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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Emmy launched her cruiser up the exit toward Elsinore Meadows.

She’d put on her blue lights to clear cars from her path.

The siren was off for a silent approach.

All that she could hear over the roar of the engine was the blood rushing through her ears.

Her hands gripped the wheel. Sweat was pouring under her armored duty vest. As she hit the long stretch of road, she tried not to think about making this same trek yesterday morning with Cole in the back seat and Gerald at her side.

Her thoughts had been filled with dread.

Paisley Walker missing. A mob of vigilantes screaming for blood.

Not knowing that her entire life was about to change in the blink of an eye.

This time, she had left Cole at the station.

He had balked, but her son knew how to follow orders.

Emmy had claimed she needed him to keep working with Jude, but the truth was, she couldn’t function if she thought about taking Cole with her to confront an armed felon with nothing to lose.

She had already lost both parents. Her world would cease to exist if she lost her son.

Up ahead, Emmy could see a line of black, marked SUVs parked on the shoulder.

Rick Tuttle stood in the middle of the street with his heavily muscled arms crossed over his bulging duty vest. The city of Verona chief of police was six-three and built like a linebacker, though he hadn’t stepped on a football field since they were both in high school.

A group of six equally imposing men surrounded him.

Verona PD wore camo with combat boots and enough equipment on their vests to mount a small war.

Brett looked like a toddler playing cops and robbers by comparison.

Emmy pulled in behind the last SUV. Jumped out of her cruiser.

Tightened the straps on her vest as she walked.

The air felt heavy with tension. The clouds in the sky had turned gray.

Rain was making its way from the Gulf. She focused her mind on Adam Huntsinger.

If their theory from the conference room was correct, he had an accomplice on the outside.

That man could be raping and torturing Paisley Walker right now.

There was still the chance that she would be found alive.

“Chief.” Brett jogged to meet her. He was certainly awake now. “I spotted Adam inside the house ten minutes ago. He went around closing all the curtains. Had the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. No sign of his parents, but Walton’s car was in the driveway when he got here.”

“We have to assume his mother’s inside the house, too. Alma hasn’t driven in years.” They had reached the group of men. Emmy told Rick, “Thanks for being here. I’ve still got my people out looking for Paisley Walker.”

“No problem. Happy to help.” His mirrored sunglasses showed the reflection of the road behind her. Emmy forced herself not to think about Cole running down the street with his vest flapping.

She asked, “What’s the sitrep?”

Rick said, “We got SWAT on the way from Ocmulgee. They’re twenty minutes out.”

Emmy wasn’t going to wait for SWAT. “Adam’s parents are home, Walton and Alma. They’re both in their late seventies. Alma is completely blind. Adam is armed with a shotgun. He already threatened to shoot my deputy. He’s been drinking all day.”

“Which is why we’re standing down for SWAT,” Rick said. “I’m not losing one of my guys. Not for a pedophile and two old people.”

Emmy felt her teeth set. She had to crane up her neck to look at the six strapping men around her. All locked and loaded. All cosplaying badasses.

“Okay.” She turned to Brett. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Brett asked.

“To do our damn jobs.”

Emmy started jogging toward the house. Her eyes glanced across the dark stain on the asphalt where Gerald had fallen.

The feeling of cleaving threatened to return, that sense of sudden emptiness.

She knew with every fiber of her being what her father would want her to do right now.

The Verona SWAT team wasn’t just trigger happy.

They prided themselves on not taking prisoners.

Emmy wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but she was certain that Adam Huntsinger couldn’t talk if he was dead.

“Chief.” Brett jogged beside her. “What’s the plan?”

Emmy took a shallow breath. She was too anxious to be relieved.

“Go around back. There’s two exits: one off the kitchen and one off the back porch.

If Adam comes through either one, you’ve got to protect yourself, but if there’s any way, try not to shoot him.

We need him to talk. He could tell us how to find Paisley. ”

Brett gave a curt nod. “Yes, chief.”

Emmy slowed her pace so Brett had time to skirt around the side of the house.

She took out her phone. Turned on the camera.

Stuck it into the breast pocket of her duty vest so the lens faced out.

Gerald had been against body cams, but whatever happened between Emmy and Adam Huntsinger was going to be recorded.

Even if it was buckshot hitting her in the chest.

She glanced into Walton’s black Toyota Corolla as she walked by.

Adam’s old Chevy truck was parked closer to the house, stopped at a sharp angle.

The back tires had dug deep tracks into the gravel.

The cab was empty, but there was an open toolbox in the truck bed.

Yellow plastic, busted handle. The lid was open.

Emmy saw a bunch of rusted wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers.

Emmy unsnapped the safety strap on her Glock, wrapped her fingers around the grip, and walked up the porch stairs.

The windows were dark. There were no twitches behind the curtains.

She could hear a TV loudly playing somewhere in the back of the house.

Emmy didn’t have to consider her options.

She did the same thing her father had done the day before.

Raised her hand. Rapped her fist on the solid wood.

Knocked hard enough to be heard over the television, but not so hard that the door shook on its hinges.

Emmy took three steps back, angled herself away from the door in case Adam decided to shoot through it. She kept her hand on her Glock and waited.

The door didn’t open, but the volume muted on the television.

In the silence, she listened to the old floorboards creaking inside of the house.

She thought back to that fateful day twelve years ago.

Gerald trying the locked front door. Emmy going around the side.

Looking in the basement. The sound of Gerald calling her back to the front.

Emmy knocked again, softer this time, but with purpose.

“Adam?” The woman’s voice sounded frail and distant. “Is someone at the door?”

Emmy heard murmurs of conversation closer by. Two men were arguing. One louder than the other. Adam and Walton. The conversation died down quickly. There was the sound of more floorboards creaking, feet shuffling, then the front door swung open.

Walton Huntsinger’s face was drawn. His eyes looked tired behind his thick glasses. His unnaturally black hair was combed over to hide the baldness.

Emmy asked, “Dr. Huntsinger, are you and your wife safe?”

“Yes, thank you.” His voice sounded beaten down. They had been here once before. He knew how that had ended. “Adam’s in the kitchen. Follow me back.”

Emmy stepped into the house. Nothing had changed.

The only thing missing from the front hall was Walton’s suitcase.

Emmy walked past the spot, her mind conjuring the image of the black Samsonite with the colorful golf umbrella hooked through the handle and a red nylon man’s wallet with the Georgia Bulldogs logo shoved into the zippered pocket.

She followed Walton down the long hallway past the living room, then the dining room, then into the kitchen.

The bright yellow walls had faded, but the appliances finally matched.

A keychain with a fob for the Toyota was on the counter.

Adam was sitting at the kitchen table. His mouth curled up at the corners when he saw Emmy. He stared at her through his thick glasses. There were three items in front of him:

Penley’s sawed-off shotgun from the bar.

A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

A sixteen-ounce general purpose claw hammer.

Emmy felt her breath catch. The wooden handle was almost black with dried blood. The blood around the steel head was brighter, newer.

Paisley.

Adam said, “Leave us be, Dad.”

Walton didn’t look at Emmy. His feet shuffled across the floor as he left the kitchen. The room somehow felt smaller without him.

Adam said, “Sit down, chief.”

Emmy didn’t sit down. Her eyes flickered to the windows. The curtains on the door weren’t fully closed. She saw Brett reaching for the doorknob. His Glock was in his right hand. Emmy shook her head, telling him to stay outside.

She asked Adam, “Where’s Paisley?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “Wrong question.”

Emmy knew what he wanted her to ask about. It was the reason he’d called her. “Tell me about the hammer.”

“You fucking know about the hammer.”

Emmy’s eyes followed his right hand as he placed it flat on the table. Close to the bottle. Close to the shotgun. Close to the hammer. Any one of them could hurt her. She leaned back against the counter, putting herself out of swinging distance. She felt her mind racing with questions.

Why had he called 911 demanding to speak to Emmy? Why had he threatened Brett’s life? Why had he left the hammer on the table like a cat bringing her a dead bird? Was his accomplice trying to frame him? Was Adam trying to fake her out?

Emmy took in a deep breath, forced herself to turn a question back on him. “Was that hammer inside the toolbox in your truck?”

“Exactly where your sister put it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“You know why.”