Jones shifts the paper aside to show a property survey. “It’s off the gird, a piece of property that was pretty much destroyed and abandoned by the chemical company that was housed there originally. It was part of a project that sold damaged lands to private owners who wanted to work with the government to heal it, essentially, make it livable again.”
Bailey feels a surge of hope.
“It is not on the electric grid, the city water and sewage doesn’t reach it. But from these aerial photographs, there does seem to be a structure on there.”
He slips out some photographs showing acreage of trees. There’s a red circle around what looks to be a roof beneath the green. He points to other circles. “Looks like a generator, some solar panels. There’s probably a well, but I haven’t been able to find a permit pulled in the area for water and septic.”
The digital world had failed them. But this paper trail, pieces carefully connected by a retired cop who cared about Wren, had given him the only solid lead he’d had in months. A real place, an actual destination.
“Let’s go,” says Bailey.
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” says Jones. “I’ve already turned this information over to your boss and to the police.”
“Let’s go,” says Jax, grabbing her coat and drying her eyes. She’s already at the door, turns back to look at both of them. Jones Cooper bows his head a moment, then lifts his eyes to them.
“She’s been missing a long time. Are you prepared for what you might find?”
Jax’s eyes fill but she sets her jaw into a determined line, juts out her chin. Bailey rises. Jones gazes back and forth between them, then stands with a resigned nod.
“I’ll drive,” he says.
fifty-two
You can’t help but register your surprise when you see me, sitting at your table. You literally draw up, step back toward the door through which you’ve just entered the house. After all, you left me for dead in a body bag beside the graves of other women you have kidnapped and killed. Yet, here I am.
Talk about awkward.
Why didn’t you bury me beside them? Why didn’t you finish the job you started? Did you get distracted? Grave digging is hard work. Maybe you’re running out of energy. Maybe you didn’t have the heart to kill another woman who loved you. Maybe you’re tired.
I know I am.
There’s a deep furrow in your brow, a pallor to your skin. It looks like you’ve had a hard night.
“Wren.”
“Adam.”
After a little searching, I found my gun in the cabinet over the refrigerator. It’s fully loaded. And my father was right. My aim is good. I did choke that night so long ago. It’s my heart that gets in the way. It won’t happen again.
You stand in the doorway, collect yourself. Are you armed? It’s likely, I imagine.
You must feel it, as I do. Your luck is running out.
I sit at the head of the table, the gun before me, my hand resting on it. I flatten my other palm against the wood grain.
“Is your name Adam?” I ask. Stupid question, I guess. But still I find I want to know.
You offer a shrug of surrender. Though I imagine you could run for the door. Maybe you could be gone before I could catch you. Maybe not. We all want to be seen, don’t we? No matter how we conspire to hide ourselves, don’t we all secretly want to reveal our true selves?
“It is. Adam Wilson.”
The name sounds familiar. I dig through my memory banks but come up empty. Did he write to Dear Birdie? I’ve found that other elusive connection that evaded Bailey Kirk. Lying around in the dark, bound and naked, you think about things. You dig through the recesses of your memories and your thoughts. Each girl—Mia, Bonnie, Melissa—each of them wrote to Dear Birdie.
And I answered each letter, offered them advice on moving on, finding a way through grief, pain, self-blame. Were you in the audience? Reading the blog? The newspaper articles? Listening to the podcasts?
“Don’t you know who I am?” you say. “You still haven’t put it together.”
“Tell me.”
“My family rented property from your father. We lived on the north end, in a house my father restored with his own hands. We were there the night of the raid.”
The revelation hits hard. Of course.
“The family that fled. The Wilsons.”
“That’s right,” you say, stepping closer. I lift the gun and you stop moving. “Fled with nowhere to go. We were homeless after that night, living out of our van. We traveled, moved around the country, wherever my father found work—mostly on farms. He drank. My parents split. Finally, my sister and I were left in Florida with my grandparents.”