Last Girl Ghosted(104)

She’s lost a lot of blood. But she should pull through. This is on you, Bailey.
He needs a drink. He needs to drink until the whole world goes black.

A hard knock on the door startles them all. Both Bailey and Jason rise, Bailey instinctively resting his hand on his gun and heading toward the door. A dark form stands on the stoop, thick and still.

“Who is it?” asks Jason behind him.

Bailey knows him right away, reaches to open the door.

Standing there in the cold is Jones Cooper wearing a parka and a wool cap. He holds a thick envelope under his arm.

“Your boss said you would be here. I think she’s tracking your location.”

That makes sense.

“Probably. The car belongs to the firm.”

“I’ve been going over some old files. I think I found something.”

They gather around him as he sits at the dining room table and spreads out some photographs and old newspaper clippings, a few printouts, what looks like a survey and a property deed.

“On the Carson property, the night of the raid, there were several families there. One who got away that night. This young man was among them.”

He points to a photograph in a newspaper clipping. The boy there is slim, with dark hair and eyes. “His name is Adam Wilson.”

“Adam,” says Jax. “She believed it was his real name.”

“The family stayed off the grid for a number of years. There are no records of any of them—taxes, employment, education. But he pops up a few years later. It looks like he went to MIT on scholarship. He was homeschooled, but took the SAT, making an almost perfect score. He got a full ride.”

He offers the school records, printouts with the school seal.

“Later he started his own company, an internet security firm called Blackbox.”

There’s a document registering the business with the IRS. Another piece of paper, taking them a step closer.

“That company lists this as its registered address.”

Bailey stares. He should have found this piece of information. It strikes him hard that Nora was right. He’d lost his focus; his judgment was off. He’d missed something critical. He’d let an inexperienced colleague almost lose her life.

Jones shifts the paper aside to show a property survey. “It’s off the gird, a piece of property that was pretty much destroyed and abandoned by the chemical company that was housed there originally. It was part of a project that sold damaged lands to private owners who wanted to work with the government to heal it, essentially, make it livable again.”

Bailey feels a surge of hope.

“It is not on the electric grid, the city water and sewage doesn’t reach it. But from these aerial photographs, there does seem to be a structure on there.”

He slips out some photographs showing acreage of trees. There’s a red circle around what looks to be a roof beneath the green. He points to other circles. “Looks like a generator, some solar panels. There’s probably a well, but I haven’t been able to find a permit pulled in the area for water and septic.”

The digital world had failed them. But this paper trail, pieces carefully connected by a retired cop who cared about Wren, had given him the only solid lead he’d had in months. A real place, an actual destination.

“Let’s go,” says Bailey.

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” says Jones. “I’ve already turned this information over to your boss and to the police.”

“Let’s go,” says Jax, grabbing her coat and drying her eyes. She’s already at the door, turns back to look at both of them. Jones Cooper bows his head a moment, then lifts his eyes to them.

“She’s been missing a long time. Are you prepared for what you might find?”

Jax’s eyes fill but she sets her jaw into a determined line, juts out her chin. Bailey rises. Jones gazes back and forth between them, then stands with a resigned nod.

“I’ll drive,” he says.



fifty-two


You can’t help but register your surprise when you see me, sitting at your table. You literally draw up, step back toward the door through which you’ve just entered the house. After all, you left me for dead in a body bag beside the graves of other women you have kidnapped and killed. Yet, here I am.

Talk about awkward.

Why didn’t you bury me beside them? Why didn’t you finish the job you started? Did you get distracted? Grave digging is hard work. Maybe you’re running out of energy. Maybe you didn’t have the heart to kill another woman who loved you. Maybe you’re tired.

I know I am.

There’s a deep furrow in your brow, a pallor to your skin. It looks like you’ve had a hard night.

“Wren.”

“Adam.”

After a little searching, I found my gun in the cabinet over the refrigerator. It’s fully loaded. And my father was right. My aim is good. I did choke that night so long ago. It’s my heart that gets in the way. It won’t happen again.

You stand in the doorway, collect yourself. Are you armed? It’s likely, I imagine.

You must feel it, as I do. Your luck is running out.

I sit at the head of the table, the gun before me, my hand resting on it. I flatten my other palm against the wood grain.

“Is your name Adam?” I ask. Stupid question, I guess. But still I find I want to know.