Page 36 of The First Hunt (The Final Hunt)
JOHN
J ohn peered over the second-story balcony of the library and studied the back of Holly’s head as she hunched over a microfilm reader machine.
He was too far away to see what articles she was reading, but it had to be either for the book she was writing or her Green River Killer obsession.
From the array of names, maps, photos, lists, and handwritten theories that covered her office wall, it was likely the latter.
Holly jotted something down in a notebook. John’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he strained to see what filled Holly’s screen. Using a knob at the base of the machine, Holly flipped to the next page of the newspaper before John could make out what she’d been looking at.
What if she was looking into the woman who was last seen at the Albertson’s down the street?
Her photo was pinned to Holly’s wall. Have they found her?
John wondered. No, he decided. He’d watched the news this morning, and they hadn’t said anything about her body being discovered.
And even if it had , that didn’t explain why Holly would be looking up old articles.
John tucked his borrowed copies of The Onion Field and Rebecca , a gothic fiction novel recommended by his English teacher, under his arm and backed away from the banister. He needed to get closer.
He’d been planning to stop here anyway to look for the true crime book Holly had recommended when he’d spotted her station wagon in the parking lot.
After buying a premade sandwich at Albertson’s, John had driven to a park his mom used to take him to when he was little and eaten in the car while it rained.
The memory of his mother’s laughter as she pushed him on the park swings dissolved into the dull creak of the library stairs beneath his feet.
His stomach grumbled, and he lifted his gaze to the large clock above the check-out desk on the first floor.
He’d been here for nearly three hours. He hadn’t planned on staying so long, but seeing Holly so engrossed in an archival search had piqued his curiosity.
The library was unusually quiet, and when he neared the bottom of the stairs, he could hear the click of the microfilm reader’s knob beneath Holly’s fingers. Holly faced away from him at the shared computer desk and stretched her neck to the side, keeping her attention focused on the screen.
He could go over and say hello, except Holly might ask how he got here.
He didn’t need her telling his dad that he’d been driving without a license.
Plus, she might turn off the screen or wait to continue her archival search until after he’d gone.
From the way she flipped through the archival pages with focused intensity, she hadn’t yet found what she was looking for.
And he needed to see what was driving her search.
Beside John, a young boy holding a stack of books followed his mother toward the check-out desk. The boy tripped over his own rain boots, sending all but one of his books to the floor with a dense, echoing thud.
Holly turned toward the sound. John spun so she wouldn’t see his face and pretended to thumb through a shelf of nonfiction.
He traced a finger over a row of Martha Stewart cookbooks and paused when he reached Donald Trump’s The Art of the Deal.
John withdrew the hardcover from the shelf and leafed through the pages of deal-making advice from the real estate mogul.
When he dared look over his shoulder, Holly was refocused on her computer. She’d taken her hand off the mouse and leaned toward the screen. Her jaw flexed as she chewed a piece of gum.
John returned the book to the shelf and moved down a row of magazines behind Holly’s computer. Halfway down the row, he stared through an empty space in the shelf. The photo that Holly was staring at made his heart leap into his throat.
It was an image of his house.
It had to be an article about his mom’s suicide.
John’s face seared with anger, thinking of the phone call he’d listened in on last night.
That bitch Laurie needed to stop yapping to Holly about what happened to his mother, even though she hadn’t gotten it right.
It had obviously spurred Holly on a mission to learn more.
Plus, his father had no doubt made it worse by making Holly think he was interested in her. He should never have gone over to her house last night. I need to put a stop to this before she ruins our lives. His father clearly did not have a handle on the situation.
Maybe his dad was losing his edge. He was getting older. He was forty-six now. His father’s killings had slowed during the last several years. He was being more careful, which was good; it had kept him out of prison.
Had his dad turned soft? A terrifying thought imploded in his mind like a grenade. What if he actually liked this woman?
He’d heard his dad humming to himself this morning before he’d left for work. And he hadn’t even killed anyone recently. In a couple of years, as far as John knew.
Good thing he has me, John thought as he watched Holly pop a gum bubble with her lips and scribble in her notebook. One of us has to keep our head on straight.
Fortunately, John knew exactly what to do.