Evan quickly did some county records research and determined Ken had changed his last name to Steward after leaving electrical work behind. His previous electrical employer had supplied the list of associate names, listing Ken by his old name.
No wonder Sam didn’t interview him.
Evan would bet money that Ken had known Jerry Chiavo.
His brain started to spin as he thought about Ken finding Rowan and then five years later a man he’d worked with admitting he’d killed her brother after kidnapping the two of them.
Why didn’t Ken make a statement?
“What the fuck?” It made no sense to Evan.
Ken had played both sides. Supporting Rowan and staying quiet about the man who’d done terrible crimes.
Unless . . .
Evan grabbed his files for the three recently murdered women, focusing on the estimated time of death of Jillian Francis, the river woman. Even Sam Durette had wondered if Jerry Chiavo had an accomplice for the old killings who could have committed the recent similar murders.
Could it have been Ken?
Ken Steward had been alive during all three women’s deaths.
Had he learned to kill from Jerry Chiavo?
Evan leaned back in his chair, stunned. Was Ken Steward the killer he’d been searching for? The man everyone said was so wonderful? And now he was dead?
Evan didn’t know who had killed Ken, but had he just found the answer to the recent murders of the three women?
He scrubbed his face with one hand. This wasn’t the answer he wanted. It would hurt all of Ken’s friends, especially Rowan. He had more digging to do. Just because Ken had worked with Jerry at one point didn’t make him a murderer.
“Hey, Noelle?” he called to the other side of the big room.
“Yeah?”
“I need your help. We’ve got some research to do.”
I can’t tell Rowan until I’m positive.
37
As we park at the home of the first electrical job of the day, I immediately know it’s in the perfect location.
It’s in Bend and adjacent to a four-lane, busy street with lots of trees and shops. Plenty of places to dart between, take cover, and hide. It’s exactly the setup I want.
I thought about my escape all night, mentally preparing in case the perfect opportunity presented itself. My best chance would be to leave from a work site near town, so I needed to be ready. Today I wore a T-shirt under my work shirt so I can remove that shirt and not stand out like a bright-red flag when I leave. I wish I had a hat, but only Liam has hats, and I didn’t dare take one. I want to take the truck keys so he can’t immediately come after me, but they’re always in his pocket.
This homeowner hired us to install under-cabinet lighting in his kitchen. The owner is chatty, carrying on a conversation with Liam about baseball. I know little about baseball. I purposefully leave behind some tools in the truck, positive he will call me an idiot and send me back outside for them.
We start in the kitchen. I’m sweating, and I know it’s not because I’m wearing two shirts on a summer day. My heart rate won’t slow down, and I worry he’ll ask why I’m nervous, so I prepare a lie.
My gut doesn’t feel great.
He hates intestinal issues, and I know he won’t ask more questions.
I’m terrified I won’t go through with it, but I must. I try not to think about how angry he’ll be if he catches me. He’ll soak me with the hose and put me in the box for days with no food. He’ll take away all my clothes for weeks. I’ll have to move piles of rocks back and forth for no reason, naked in the freezing cold or hot sun. These punishments run on a loop in my thoughts.
I shove them out of my head.
My plan has to work. There isn’t another option. I’d rather die than be brought back.
I have sixty-two dollars that I’ve saved over the years, finding a stray bill here and there. Sometimes at work, sometimes in our kitchen. Usually my money is hidden next to my borrowed book. This morning I tucked the stack of bills into my socks, knowing I need to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. It’s not much, but I don’t need much. I’ve survived with very little for many years.
I’m confident my family will help me.
The problem is locating them. I’ll need help. I can’t go to the police and ask for assistance. They’ll ask too many questions and might link me as an accessory to those murders. I have to find a stranger willing to help me.
This part of my plan frightens me. There are too many elements that can go wrong. I think I should ask a woman for help, but I worry I might scare her. I don’t want to ask another man for help . . . What if he’s no different than the man running my life now?