Page 58

Fifty-Seven

KELLY LAY BESIDE JARED in the bed, Carl’s apartment silent save for the occasional flurry of daytime partying out on the street as people passed by the low-level apartment building.

Jared snored. Really snored. Poor man hadn’t truly slept in days. She hadn’t either. But she had a mission.

She eased toward the edge of the mattress.

Jared’s chest rose and fell in rhythm.

Please stay asleep.

She had to do this. No. She was compelled to do it.

She eased over more, nearly to the side of the bed.

He shifted, and she stilled, clinging to the edge of the mattress.

He blew out a breath and shifted again.

She waited.

Soon the snoring returned in force.

She rolled off the mattress, landing in a Black Widow pose, and held again.

No movement, other than his chest rising and falling.

She was clear.

Cracking open the apartment door, she glanced up and down the hallway. Her heart in her throat, she stepped into it, praying no one had found them.

She strode down the dim hallway—silently as she could. She rounded the corner and descended the stairwell for the outer door. The 7-Eleven with the pay phone out front was a dozen blocks away. She’d walk fast, hoping with all her heart she’d return before Jared woke, but she had no choice. Kathryn’s family deserved to lay their daughter to rest, and Lance had to pay for what he’d done.

Reaching the pay phone, she turned her back to any onlookers and fished the quarters from her pocket. One by one, she slipped them into the slot. The coins clanged as they plopped into the metal box.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered what remained of her frayed courage and dialed the local precinct’s non-emergency number. All 911 calls were recorded and would only signal more alarm. The non-emergency number was probably monitored, too, but with a less ready-for-action operator on the line.

“Vegas Police Department,” a woman answered.

“I need to make a report,” Kelly whispered.

“I can hardly hear you. Can you speak up?”

“No, I can’t.” She placed her hand over the receiver, trying to muffle her voice. “I just need to report that Lance Winslow killed Kathryn Buford.”

“Who is this?”

“There’s proof, but I can’t send it now. Just tell them to look into Lance Winslow and his alias Ralph Masters. He ran a cult at a house thirty miles northeast of downtown Vegas. The police checked it out six years ago. Tell them we know he killed her, and I’ll send the proof in once I’m safe.”

“Safe? Are you in danger? Do you need an officer?”

“I need to go. Just tell them.”

“Miss—”

She hung up the phone and stepped back into something hard. She squeezed her eyes shut. No.