To Catch a Killer(33)

Obviously Spam could. She’d be all like, Hey everybody, come on down, and she’d include a GPS link, all while holding her phone behind her back. I’d have to muddle around in my bag for at least five minutes just to even find my phone.

“We?” I manage to get out, my voice barely a squeak.

“My father bought the place cheap. He was going to apply for a grant and turn it into a historic site with a hotel, shops, and a restaurant. But he wound up in prison instead.”

I gaze at the weathered, boarded-up hulk of a building looming at the end of the deserted road. It looks like the set for the latest Saw movie.

“You live in that?”

“We’re not insane.” He attempts to soothe me with his warm gaze. “It’s nice. You’ll see.”

He reacts to my incredulous look.

“I know. But my mother refuses to let it go. She wants my father to have something to come home to.” There’s a sad shadow of a smile on his lips. “She’s been trying to get his case reopened for ten years. All those legal fees don’t leave any room for renovation.”

He’s so warm and sincere I can’t help being drawn in. Gazing into his eyes quiets my brain enough to slow my panicked breathing. Clearly we should have talked more before I agreed to do this. How did I not know he lived way out here? I need to get my head straight and be more careful. But, for the moment, I sense I am safe.

Journey puts the van in neutral and sets the emergency brake. He gets out and unlocks a massive, ten-foot-high, chain-link gate. He slides it open and motions for me to move to the driver’s seat. I unbuckle my seat belt and move over. Then realize there’s no way I can drive this thing.

I gesture, palms up, and shake my head.

He jogs back and sticks his head in the open window. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those wimpy girls who can’t handle a stick,” he teases.

“You got me,” I admit. “Completely lame.” I start to move back to the passenger seat, but he reaches in and touches my shoulder. The warmth of his fingers spreads like an electric current through the fabric of my T-shirt.

“It’s easy. I’ll teach you.” He leans in through the window until we’re almost cheek to cheek. He has an errant lock of hair that frequently falls over his forehead and frames his jaw. At this particular moment, he’s close enough for that chunk of hair to tickle my cheek. Goose bumps chase one another down my back and arms as his breath plays over my neck. His right arm slides around the back of my seat and I can barely breathe with him this close.

Oh my god. He is seriously flirting with me.

He reaches his left arm through the window and calmly points. “The pedal on the left is the clutch. It releases the gears. Press it all the way to the floor with your left foot.”

With a robotic movement, I mash the pedal hard.

“Keep your right foot on the brake, too,” he says quickly.

I mash the brake, too.

“Now, look at the diagram on the gearshift. Up and to the left is first. That’s all you need to get through the gate.”

I put my hand over the gearshift and rock it lightly from side to side.

“When you’re ready, push the clutch in and move the stick into first gear.”

The clutch is in, but when I try to push the stick into gear it makes a horrible grinding noise. I stop and give Journey a worried look.

“Push hard. As long as the clutch is in you won’t hurt anything.”

I try again with a hard push and it drops into first with a thunk.

“Great!” He almost cheers. I feel invincible. He pulls his head out of the window. “Okay. You’re good to go. Release the emergency brake and slowly ease your left foot off the clutch while, at the same time, pressing slowly down on the gas with your right foot.” He demonstrates with his hands—left up, right down. “Once you get through the gate just push in both the brake and clutch to stop.”

Easy to say … but so hard to do. Not to mention that my insides are super thumpy because I don’t want to screw this up. I try, but just letting my foot off the clutch a tiny bit sends the van bucking forward. It shudders, wheezes, and gives a long drawn-out mechanical death rattle. The engine dies, leaving the van only halfway through the gate.

Embarrassed, I flee the driver’s seat.

Journey climbs into the van. “Not bad for your first attempt,” he says.

He turns the key and the starter rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrrs for a minute. He lets it rest and then tries again. The stubborn van doesn’t catch on the second, third, or even the fourth try. “This starting thing is getting worse,” Journey says. Finally, on the fifth try, it kicks over. He smiles at me. “Ready to try again?”

Embarrassment creeps up my neck. “No freakin’ way.”

“Okay.” He surrenders. “I won’t make you.”

My cheeks blaze. My reaction might have been a little over the top.

Journey drives through the gate, then stops and gets out to close it behind us. The clang of the massive gate being closed and locked in place clears the fizzy romantic notions from my brain. He might have been a little flirty with me, but we’re here for one reason and one reason only—to collect evidence.

Journey climbs back in, puts the van in gear, and angles to the side of the creepy building, which is so huge that it blots out everything else, including the horizon.