Aldridge is in uniform, sports a military-grade high and tight, and looks like a former football player, thick through the shoulders, a solid neck, hands like dinner plates. He and Osley size each other up and find some common ground that leaves them both guffawing within moments. Granted, Osley could find common ground with a paper bag, the man’s too outgoing for his own good, but that’s fine. She wants cooperation. She’s not paying attention to the details anyway. She’s trying to listen to what’s happening inside the room.
Stymied, she turns to the men.
“Has she said anything?”
“Not yet. We’re—”
The door opens, and a doctor emerges. Fortyish, her hair is in an ashy-blond ponytail, and she looks like she might enjoy a glass of wine or two after work. Joey likes her on sight.
“I’m Detective Moore,” Joey starts, but the doctor holds up her hand.
“I’ve seen you on TV, Detective. I’m Dr. Jones. Ms. Kemp is on the phone to her partner right now. As soon as she’s done, you can talk to her. She is one seriously pissed off lady.”
“Is she hurt?” Loaded question, but she has to ask.
The doctor grins. “Physically, no. But she does think she killed him.”
“Could we get that lucky?” Osley drawls, joining them.
“Will,” Joey warns, and he puts up both hands. “Just saying. Where’s he at?”
“That’s the issue. She’s not sure. He’s been drugging her, so she’s a little squirrelly on the timeline. Just FYI, I gave her a sedative as well, just to take the edge off, so she might be sleepy. She’s undergone a major emotional trauma. She’s tough, and she’s as brave as they come. Regardless, I’m sure I don’t need to warn you to take it easy with her.”
“I will. You have my word.”
They hear a voice call from within the room. “Dr. Jones? Are the police here?”
“See what I mean?” Dr. Jones smiles at Moore, and points toward the door. “Be my guest.”
Osley hesitates. “I think I’ll let you go in alone. Just in case…you know. I’ll listen.”
Joey does know. The last thing a recently traumatized woman needs is to come face to face with another strange man who must ask intimate details of her experience. Osley is a good guy, and she appreciates his sensitivity. She punches him on the shoulder in thanks and heads in.
The room is typical hospital, but the sun is shining outside, so it’s filled with light and not quite as depressing as it could be.
Joey is pleased to see Jillian Kemp does appear unharmed. She’s hooked up to an IV, and there’s a finished plate of food on the tray by the side of the bed. A small pudding cup is the only thing untouched. Jillian notices her looking at it.
“I hate tapioca. It’s a texture thing.”
“I understand completely. I’m Detective Josephine Moore, Metro Nashville homicide. How are you, ma’am?”
“Alive. I didn’t think I was going to make it out of there.”
“I have to tell you, we’re very happy you did. Your wife and son are on their way down. They’re very relieved.”
A smile. “I talked to Cici and Ellis a few minutes ago. The doctor let me use her cell.” Silver sparkles in her eyes, and her voice is thick. “I didn’t know if I’d ever hear their voices again. Best phone call ever.”
“I can only imagine. Want to tell me what happened?”
Jillian shifts against the pillow, dragging the diamond-patterned gown higher up her shoulders. “He was actually very gentle with me after he got me wrestled into the back of his van.”
Joey nods. The van… Sounds like this is their boy. It’s Peyton.
“Can you describe your attacker?”
“He’s young, with short dark hair. Tall… I mean, nothing really stands out except he has a cleft in his chin. And dead eyes. He seemed so…empty. Devoid of life. Except for when I was screaming. Then he lit up, from inside. It was horrifying.”
They’ve got a six-pack to show her, assembled hastily and emailed to them while they were on the road. Joey slides her phone with the photo array onto the tray. “See anyone who looks familiar?”
Jillian picks out Peyton Flynn immediately.
“Okay. Thank you. Hang on just one second.”
She steps into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. Osley is waiting, brow raised.
“She ID him?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take it from here,” he says, phone already to his ear.
Joey steps back in the room. Jillian has pulled up her legs and is sitting with them crossed beneath her. She looks much more relaxed. The sedative must have kicked in. Joey can see the tips of bandages creeping around the edges of her toes. She was barefoot… Joey does her best not to blanch. Her feet must have been cut to ribbons by the time they found her.
“Is that him? Is that Beverly’s killer?”
Joey shakes her head. She can’t prejudice the witness by saying anything definitively. “I can’t say one way or another at this moment, ma’am. We need to hear everything you’ve been through if you’re feeling up to sharing.”
Jillian shudders. “If it will help stop him, yes. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you. I want to run through it all, from start to finish, but first… I know this might be hard, but I have to ask. Major Aldridge said you think you killed him? If that’s true, we need to go find his body, so as much detail as you can provide would be really helpful. How he grabbed you, how long you were in the van, things you saw, what happened while you were there, how long you walked after you escaped. We’re going to go through it all, okay?”
“That’s fine. I’m pretty sure I did kill him,” Jillian says, voice quiet. “I hit him from behind. He was just turning toward me, and I caught him in the temple with a chisel. He went down and I ran.”
“Were you in restraints?”
“Yes, zip ties. But he got distracted and went outside, and I’ve watched all the videos on how to break them. My hands were in front of me, thank God. I’d have never managed any other way. Normally he had my hands in the back, but today…yesterday? I don’t know how long it’s been. Anyway, I hit them on the side of the table by the couch he had me on and they broke. I was going to slip away, but I knew I needed to make sure he couldn’t follow me. I snuck up behind him and hit him. I looked back once and he hadn’t moved, and there was blood, so much blood.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Joey says. “And that was a ballsy move. So, a chisel, a couch. What else did you see?”
Jillian closes her eyes, and her breath quickens, hands grasping the edge of the blanket. Psychosomatic response, Joey knows, to reinserting herself into the trauma. “You’re safe,” she says softly. “He can’t hurt you.”
“It was a barn. An old barn, abandoned. Falling down in one corner. There were stalls, five of them, and old, moldy hay. There were tools in the yard, which was dirt. An old tractor, completely rusted out. Inside was… He’s been living there for a while, that I do know. He had a couch and a television, a table, a mattress, bedding. Lots of camping supplies, very tidy rows of canned foods and water.” She opens her eyes. “He’s meticulous, but spacey. Like, he drifts away when he’s talking—and he talks, a lot. If I wasn’t so terrified, I would have found it interesting. He talked about art, about psychology, legal issues. Nothing about himself, exactly, but I got the sense he’s been in treatment before. Therapy. It was almost as if he was entertaining me so I’d be distracted from what was happening. That he was going to rape me and kill me, but if he was friendly about it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I got the sense that he was…lonely. And that freaked me out even worse, because then I couldn’t get it out of my head that maybe he wasn’t going to kill me, that he was going to keep me there forever. And Olivia Bender. He talked about her a lot, too.”