Her cell pinged, and she slowed to look at the screen. I can’t wait to see you.
Something warmed in the pit of her belly, and she texted back. I’m here. She strained her eyes to find him. Clouds streaked the sky overhead, obscuring the stars, but an occasional sliver of moon shone through before it was lost again. The WWII monument was in back of the fountain. That was the spot they’d decided on, but it was still too far for her to make him out.
Saxon Falls Park had never seemed spooky before, but she’d never been here at night. Alone. The city had gone cheap on the lighting, and there were only a few streetlamps dotting the area, all of which must turn off at midnight. She got a sudden chill and hunched farther into her coat, taking out her cell to switch on its flashlight app.
There. She could see Patrick now, or rather his moped parked next to the monument. Her stomach did flips. She’d walked just a few blocks in the biting wind, but he’d driven twelve miles in it, just for her. The knowledge put a spring in her step, and Whitney thought maybe—just maybe—if Patrick wanted to feel her up, she’d let him.
“Hey you,” she called out softly as she closed the distance to the monument. “Froze solid yet?”
A shadow shifted behind the statue, but her gaze traveled beyond it to a hulking shape along the tree line fringing the park. The monument was near the rear of the area, and there was nothing else of size there. At least there shouldn’t be. Comprehension filtered in a moment later. It was a vehicle. A van. She stumbled to a halt, a hot ball of panic forming in her belly. The figure that stepped out from the cover of the statue was dressed all in black. Face. Hands. Clothes.
Whitney didn’t waste time screaming. She whirled. Bolted. He might know the park, but he wouldn’t be familiar with the woods surrounding it. It was there she headed, fear giving her feet wings. If she could make it, she had a chance. She could lose him among the trees. Find the path he wouldn’t . . .
A mighty weight tackled her to the ground. She rolled, kicking and punching wildly. Two dark-clad arms grabbed her shoulders, pinning them to the ground. She latched her teeth into one arm, heard a vicious oath. Then a sharp needle of pain shot through her arm. She opened her mouth to shout. A gloved hand clapped over her lips.
Whitney continued to struggle, but her limbs grew leaden. The black-hooded creature loomed above her. Panic still pounded through her veins, but her thoughts were scattered. She saw herself as if from afar, an insect struggling on a collector’s pin.
Her vision blurred as waves of unconsciousness threatened. The weight was removed. Freedom! The thought was a bolt of adrenaline. But when she commanded her legs to move, they remained unresponsive. She tried to raise a hand. Only could twitch her fingers. She felt herself being lifted. Carried by that hated person in black. It was getting harder to think, but one nebulous thought formed. Swam across her mind.
Leaving her room tonight had been the biggest mistake of her life.
Janie Willard
November 1
11:30 a.m.
“Janie, out front, please. We’re about to get busy.”
There was a quick hitch in Janie’s throat, a spreading heaviness in her chest as she reluctantly turned away from the fryers and grills. Making her way from the kitchen to the Dairy Whip’s front counter, she concentrated on the slow and steady breathing that could usually keep the deep-seated anxiety at bay. The medication in her purse would make speaking to people a bit easier, but for the last few months she’d been trying to curtail her dosage. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, reliant on chemicals just to get through the day.
A gaggle of high schoolers was crowding toward the front door, and she took her place next to a register, order pad ready. A quick scan of the faces revealed that she knew them all, at least by sight. They were only acquaintances because Janie didn’t make friends. Except for Alyvia Naughton, who’d steamrollered into her life in kindergarten and hadn’t seemed to care that it had been nearly nine months before Janie had spoken a word to her. Apparently, “give me back that damn truck” had cemented whatever attraction Janie held for Alyvia because they’d been best friends ever since.
The crowd at the counter separated into two lines, and Janie picked up a pen before saying automatically, “May I help you?”
“Yeah, um.” The girl stared up at the posted menu as if entranced, seemingly oblivious to the people waiting behind her. “I think . . . a chocolate-dipped cone. Medium. No, wait. What’s the name of the one with sprinkles? I want that one.”
It was simpler when Janie kept her head down, writing the orders, turning her back to make the treats. More difficult when she had to announce the amount, take the money, and count back change. To interact. The place seemed to swell with bodies. With noise. So many . . . words were floating in the air, demanding responses, although fortunately not from her. She’d perfected the art of flipping a switch—robot mode, her therapist called it—and focused on the tedium while attempting to disregard the snippets of conversation floating around her.
“. . . see her costume last night? Sort of skanky, don’t you . . .”
“. . . gone for two days already . . .”
“Cade seemed to like it.”
“. . . probably ran off with a guy. I heard her dad was super strict . . .”
“He’s a total player, what guy wouldn’t . . .”
“That’s three twenty-eight.” The words came in a rush but were steady enough. She collected the money and counted back the change. The girl—Ellie Breitbach—sat behind her in third-period calculus. They’d never exchanged a word.
Cone in one hand, change in the other, she turned away and picked up the conversation where she’d left off with her friend. “Still, she’s just so obvious. She’s gonna get a rep if she doesn’t . . .”
“May I help you?” Janie focused on the next customer. And then the next. The two lines dwindled. So thoroughly had she blocked the chatter that when the piercing words rang out, they took a moment to sink in.
“What do you think about it, Janie?”
She stilled. Squelched the panic that threatened to surge and searched for the speaker. Recognizing her, Janie’s stomach clenched. “About what?”
In a carefully studied move, Heather Miller gathered up her long, blonde hair in one hand before letting it cascade again, probably for the benefit of the slack-jawed boy glued to her side in the booth. “That girl that disappeared in Saxon Falls a couple of days ago. Surely you’ve heard. It’s been on the news. She might even have been a victim of the Ten Mile Killer, like your sister. Don’t you just think that’s awful?”