Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(3)

The internet trolls are back, relentless and ghoulishly gleeful as ever. I’m never sure what they get out of trying to destroy my life, but I’ll give them this much: they’re dedicated. I recently found a post on a message board that said their goal was to drive my kids to commit suicide live on camera. The level of sociopathy that takes goes to eleven, but no mistake, it’s out there. And, disturbingly, it’s not that rare.

That’s who we deal with on a daily basis. I don’t like to call them monsters; they’re just bored, angry, empathy-free humans without a cause who see me as a target for their rage. After all, I was married to Melvin Royal, the infamous serial killer. He slaughtered women for fun, so I must have been somehow responsible for that too. No, the swarm of ever-present trolls are not the monsters. I’ve known monsters. I’ve faced them down, including Melvin.

I kill monsters. You’d think they’d keep that in mind.

I talk to Sam for about half an hour, lulled into comfort and warmth and a deeply coiled need to feel him with me, but we both know that’s not going to happen right now. Thanks to the closed-minded town of Norton mostly shunning us, his construction work has dried up, and he has to go farther out to find jobs. That means longer drives, shorter times at home.

I’m working for an out-of-town detective agency that tosses me a wide variety of cases within my specified driving distance; I can turn down what I can’t handle or what I just don’t feel like doing. But the pay’s good, and I’m decent at this kind of job.

A very wealthy CEO named Greg Kingston is getting my full attention right now. The assignment came to us from his company’s board of directors, who were concerned by what they considered strange behavior and some worrying financial results. I’ve already uncovered embezzlement out of his Florida PR firm, and his digital fingerprints are all over that. Easy enough—that goes back to his board to decide what to do about it. Kingston’s days are probably numbered.

But in the process of following Mr. Kingston, I’ve found something that disturbs me a whole lot more. I’m not sure what it is yet, which is why I didn’t say anything to Sam. Right now it’s just clues, instinct, and one important question.

Why in the world would a man with Greg Kingston’s hefty bank balance and social standing be staying in a no-stars motel in a shady part of Knoxville when he also has a room booked in the very upscale Tennessean Hotel?

There are a few reasons a man like Kingston stays in a place like this: hiring prostitutes, buying drugs, or something darker than either of those. I’m actually hoping he just has a taste for sex workers on the rougher side of town. That would be the best possible outcome here.

But it isn’t what I get.

I watch as an anonymous dark car pulls up. A dumpy-looking white man gets out. He’s wearing jeans and a plain jacket, and he has a ball cap pulled low over his face. No bag, so if he’s a drug dealer, he’s not bringing more than what’s in his pockets. I don’t think someone of Kingston’s monstrous ego would be just in for a dime bag.

As the man opens the back door of the car, I realize that is not what he’s bringing.

The girl can’t be more than twelve at best, and my mouth goes dry. My heart starts hammering harder. I force myself to be calm and take as many pictures as I can. The license plate. The car’s details. The best shots I can of the girl. She’s in a blue dress that belongs on a younger child, and she has a vacant, defeated expression on her face that makes me want to scream.

I get an absolutely clear picture of Greg Kingston’s grin as he opens up the motel room door and shakes the dumpy man’s hand. He ushers the girl and the man inside the room and shuts the door.

My hands are shaking when I drop the camera and dial 911. I give the report as calmly as I can, and I tell them there’s a child in serious danger, possibly being abused right now. If I’m wrong, if somehow Greg Kingston came to this shady motel to meet his cousin and his niece, then I’m screwed.

But I know I’m right. I’m watching a child being sold, and it takes every ounce of control I have to sit and wait for the police instead of beating two men senseless and taking that child someplace safe.

It doesn’t take long. Less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The slow, silent glide of the police cruiser into the parking lot is a relief. I get out of my car and talk to the two uniformed officers. They take me seriously, especially after they look at the photos on my camera. I’m shivering and tense as I lean against the car and they pound on the motel door.

It’s over fast. Whatever they find in that room, it’s enough to put Kingston and his dumpy friend in handcuffs, and when the girl comes out, she’s wrapped in a blanket. Her frozen, blank look has been replaced by something that looks like real emotion.

Like the beginnings of hope.

An ambulance arrives, lights flashing, and a detective car noses in. Around the small L-shaped motel complex, the evening’s occupants are making quiet getaways. Nobody wants to be caught up in this mess.

Kingston looks murderously angry. I think he ought to be looking a whole lot more scared, so I dial the city desk of the local paper and a couple of news stations. They’ll love this story, especially if they can get a shot of the mighty Greg Kingston sitting in his boxer briefs with his black dress socks still on. He looks pallid and thin and exposed. Perfect front-page material.