucked in a breath, and Londyn gasped behind him.

  “This can’t be real, can it?” she asked and moved closer.

  “It’s real, all right.” Ian’s gaze roved over the items pinned on the wall. “And it looks like we had things wrong. All wrong.”

  As the sun made a dash for the horizon outside Malone’s big picture window, she contemplated making dinner, but she grabbed a utility knife from her tool bag instead. She’d finished the boxes in the garage, and she needed to fix the half wall before she could put her house on the market.

  After all, there was no point in taking the wall down now. She had to remove and replace the section of drywall she’d already smashed. She’d never done drywall, but she’d watched tons of home improvement shows. How hard could it be? She would need to take down the entire piece of sheetrock to get a nice straight edge to affix the fresh piece against.

  She found the seam and sliced the board.

  Satisfied she wouldn’t damage the abutting piece of wallboard, she jerked off a large piece. It released quickly, and she fell back. She laughed at her clumsiness and got back on her knees to assess her work. In the corner of the cavity, she spotted a zipper storage bag.

  What in the world? Maybe her dad put a time capsule in the wall before he closed it up.

  She tugged out the bag and held it up. She spotted a knife—a knife glistening in the light with what looked like dried blood.

  She lurched back, keeping her gaze on the knife as if it might free itself and harm her.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked in the cavity again and drew out a woman’s bloodied blouse in another bag, and a yellowed newspaper that was folded beside it.

  She read the headline. Woman Brutally Murdered on Running Path.

  A photo of a path wandering through a park accompanied the story. She recognized the path. The trail ran through a park less than a mile from her home.

  Stomach clenching, she read the details. Twenty-one-year-old Sarah Anderson had been viciously stabbed in the mid-nineties. Less than six months before the brutal murder, Malone’s family had moved to this neighborhood. She’d never heard anything about it, but she’d been six at the time.

  She did remember her parents telling her and Reed not to go to the park alone. The warning was always accompanied with a stranger-danger message.

  Junior’s dad had owned this place before her parents. Had he or his wife murdered Sarah Anderson? Had her father found these items when he opened the wall, and was that why he’d been going to see the detective? But then, why would he have closed the items back in the wall? Why not just take them to the detective? Maybe he didn’t want to touch or disturb anything like she’d done. Or he could’ve closed it up so she and Reed didn’t see what he’d found.

  The skin on her neck prickled, and she dropped the newspaper to grab her phone. She dialed Ian. The call went to voicemail.

  “What are you doing? I need you.” She left a message for him to call her right back.

  She tapped her foot, waiting for nearly thirty minutes for him to call, each minute her heart racing faster and faster until she thought it would explode if she had to wait any longer. She had to go to the precinct. Hopefully either Ian or Londyn or even their lieutenant were there.

  She jumped to her feet and left everything as she found it. She grabbed her purse and a jacket and ran for her car. A heavy mist was falling, and she quickly got the door open on the old car and slid in.

  Inserting the key in the ignition, she vowed to get rid of the Mustang too. How many times had she gotten wet while trying to unlock the door with the key? Too many to count. She’d buy something with remote entry.

  She backed out of the drive, waving at her neighbor across the street, who was coming out to get her mail. Beatrice was a very nice older woman but kind of a busybody. If something was going on in the neighborhood, she was the first to know about it and share it with everyone she could waylay at the community mailbox on the corner.

  Malone left Beatrice in her rearview and focused on her driving. It hadn’t rained for days, and the roads in the winding hillside community would be slick. Despite the desire to get downtown and see Ian, she was extra careful, braking slowly at curves and stop signs. She soon climbed to the main road and turned toward the city. She accelerated, and the steering wheel began to shake under her hands.

  She flashed back to her conversation with Freddie Peck, and her pulse shot up. He described what her father might feel before he crashed. Peck had called it the death wobble.

  Was that what was happening? The death wobble? Had someone tampered with her car too? The same person who’d killed her parents?

  Ian’s phone vibrated in his pocket, but he would hold off answering until he and Londyn figured out what to do with the closet lined with photos, newspaper articles, and a map.

  Londyn’s eyes were narrowed, pain and disbelief fighting to gain purchase in her expression. Ian didn’t blame her. The newspaper clippings told of six murdered women who’d been sexually assaulted, and the map linked them all to locations within a mile of where the Flagg family had lived at the time. Listed next to each woman was the date they’d been murdered, pictures of the Flaggs’s houses, and the date that the Flagg family had moved on to their next home. They’d left within a week of the murders of all six women over the course of thirty years.

  Also posted were pictures of their current home and the one Flagg Sr. had under construction. In the photo, large equipment surrounded the half-built home on one of the hills in west Portland. Photos of Flagg Sr. from around the dates of the murder were posted too.

  “Why hadn’t Junior reported his dad before another woman was killed?”

  “Do you think Junior put this here?” Londyn asked. “Or did his father keep it as some sort of a shrine and Junior just discovered it?”

  “If his dad did, he risked Junior finding it. And I don’t think Flagg Sr. would post his own photos.” Ian moved closer to read about the death of Sarah Anderson. He pointed at the picture. “This murder occurred when they lived in the Rices’ house.”

  “Flip up the newspaper,” she said. “There’s something else there.”

  He lifted it, revealing another newspaper story about the Rices’ accident and their obituaries. He glanced back at Londyn. “Maybe they found out about Sarah’s murder, and the killer took them out.”

  “Sounds like a possibility, but how?”

  He shook his head. “Are we in agreement that this information points to Flagg Sr. as a killer? A serial killer?”

  She stared at the wall. “Could be Karen but the sexual assault rules her out so there’s no other conclusion. Problem is, we don’t have any actual proof.”

  “When I think about his behavior in our interviews,” Ian said, “I can see him fitting sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies.”

  “Yeah. He’s charming, but his ego puts you off once you talk to him a bit.”

  “And he didn’t seem to have any feelings about losing his son or wife. And no empathy for his son being short. He was more concerned with his property, his wealth.”

  “He would fall under the “successful” psychopath type. They have a tendency to perform premeditated crimes with calculated risk, which these murders seem to fit.”

  “We need to get forensics in here. And with this now being a potential serial killer investigation, we need to call Reed to bring the FBI in.” Ian’s mind raced with the possibilities and consequences of their discovery.

  Malone! She was in the house her parents lived in. Was she in danger?

  His heart nearly stopped pumping. He had to find out. He grabbed his phone to call her. Saw a voicemail from her. It had been almost an hour since her call.

  He pressed the icon for her voicemail and put her on speaker.

  “What are you doing?” she cried in the message, terror riding through her tone. “I need you.”

  His heart sank, and he pressed her phone number. It rang and rang. “Answer. Come on, answer, Malone. Please. Please.”

  His phone rang. It was an unknown number, but it could be about Malone. “Ian Blair.”

  “Hi, Detective, it’s Beatrice Paulson. Malone’s neighbor.”

  “Is this about Malone? Is she with you?”

  “No, oh no. In fact, I just saw her drive off a little while ago. We even waved at each other.”

  If Malone was waving, she was probably all right.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “Remember you told me to let you know if there was anything else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my hubby said there was video of someone repairing Malone’s car on Monday.”

  The day they’d gone to Peck’s place. Ian’s gut tightened. “Did your husband keep the video?”

  “He deleted it from his iPad, but he downloaded it from the security company, and I emailed it to you just like you taught me.” She sounded very proud of herself. “My hubby also said he saw a similar pickup sitting up the road by a neighbor’s house for the last few days, including this morning.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Did he catch a license plate?”

  “I asked, but he said the guy wasn’t in the truck, and he didn’t know if it was the same one. We’re usually real careful about strange vehicles on our street, but the Olsens are remodeling, and workers’ vehicles are coming and going all the time. We don’t pay much attention to them.”

  “Thank you for the information.” He disconnected and shared what he’d learned with Londyn while he opened his email and held out his phone. He and Londyn watched the video together.

  A man pulled up in a black Ford F-150 and parked in front of Beatrice’s house. The license plate was out of view.

  “Too bad we can’t see the plates,” Ian said.

  “Such a common truck it could be anyone.”

  He sat in the truck for a while, glancing around.

  “C’mon, C’mon, C’mon. Get out. Show your face.”

  “I can’t make out who it is either,” Londyn said.

  The guy finally climbed out and carried a bag of tools across the road, his back to the camera the entire time. He got down on the ground by Malone’s front tires and did something that took only a few minutes, then scooted out and marched back across the street.

  As the man neared the camera, Ian’s heart sank to his stomach. “It’s Flagg Sr.”

  “He wasn’t fixing her car,” Londyn said. “He was tampering with it. Maybe like he’d done to her parents’ car.”

  “And Malone just drove off in that vehicle.”

  20

  The rain picked up, spitting on Malone’s windshield, and she could barely see the road ahead in the dusk. But she couldn’t let go of the wheel to turn on the wipers. She gripped with all her strength and tried to apply the brakes, but the car had a mind of its own and pulled the vehicle toward the embankment.

  She whipped the wheel the opposite direction. Nothing changed. Her trajectory continued toward the edge of the road.

  Please, protect me. Please.

  A loud thump sounded under the car. The wheels squealed, the high-pitched sound eerie.

  The wheel grabbed the gravel shoulder, and she lost total control. The vehicle shot over the edge of the embankment and plunged down the steep terrain toward a granddaddy of a pine tree.

  She couldn’t stop the car from careening closer, the speed blazing fast.

  No. No. No. Ian had been right. She only had a lap belt and no airbags. Lap belts had killed her parents.

  Was history about to repeat itself?

  Ian had failed Malone, and he didn’t know where she was. If she was safe. Or hurt. Dying or even dead. He dialed Reed, who answered right away.

  “Is Malone with you?” Ian snapped.

  “No. Why?”

  Ian explained, the words rushing out of his mouth like a geyser.

  Reed muttered something under his breath. “I can find her. I have a tracker on her phone.”

  Ian didn’t ask why Reed was monitoring her, just waited for him to share her location.

  “I’ve got the coordinates,” Reed said. “The map doesn’t show her on the road. She’s located in the wilderness area.”

  Ian’s gut cramped so hard he thought he might hurl. “Send me the coordinates.”

  “Coming your way,” Reed said, fear taking his voice higher.

  Ian’s phone dinged and he looked at the text from Reed. “I’m headed there now.”

  Ian heard footsteps in the background of his call. “Meet you there.”

  Ian hung up and tapped the coordinates, his hand shaking so hard he could hardly accomplish it.

  “She’s here.” He showed the screen that revealed the same road Malone’s parents had been killed on to Londyn. “I’m going for her.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You need to stay here and protect the scene.” He dug out his keys, his hands trembling.

  She took them from him. “You can’t drive in your state.”

  “But Flagg could figure this out like we did and destroy everything in the closet. We can’t let a serial killer get away with what he’s done.”

  “We’ve taken pictures. Besides, there’s nothing here we can’t find again.” She headed for the door. “And I can order the guard on duty to stand outside until forensics and a patrol officer arrive.”

  Ian raced for the door. Arguing was a waste of time, time that could be the difference between saving Malone’s life and losing her forever.

  The passenger side of the car crashed into the tree. Metal bent. Screeched. Rasped. The safety glass cracked and webbed, a large chunk falling into the passenger seat. The side window shattered, and glass peppered Malone’s arm like tiny thumbtacks piercing her skin.

  She screamed, a deep wrenching sound from her throat, a sound borne of terror.

  Her body catapulted forward, and her head smashed into the steering wheel. Pain radiated through her skull, and stars danced before her eyes.

  The steering wheel shifted. Pressing in, close to her chest.

  The vehicle reverberated, rocked back and forth, then settled with a thump.

  It was over.

  She’d survived.

  But how well? Was she hurt?

  She took stock of her injuries, starting with her head. A large lump ballooned out of her forehead, but no bleeding. Glass had salted tiny cuts on her hand, but they were just minor abrasions.

  She moved her arms. Hands. Fingers. Her legs, ankles, and feet. They all worked.

  Her heart lifted.

  Thank You! Thank You!

  She searched the passenger side for her phone, but couldn’t see it in the dark and the crumpled car made it impossible for her to reach the floor on that side. She would have to get out and go around the car to feel for it.

  She shifted to open the door. It groaned and popped, but she forced it open.

  Good. Good. She could get out and find her phone to call for help.

  She squirmed out from under the steering wheel, planted her feet outside, and pushed to stand. Her legs collapsed under her, and she fell to the needle-covered ground. She took a deep breath and inhaled the rich humus smell. It smelled like life.

  She was alive.

  Oh, thank You!

  The heavy mist wetted her face. She pushed off the soaked ground before her clothing became saturated and cold. Her legs remained weak and wobbly. She used the car as a support to walk around the back of the car to the passenger side, where she’d set her purse holding her phone. The window was gone, only sharp shards remaining.

  Her purse lay on the floor, spilled out. Her phone had come to rest a foot away.

  She grabbed the door handle and pulled on it. No movement at all. The front end of the car had collapsed around the door, leaving it jammed. Her only way to get the phone was to crawl through the window.

  First, she needed to clear the remaining glass shards. A tree branch would safely do that.

  She turned to find the wood. A figure loomed behind her, and she screamed, but the sound was cut-off when the man’s hand came over her mouth. He wrapped his other arm around her and dragged her up the embankment.

  She kicked. Fought. Bit his hand.

  He cursed and released her mouth.

  “Help!” she screamed, but she knew it was futile. No one would come to save her. It was up to her to save her own life.

  Londyn was speeding well beyond the legal limit, but Ian kept pressing his foot to the floorboard as if he could somehow make her go faster. He wanted to be driving. Should be driving, but she was right. His hands trembled, and his mind was tortured with thoughts of Malone at the bottom of some ravine, her car wrapped around a tree or flipped on its back.

  He’d called for a patrol deputy to head to the scene, but with the rain, there were several accidents in the county, and there wasn’t a nearby deputy.

  “You need to stop imagining the worst,” Londyn said, her eyes still on the road.

  “You’re a mind reader, now?” he snapped.

  “I know how I would be feeling in your situation. But she could’ve broken down. Maybe the car is parked on the shoulder.”

  “Then why did it display on GPS as in the scrub?”

  “GPS can be off a bit.”

  Ian wanted to believe that was what happened, but he couldn’t. Not when the woman he’d come to love might have died in an auto crash. Yeah, he loved her. That was clear now. And losing her forever? He couldn’t bear it. If she was safe, he would tell her how he felt, then let God take care of the rest. It seemed as if God had brought them together again. If he was wrong about that, about everything? Well, then it wouldn’t work. Sure, they could both be hurt. A plane that never left the tarmac couldn’t crash. But it would never soar, either. He wanted to soar. With Malone at his side.