Where the Blame Lies(63)

“Thanks, Jimmy. We’ll talk soon.”

Zach hung up, tossing his phone back in the console. He was quiet for a minute and when he looked at Josie, she was staring back at him expectantly. “Will you tell me what Jimmy said?”

Zach first told her about her cousin. She stared glumly ahead but didn’t look surprised. “Well that solves that,” she murmured. Zach paused for another moment, and then explained what Jimmy was questioning regarding Landish. As he spoke, Josie’s face registered shock, then denial. She shook her head. “No, Zach. I identified Marshall Landish immediately, even beneath that mask.” She swallowed and he regretted putting the distressed look on her face. “It wasn’t just the way he spoke—although that was unique—it was the way he walked, the way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he smelled. It was just . . . it was everything about him.”

“Except his face. You never saw his face.”

She shook her head. “No, but I was glad for it. Because I figured it meant he had no idea I knew it was him. I hoped that it would make it more likely he’d let me go because he didn’t have to fear being ID’d and arrested.”

Zach nodded, thinking.

“Also,” Josie went on, “if it was the same guy, he’d not only have had to impersonate Marshall Landish like some professional actor worthy of an Oscar, but it would have meant he staged Marshall’s suicide, planted evidence that would tie him definitively to the crime, lay low for eight years, and then resurfaced to take up abducting girls and starving them to death.” She was talking fast, obviously emotional, and Zach reached over, put his hand on her knee to offer comfort.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s our job to explore every avenue, no matter how implausible.”

“I know.” She nodded, took a deep breath. “I know, and I want to be part of it. I want to help if I can. If there’s something—other than just the copycat aspect—that ties this suspect to Marshall Landish, I want to help you find it. Maybe he knew him . . . maybe he”—she bit at her lip—“is avenging his death somehow.” She paused. “I don’t know. But as far as them being one and the same?” She shook her head. “No, Zach. It was him. It was Marshall Landish. I don’t have the smallest speck of doubt.”

But the uncertain expression on her face as she stared out the car window, belied her words.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Before



Caleb’s wail filled the room, his limbs flailing angrily as he pulled away from Josie’s breast. Josie bounced him in her arm, trying desperately to get him to latch on again. He rooted, latching on once more, content for a moment before he realized no milk was coming. Josie let out a miserable sob. Her milk was drying up, before it had even fully come in. Pain radiated through her abdomen, gripping her insides and twisting, traveling all the way up to her ribs.

She groaned, deep in her throat, drawing her knees up, still bouncing Caleb in her one free arm, in the only way she could. She wasn’t able to move from the mattress, couldn’t walk the floor with her baby as other mothers did, could offer him no solace other than from her own body, and now it was too sick to nourish him.

It was so cold, so, so cold, and she could barely keep herself warm, let alone her tiny baby boy. One quilt. I’m still in my tank and shorts, rank with months of wear. Filthy with blood. And I’m so cold.

Caleb found her nipple again and began to nurse, being soothed for the moment by the sucking motion alone. Josie drifted, her head fuzzy, pain pulsing in waves, made more intense with each suck from her baby’s mouth. Despite the frigid room, a bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face. Thirst overwhelmed her and she reached her tongue out to draw in the moisture her body was losing.

As Caleb’s eyes drifted shut, exhausted for the moment from his bout of crying, Josie’s head lolled on her neck. Her gaze snagged on the box of rat poison in the corner. She wondered dully if she could use her quilt to throw toward it, drag it back. She wondered if a death by rat poison would be better or worse than death by starvation. She’d come close to starving, but Marshall had always brought food at the last minute. Why? Why did he keep throwing food at her? Was he conflicted about letting her die? Or was he simply toying with her to increase her suffering?

Josie slept, rats larger than dogs lunging at her and her newborn with their sharp teeth and beady eyes filling her fevered dreams, their mouths opening to scream that she was going to d-die, d-die, d-die. She woke with a wail on her lips, Caleb fast asleep in her arm, her breast still bared. Marshall stood next to her bed, staring down at them. His body split, wavered, two of him appearing where once there was one. For a moment she doubted he was real.

“You’re sick,” he said, his voice dull.

She thought she nodded, but she couldn’t be sure. Her head throbbed, her tongue felt overly large in her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. She swallowed. Her voice sounded so scratchy, dry.

He knelt next to her, bringing a water bottle to her lips. She made a sound of desperation, of gratitude, her gaze holding with his as he tipped the bottle back and poured the sweet water into her parched mouth. When he took the empty bottle away, she pulled herself up, laying the baby on the mattress and quickly grabbing Marshall. His gaze shot to her hand holding his forearm. “Take him,” she said. “Leave me here but take him. You assigned blame to me and I deserve it. I deserve it all. But him”—she tipped her head toward her child, his face angelic in sleep—“he’s blameless.” A small mewling sound came up her throat as a pain shot through her abdomen. She had a severe infection. She was dying. Her milk had dried up, either from lack of hydration, or the illness her body was fighting. “He’s innocent,” she rasped. “He doesn’t deserve to die. Maybe I do, but not him. Not your son. This living piece of you. Take him to a hospital, or a church. Somewhere. Just leave him there. Please, please, please.” Her words dissolved into gasping sobs.