A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(86)

The boxes in the storage unit.

Mercy struggled to remember what she’d noticed written on the neat row of cardboard boxes stacked along the wall in the unit.

Old dates. Countries. She’d assumed they were possessions of someone’s older relatives. Checking the time, she wondered if the evidence team had looked in the boxes yet.

Truman ended the call, a scowl on his face. “Lucas is going to get back to me. He’s having computer problems.”

“We need to go back to the storage unit.”

His nose twitched in memory. “Why?”

“Did you notice the stacks of cardboard boxes?”

“Yes. But I was focused on the carpet.”

“I saw dates. Old dates. I remember thinking they were from before I was born and wondered if they held old items. I also saw Germany written on one.”

“You’re right. I did see that but ignored it. I wonder if there are more military collectibles in the boxes.”

“Let’s take a quick look in the cluttered garage here first,” she suggested.

As they went outside, Mercy phoned Britta, but the call went straight to voice mail.

She left a message for the woman to keep her eyes open and immediately call her back. Voice mail didn’t seem the appropriate place to explain about the binder she’d found in the Moody home.

A quick search through some very dusty boxes in the Moody garage turned up only old sporting goods and camping equipment, so Mercy and Truman drove back to the storage unit.

The body was gone, but the smell lingered. Dr. Lockhart had left, and two evidence techs remained, taking photos and recording evidence. Rain pounded on the large tent they had set up outside the unit. They hadn’t opened any of the boxes yet, and Mercy pointed at the one labeled Germany and 1942, requesting it be opened.

Inside were old military uniforms, magazines, and a metal helmet.

“Okay,” said Truman. “One or both of the Moodys were collectors.”

“Everything is pointing at Ryan Moody. Where the fuck did he go? Wait a minute.” A memory prodded at Mercy, and she strained to bring it into focus. Where did I see other war memorabilia? She ran a hand across her forehead. “Truman . . . Britta has swords hanging on her wall and black-and-white photos that could be old war photos.” Cold dread unfurled in her stomach. How many times was it pointed out that the murders happened after Britta moved to town?

Truman’s jaw clenched as he weighed her statement. “She’s definitely an unusual woman. I don’t know what to think.”

“We can’t make any assumptions.”

“She’s been through a lot of trauma in her life,” Truman stated. “Who knows how that affected her mentally?”

Mercy checked her phone, hoping to see a missed call from Britta.

Nothing.

Please don’t have lied to me.

“I need to drive out there,” Mercy stated. “At the very least, she needs to be warned about Ryan Moody.”

“I need to stop by the station first, and then I’ll meet you there.” Truman took a hard look at her. “Do not go in until I arrive.”

Thunder boomed after Truman’s words.

Mercy thought of the deadly-looking swords hanging on Britta’s wall. “Not a problem.”





FORTY-TWO

She was no longer the small blonde girl who had haunted my dreams for decades.

When I first saw her last summer, I struggled to replace my memory of the bloody child with the tall, dark woman who’d returned.

She’d answered her front door, and I instantly recognized her eyes. I repaired the water issue in her new home, a million questions running through my head. I handed her the bill, trying not to stare as my brain screamed, It’s her. She insisted on writing a check for payment right then. Britta Vale.

Confirmation. How many women are named Britta?

After that I followed her everywhere, not that she left her home that often, but I was obsessed with the girl who’d gotten away. The girl who’d survived impossible odds. The girl who’d won against my father.

Her return to Central Oregon released something from the hidden depths of my soul. Evil things I’d long buried now stirred to life. They stretched and yawned and looked around at the world with fresh eyes. They saw my father’s work was unfinished.

She walked the streets with confidence, her black clothing and hair like armor, and she never let her guard down. Britta always focused on her surroundings, checking behind her and across the street. It ate away at me that she walked around, living her life as if the world hadn’t changed. The night I climbed the bunk ladder and looked into her eyes decades ago, my life had changed.

I learned what my father was capable of. What I was capable of.

I’d noticed after the Verbeek murders that my father was normal for several months. Even throwing a ball with us kids and smiling at my mother. He’d exorcised some demons that night.

My personal demon had pale-blue eyes and now sported black hair.

I needed her out of my head.

Her dog was always at her side, a four-legged guard. One time I’d approached her at the hardware store and admired the dog and asked to pet it. She’d refused, stating the dog didn’t like people and might bite.

But she never leashed it.

The encounter bolstered my confidence and the need to purge the voices and urges in my brain. I pledged to finish what my father had started. It was the only way I’d find peace. Getting close to her and speaking to her had made it worse. The desire swelled inside me, and I felt unstoppable; I needed to take action, prove my strength.