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Footsteps sounded on the floor above, and she lifted her head toward the sound.I should go back upstairs before Clint catches me down here, snooping around.
She stood still. What if he’d already discovered she wasn’t in the bathroom? She turned for the stairs.I should never have come down here. What am I going to say to Clint if he discovers I’m not in the bathroom?
She’d have to tell him she thought he’d said the bathroom was downstairs—and pray he’d buy it.
She cursed herself for being so stupid. She should’ve gone straight home and called Andy.What was I expecting to find down here anyway? A body?
She passed a doorway on her right. It was the first room she’d seen off of the large open area. She paused and listened for a moment. The footsteps upstairs had stopped.
She peered through the doorway, seeing the studs on the far wall were covered with paper. She stepped inside to get a closer look. When she reached the middle of the room, a yarn hanging from above slapped her cheek. She yanked on it, illuminating a bare lightbulb in the ceiling. Looking at the far wall, she gasped.
Two newspaper articles stood out. The first was from theFairbanks Examinerprinted in May 1985.HORROR ON THE HIGHWAY: Body of Young Fairbanks Woman Found Near Lonely Stretch of Road.Beneath the headline was a faded photograph of a squad car beside a snow-covered ditch.
When Holly saw the article beside it, her breath caught in her throat. It was an article about Diana’s suicide.
Her gaze dropped to the page stuck to the wall beneath the article. It looked to have been ripped from a high school yearbook with rows of teachers’ headshots filling the page. One had an X in red marker over her face. Holly swallowed.John’s English teacher.
Just as she’d thought, Clint had killed her too. Acid burned the back of her throat as the wine threatened to come back up. She forced it back down and glanced at the ceiling. Her pulse pounded in her temples so loudly that it nearly drowned out the thoughts that swarmed and buzzed like a disturbed hive.
Holly turned to the wall beside it. There were more newspaper clippings, just like the wall in her home office. In fact, she’d hung up some of these at home. She scanned the familiar articles covering the murders of Sally Hickman, Jennifer Duran, and Brooke Holtman. All three believed to be Green River Killer Victims.
Holly inched closer, feeling as though she were moving outside of her own body. She froze, seeing the same headline she’d been staring at for the last ten years beneath the three articles.STRIPPER FOUND DEAD.She covered her mouth with her hand. Just as she’d thought—Clint killed Meg.He was the Bus Stop Killer, not Jared. The one she’d been hunting for all these years. Her lungs locked. The room twisted. The world tilted beneath her feet.
She placed her hands on her knees.Just breathe.She stepped back to take in both walls at once, wishing she had a camera. She had to stay calm. Go upstairs. Tell Clint she wasn’t feeling well and get the hell out of here so she could tell Andy what she’d found.
She spun around and reached for the string to turn off the light. Before her hand could grasp the yarn, she registered a figure standing in the doorway.
Chapter 43
HOLLY
“Hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her pulse slowed, the fear loosening its grip. He held a baseball bat, which meant he must’ve just gotten home from practice.
“John.” She kept her voice low. “We need to get out of here, you and me.”
“What?” He stepped into the room. “Why?”
Holly pointed to the wall behind her, debating how much she should tell him. She moved closer to him as he took in the wall. She studied John’s face as it struck her that if Clint was the father of Meg’s baby, then John was the half-brother of Meg’s son. But there was no time to think about that now. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think your dad may have killed these women.”
John tore his gaze from the wall covered with an article about his mom’s suicide and his English teacher’s X’d-out photo. He scoffed. “My dad didn’t kill them.”
Footsteps creaked atop the ceiling above their heads.
Frustrated, Holly grabbed John by the shoulders, tilting her head to lock eyes with him. She was about to tell him that yes, his father did kill them, but she could see in his eyes that he would never believe her. It was a mistake to think she could convince John of who his father really was. Now, she needed to get out of this house while she still had the chance.
John pointed to the wall beside them. “But he did killthosewomen.”
Holly followed the direction of his finger to the wall containing Meg’s article and the three presumed Green River Killer victims, then looked to the other wall.
“What?”
Johnknew?Then she remembered the boy in the backseat of the car that picked up Sally Hickman.
Clint had to be lying to John about the others, not wanting him to know he’d killed John’s mother.But how could John be okay with his father killinganyof them?She turned to face the tall teenager, her rage at his father fueled not only by discovering he’d killed Meg, but how he’d manipulated his son into keeping this dark secret. The poor kid.
“You don’t need to protect your father, John. He should’ve been the one protectingyou.”