It would come back to haunt her one day. He just knew it. "You're the psychologist now, Sunny. What does this family tell you?"
He ignored the withering look she gave him at the nickname.
"Working class, religious. They attended church. Christian, most likely. From the location of this town, Baptist or Church of Christ. Possibly even Hope Life. It's a growing movement. Would have been here back then, I believe." Her voice turned soft. Contemplative. Knight just stayed close, and listened. "They worked—Monday through Friday. The kids were in school from eight until three-fifteen. They'd take the bus home. Terra would watch Cruz until their parents came home. Or they'd stay at the school for structured activities. Aimee kept a day planner, with all of the kids' activities, plus her step-daughter's. So they could be there. Support all three of the kids. She had regular Saturday lunch dates with each of the girls."
"Their main source of social activity was through the children," Knight added. He’d studied the files, too. "That's typical of this region. And this socioeconomic class. They were right on the cusp of moving into middle-class. Another promotion, or a raise, for either of them would have upped their disposable income. Maybe allowed them to move to an owner-occupied home. Provide a bit more luxuries for the family, the kids. Maybe a better car..."
"There are twelve thousand people in this town. Paths cross quite a bit," Asher pointed out. "Made it almost impossible to narrow down. I’ve been over every possible connection."
And if he was good at his job, it could simply mean it was random. But it didn’t feel that way to Knight. It just didn’t. Too controlled.
There was too much intent behind this.
"He brutalized Aimee. If she was the main target, it is her connections we need to focus on," Miranda said. That was something Knight agreed on—there had been so much rage focused on the mother. The boy and his father had died within mere moments of the initial contact. But Aimee…had been tortured. There was no other way to describe what had happened to her. Overkill.
"We can all agree the father and son weren't the targets," Knight said. He moved to where the center rug would have been. "Derek's body was found closest to the door. He’d been moved. One shot. Between the eyes. The M.E. said he and the boy died a good twelve hours before Aimee."
"But blood had put him being killed six feet inside the door." Miranda returned to the entryway. "Right here, in front of the stairs."
Asher nodded. "And Cruz's blood was on the stairs. Shot probably moments after his father. He had been picked up and moved, later. Long after."
The little boy had most likely been following his father to the door—to see who had come to visit. Knight’s stomach turned, and anger threatened. He shoved it aside. Anger never found the answers.
"The ones in the way. Removed as efficiently as possible. So he could get to his real target," Miranda said, a sick look on her face. “The mother…and the teenage girl? She’s the anomaly. Because we don’t know what he did to her—or where she ended up. Why did he take her? I am still figuring that part out.”
She fought a shiver; most wouldn’t have seen it—but Knight was attuned to her, in ways she probably didn’t even realize yet. He hated this part of the investigation. Hated that each case robbed her a little bit more of the sunshine. Took from her soul. It was inevitable.
He wasn't exactly immune himself. "But was he after Aimee specifically, or someone she represented? Where was the daughter while he was assaulting the mother? Where is she now?”
Statistics told him one thing—Terra Gibson was long dead.
No one was kidding themselves with this case.
They were looking for a body now. But they would probably not find her remains. The best they could hope for was finding the killer and stopping him from hurting anyone else.
Chapter 4
It shouldn’t have been this way. What had happened. Bryan Stenson stood outside the house he’d purchased more than twenty years ago, the cold February wind cutting right through him, while he waited for the cops to finish what they were doing inside. He’d experienced this before—every time someone had questions. Asher was the best of them, though. The younger man just seemed to see the people who had lived there less as victims and more as people. For others, the house just represented a mystery. No matter the cost to the ones who still had to go on living around here and everything.
He almost thought he hated this house. He should have sold it years ago but…he just hadn’t been able to.
The people who’d died there, their ghosts—they haunted him. Especially those kids. He’d met them so many times before. The boy had still been in diapers when the family had moved in. Bryan remembered that kid. And it hurt to remember. So damned much. Hell, every time he pulled into this driveway he remembered the day that little guy had first met him at the sidewalk and waved, said “Hi, Misser Senson!”, waving from a little Fisher Price tricycle. He hadn’t been more than three then. Bryan had considered the Gibsons friends.
Maybe Bryan had even stuck with this damned house because it had become a shrine in a lot of ways. For him, and so many others, maybe. Obsessed with what had happened back then. Strangers from all over the place tried to walk all over this place. It was one damned reason he hadn’t been able to keep it rented long-term since. Who wanted curiosity ghouls knocking on their door in the middle of the night, wanting to see where it happened? Who wanted idiot teenagers coming around to “solve the puzzle”? They weren’t puzzles, they were a family that had been destroyed completely.
So many people didn’t see that.
Him, and Asher—they did, though. Maybe they were guardians in a way. That man had just been a boy back then, practically. Asher hadn’t even been the guy in charge. Just a wet-behind-the-ears naïve fool trying to save the world. In southern Indiana, where time had stopped back in 1972 and hadn’t ever started up again.
Hell, Bryan hoped not. Hoped there was a better world out there for Asher, at least. The man was young, he didn’t deserve to be haunted by these ghosts, either. Asher had told him he was leaving law enforcement. Going to do something else now.
Good luck with that. Bryan…had tried to get out of here once. To move. He’d had big plans—buy cheap houses in a college town in the northern part of the state. Rent them out every year. Why not? He was good with his hands, could buy and repair himself. Maybe grab a few foreclosures dirt cheap. Build a life, a fortune.
He’d been an idiot. Young and dumb.
This area had trapped him far too damned fast. But he’d made do. Built a living, at least, if not a fortune. He had twelve rentals that brought in about twelve hundred each every month, and a five-unit building downtown that brought in another three thousand profit per month, plus some commercial places. Not exactly getting rich, but he’d done okay. His kids had what they needed, and that was what mattered.
He and his wife Cass—they were happy. They had a house on three acres just on the edge of town. Same road on which he stood now, but…outside of city limits. Where they could have some privacy. But close enough the kids could ride their bikes to some of their friends’ houses. He’d wanted to give his kids that kind of childhood.
