A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(120)

Will was already playing the last minute of the call again. Now she heard it, the faint sound of someone else talking. Not Eden or Gabrielle. The calm, detached voice of a news anchorwoman. Will paused the recording and ran it through filters, his fingers moving fast. When he played it again, Luther’s voice—and her own—were turned down. The background was enhanced, and they could make out the words.

“ . . . Sources within the police claim the man who barricaded himself in the house is also wanted for questioning regarding the murder of Eric Layton, a twenty-one-year-old resident of—”

And then the scream. The recording ended abruptly immediately after.

“Shit.” Abby exhaled.

The media had snatched away the hope she’d managed to cultivate in Luther’s mind. Maybe she could convince him the people at the news knew nothing, that they had no evidence connecting him to the murder. But she doubted it. Luther was delusional, but he was not a fool.



The phone rang again. Luther clenched his jaw, his fists trembling. He’d been gripping his knife so tightly for hours that his fingers were tired; his wrist ached.

Not much longer now. He’d say what he needed, and then he’d finish it. Kill her, kill himself. He wasn’t afraid of the pain. Life had hurt him much more than the blade ever would.

“You weren’t right for Karl,” he told the girl. “Once I got to know you, I saw that. It wasn’t right, making you marry him.”

He saw the bewilderment in her eyes, the confusion, and he laughed hysterically. “You don’t even know, do you?” he asked. “Your precious mother never told you about the man she intended to give you away to when you were twelve.”

The girl glanced at her mother, then back at him. Her lips moved, pleading, the same words they had before. “Please. Don’t hurt me. Don’t kill me. Let us go.”

And the phone rang on. His head pounded. He was tired. He was ready to let it all go.



“He’s currently not answering our calls,” Abby summarized for Griffin. “We’ll keep on trying. And we need to get the media to stop talking.”

They were standing outside by the negotiation truck, looking at the house.

“I’ll deal with the media,” Griffin growled. “Baker, what are our options?”

“If we enter by force, we can storm in through the window on the second floor and the front door in tandem,” Baker said. “We’ll use stun grenades before entering. If he’s on the ground floor, we have a reasonable chance of taking him. But if he’s on the second or third floor, it’s more of a crapshoot.”

“You said you heard a TV in the background,” Griffin said. “Is there only one TV in the house?”

“Yes,” Abby said. “In the living room.”

“Then it’s probable that’s where he still is. On the ground floor.”

“Maybe it’s our best choice,” Baker said. “He’s not answering your calls. You said yourself that he’s desperate. If he thinks he’s on his way to life in prison, he might decide to die here, take the hostages with him.”

“Give us ten more minutes.”

“Are you willing to bet Eden and Gabrielle Fletcher’s life on it?” Griffin asked.

Abby hesitated. Either way, it was a gamble. “Yes,” she finally said.

Griffin stared at the house, jaw tight.

“Sir?” Baker said. “What’s it going to be?”



Gabrielle knew the end was near. Every time he came at her with the knife, she thought this time, he was going to cut.

He spoke, but she couldn’t make out the words anymore. The man was deranged. Insane. Talking about a man called Karl. About her father. Cursing them, then cursing her, then trying again to explain that he’d done it all for her. Didn’t she see?

No, she didn’t. All she knew was that he was about to kill her. And the police did nothing.

Her mom knew it too. And as he talked on and on, the blade at her throat, her mom slowly got off the couch, her hands still handcuffed behind her back. She inched toward him. Gabrielle forced herself to keep her eyes on his face as she saw her mom creeping ever closer.

And then a lunge. Her mom crashed into him, and his legs buckled. He staggered sideways, the knife clattering to the floor.

Gabrielle shot up from the chair, ran to the stairs. He tried to grab her, fingers brushing her ankle, just a bit too slow, and she was leaping up the stairs, three at a time, up to her room, slamming the door shut. Locking it. Breathless.

Two steps to the window—she opened the shutter, stared out at the cops.

“Help!” she screeched as she heard him rattle the door behind her.



“Help!”

Abby stared at the window. Gabrielle waved at them frantically.

“Help us!”

“Get over there!” Griffin shouted, but there was no need. Men were rushing toward the house.

Gabrielle must have realized she could jump, and was hesitantly climbing onto the window ledge.

And then, the silhouette of a man behind her. Grabbing her, pulling her back. The glint of a knife. A scream.

Gabrielle struggled with Luther, the window still open, and Griffin was shouting over the radio. Abby watched, horrified, hearing the radio chatter, everything slowing down, seconds stretching.