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CHAPTER EIGHT

J acob was early, and he knew why. He just wasn’t prepared to think on it too much. He entered the code for the warehouse door and disarmed the alarm.

Inside was an open space, his photo studio. The shooting area at the end had a light bar hung above, various spotlights and strobes hung from it. White on the floor, white on the walls. Four lights on tripods with umbrella reflectors.

A refreshments bar stretched the length of the left wall between his office and the changing rooms—bathroom at the end.

His assistant wasn’t coming in until later because she had a still life class this morning, but she’d left a note. The clothes had been set out, and since the photos were meant to be historical, they’d use some makeup but not the full makeup they might if this was a fashion shoot or even senior photos.

He did those all the time. But this wasn’t work for hire. It was to get more stock photos for his portfolio, now that he knew he wasn’t using Carl Harris for the new book he was putting together. Or it would be when the two young models he’d hired for the spread showed up.

Right now, Jacob knew what he was looking for, and it wasn’t the cameras he kept in the locked cabinet in his office.

He glanced back at the door. It wasn’t in the camera bag he’d left beside the door.

Jacob headed for the storage room. At the back, on the top shelf, were a series of boxes. He pulled out the middle one and flipped the lid. Carried the album he’d put together to his office and sat in his chair.

Stared at the cover.

Are you going to let this have power over you?

Jacob dumped the album on the desktop, and his pen rolled away. He flipped the cover and stared at the first image. He’d taken the picture himself a long time ago—some of the first good photos he’d taken.

Almost as soon as he’d known how to take good images, he’d gone back to that place and clicked the shutter a hundred times. The files were buried on his cloud storage. Some he’d printed. He could see the level of skill he’d had back then. Clearly some talent there, but a few of the technical aspects he’d do differently now. The lighting wasn’t great in spots.

As if he’d have dragged studio lights out to that cabin where his life had all but ended.

He was just grateful the cops left it intact. At least long enough he could go back through. He’d needed desperately to look at the details through his lens, like that kept him separate from the scene even if he stood right there in that place to take them. The spot where he’d listened to Adelyn cry. He’d cried as well. They’d both lost their voices from the hours of crying and screaming. Calling for help. Clinging to each other.

The instructions.

The torture. Mental and psychological. Tied to chairs.

Breathing in some kind of gas.

Waking up on the floor with no bindings but new bruises.

They’d barely had scratches and a few abrasions on them when the cops picked them up. The most damage had been below the surface.

Sometimes he wished he’d lost a limb, though that might seem strange. It felt like he’d had something taken from him. Torn off or amputated.

Jacob blew out a long breath.

Seeing Addie again would dig up everything he’d been trying to bury for fifteen years. He really couldn’t run the risk of allowing it to be exhumed. He wasn’t sure he would survive it again.

The buzzer for the front door sounded.

Jacob shoved the album in the top drawer of his desk and strode to the studio area. Two college age kids came in, the door closing out the day’s sunlight as they moved toward him. The young woman practically bounced on her feet. The guy was playing it cool. Both of them were excited.

“Thanks for coming.” He shook both their hands.

Sammie and Dylan were relatively new to modeling but came recommended by the college art professor.

Dylan said, “We just need to get changed?”

He nodded. “Everything is laid out in the changing room, outfit number one first. We’ll work through all three and see what we come up with. Sound good?”

Jacob was paying them for a full day, and by the end of it all three of them would be exhausted.

Six hours later he called for a break, unsurprised when Dylan sat on the floor to stretch out and lay flat.

“Watch the outfit, yeah?”

Dylan nodded, breathing hard.

Jacob had run them ragged, but the shots of the two dancing as war era young couple in love would be worth it.

Dylan about to go off to war. Or maybe newly returned and unscathed—at least on the outside. They’d taken a range of pictures from happy couple in love to arguing spouses. The two of them had held each other. Jacob had coached them through an argument, giving them dialogue and motivations.

Sammie popped the top off another diet soda—she’d had about half a dozen while he and Dylan polished off two pots of coffee.

Dylan shut his eyes. Sammie sidled up beside Jacob and laid her hand on his arm, peering over at the camera display. “Can I look at some?”

“I do some editing work on the computer first, before I do anything with them.” Jacob smiled. “But you guys did a really good job. If you need references, I’m happy to write up something.”

“Thanks.” She squeezed his arm.

Dylan didn’t open his eyes. “Thanks, Jake. ’Preciate it.”

Sammie hesitated. Jacob tapped through menus on his camera. Eventually she took a sip then said, “Can I ask… it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Jacob looked up. Saw her expression. He didn’t want to talk about that. Too bad everyone asked—eventually. Except Hank or Russ. Even his mother insisted on bringing it up, especially on the anniversary of Becca’s death.

Hank hardly ever talked about the girl he’d lost that night, abducted with him like Addie was with Jacob. Becca’s death had sent Hank into a tailspin, and Jacob wasn’t sure he’d ever crawled out of it. Not completely. Even after therapy and channeling his frustrations into police work, the guy had never bounced back to the kid Jacob had known.

Maybe none of them had, or ever would.

Sammie said, “You are…that guy, right?”

“You want to know if I’m the same Jake Wilson who was abducted?”

She bit her lip. Tenacious, but still unsure what his reaction was going to be. She shifted a fraction too close with her hand back on his arm. She glanced once at Dylan, then slid her arm around to his back and down. She traced her hand on the back of his belt, over the T-shirt on his waist.

“I can’t imagine going through something like that.”

Jacob’s synapses fired, locked between the images he’d looked at hours ago now in that photo album. The ones that never left his mind. Then there was her presence beside him. It wasn’t like he felt anything, let alone attraction. She was far too young, and he wasn’t interested.

He stepped away. “Give me a sec. I need to plug in this camera before it dies.”

As he strode to his office, Dylan rolled over on the floor. “We’re done, right?”

“Yep.”

The two of them could get changed and leave as far as he was concerned. They’d tell stories about the temperamental photographer, but that wouldn’t ding his reputation at all. In fact, it would likely serve to enhance it more than anything.

He did need to plug in the camera.

Movement at the door caught his attention. He looked at the same time he set the camera on the desk. “Hey.”

Sammie shut the door behind her. “Sorry if I upset you. I really can’t imagine going through something like that.”

“But you’re interested in the morbid details?”

She shrugged one slender shoulder while she crossed to him. “I’ve seen almost every horror movie ever made. I love being scared. It’s—” She inhaled an excited gasp. “Exhilarating. You know?”

“Do I?” He didn’t remember fear being the same thing as excitement. Far from it, in fact.

“You were with your girlfriend.” She did the hand on his arm thing again. “I couldn’t imagine being alone. It’s much better to be with someone you care about. Someone you can share with.”

“Mostly I don’t think about what happened. Ivan Damen is in prison, and he’ll never get out. It’s over.”

“Have you ever”—hand squeeze—“visited him?”

“Why would I do that?” Jacob shook his head. “Damen means nothing to me.”

He’d tortured them, tried to birth something ugly and evil in Jacob. It hadn’t worked. They’d been rescued, and the rest was an exciting blurb for a TV show because the network needed something sensational to play when not much else was going on in the world. True crime podcasts and shows loved to re-hash all of it. Every few years, some new study was written—a spin.

His favorite was the one that said Jacob had killed Becca in a pact with Hank so they could both be in a relationship with Addie. He only knew the gist of the book because his agent had told him she read it on a cruise and thought the whole thing was hilarious. Then again, she knew Jacob wasn’t some kind of amorist.

His last relationship was…

He didn’t even know.

It must’ve been a while, considering he still felt Addie’s hug. It was the closest he’d been to anyone in years.

Until this.

Jacob crossed to the door and held it open even though it didn’t need assistance doing its job. Sammie looked like she wanted to give whatever this was another try.

“Go get changed.”

She breezed out in the shirtwaist dress his assistant had found. Muttering something that sounded like, “Your loss.”

Jacob gave himself a minute. He wanted to know if Addie got questions like that or if no one ever mentioned it to her.

People in this town were always trying to drag him back into the limelight. It sounded like the worst idea ever, and he’d managed to keep his success pretty unnoticeable so far. Not many people knew he was the guy behind the Life in Story books—the writer and photographer.

It probably said something that he wanted to tell stories for others and had no interest in his own.

He grabbed checks for the two of them from his safe and met them at the door. “Thanks, guys.”

Dylan gave him a salute using the check. Sammie grabbed hers and ducked out the door.

Jacob stared at the sunset that washed the sky in pink, then went to get his ringing phone. He still had to clean up and close the studio, and he was wiped. Who was calling?

The number wasn’t one saved in his contacts.

“Jacob Wilson.”

Silence greeted him. Then a choke, as if the person on the other end couldn’t contain their distress.

“Hello?”

“I’m…Celia. I’m her mother, Carinne.”

Celia had never mentioned her mother’s name, just that she lived with exacting parents who hadn’t liked her boyfriend. “Carinne?”

“Do you know where my daughter is?” The female voice was accented. Interesting enough he wanted to hear a story.

“I only met Celia a few times at the retirement home.” And fought with her boyfriend. “I don’t think there’s anything I can provide the police to help them find her.”

“Unless you’re the one who took her.”

“Ma’am—”

She cut him off. “Your history and all, and you said you know her. She’s gone. No one knows where she is.”

“I’m a suspect as far as you’re concerned?” He worked to rein in his frustration. “I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

“So you say.” She sniffed. “The FBI is getting involved now. That’s what the police said. Some profiler who catches dangerous criminals and finds people. She’ll sniff out the truth. You won’t get away with this.”