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TWELVE

BIRCH LANE

The beating hadn’t worked. Claire had kept her mouth shut and refused to name the others.

Maybe he should have sought out Barbara directly, but he preferred to drag it out and watch her suffer. Cause her to worry. To wonder when he’d strike.

He knew her Achilles heel.

And he’d use it against her

If Claire wouldn’t talk, he’d look for the answers on his own. He stared at the photograph he’d taken from Barbara’s house. He needed to know the names of everyone in the picture.

He knew where to start.

Delilah Short.

If anyone knew the whole truth, she did.

The snow was coming down so hard it was creating whiteout conditions. His vision was blurred with the fog of white. Wind battered his car, nearly sending him off the road and black ice had already started turning the asphalt slick.

The river water had to be ice cold. Just as the falls had been where he dumped the twins.

The girls’ screams echoed in his head. He hoped Claire heard them for the rest of her life. It was her fault they were dead.

The turn-off for Delilah’s street slipped into view in his headlights and he steered onto it, following the road as it disappeared beneath the ominous darkness of the gray clouds. Tree after tree flew past, the wind screaming through his window. He hit a pothole and skidded, struggling to keep from sliding into the gulley.

Finally, the overhang of the ridge faded, and he came to a stretch of road that wound through a section of the mountains that catered to young stable families, not vacationers or tourists.

His engine chugged over rocky terrain and snowy patches as he passed two cabins, then ended up in a cul de sac at the end. River rocks created small islands in the yard, the flowers dead and covered in snow.

The house was dark, no cars in the drive.

He’d done his research. Delilah’s marriage had fallen apart and she lived alone. He smiled at the thought, then pulled into the shadows of the woods two doors down. He cut his lights before sliding from his car. He checked the nearest house, but the lights were off there, too, so he crept up the driveway and along the exterior of the house until he reached the back of Delilah’s bungalow.

He picked the lock on the back door, kicked snow from his shoes onto the back porch, then slipped into the house. He walked through the rooms then sank onto her leather sofa.

The sound of an engine cut through the night, and he jerked his eyes open and watched through the window as Delilah parked her Honda. Tugging her hood over her head, she hurried up the drive. A minute later, the doorknob slowly turned.

Anticipation built in his gut.

Quietly, she slipped inside and closed the door, then took off her coat and gloves and dropped them on the bench in the foyer.

She flipped on the light in the living room, then her eyes widened in shock as she spotted him. A small cry escaped her, and she screamed then ran toward the door and reached for the doorknob.

But her hand never touched it. He had his arms around her neck before she could run. “Hello, Delilah. We need to talk.”

A strangled sound ripped from her throat and she clawed at his arms, but his thick jacket protected him.

“Struggling will only make it worse,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know, one way or the other.”