“And she’s missing? When’s the last time you saw or spoke to her?” Davis was scribbling in his pad as he spoke.
“Two days ago,” Ben said. “I got home from work in time for her to leave. She’s an assistant manager at HomeGoods and was working nights every day this week.”
“I see,” the lieutenant muttered. “Have you contacted her friends? Other members of her family?”
“Yes. No one has heard from her.”
“Is everything going okay in your marriage?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said. “We’re still honeymooners. I heard on the news that someone is killing blonde women. My wife is a blonde.”
“Do you have a photo of her?”
Ben pulled one from his wallet and passed it over. “Please help me find her.”
“I’ll let the FBI know about this, okay? I just need you to calm yourself. Go home, and we’ll contact you as soon as we know something. All right?”
“You’ll find her?”
The lieutenant stared across the table at Ben. “We’ll do everything we can, sir.”
Ben hesitated before rising from his seat. But he realized there was little to do except wait. He left the police station to go to his empty house. He didn’t want to, but he had nowhere else to go.
28
The next week went by slowly. They were at a standstill where the investigation went. They heard a report about a woman named Jane Ridgeway vanishing, and since she fit closely with The Carnations Killer’s MO, Aidan wanted to keep an eye on her case.
Jane was born January 30, 1983. She worked as an assistant manager at HomeGoods. She was married with no children. There was no sign of her vehicle at the store, no trace of her, period. The police interviewed the employees that saw her last, but no one could offer any leads.
Ever since the night Aidan had the waking nightmare of Maya Gibson coming toward him in his room…the night he felt her blood and the coldness of her breath…he'd been afraid to sleep. He had never had something so real happen like that, and it unsettled him.
He did what he could to avoid Cheyenne. She wouldn’t understand. There was nothing he would be able to tell her that would make her understand. And Aidan wasn’t sure he wanted her to, after all.
Shaun was another story.
Aidan could feel his probing stare throughout the days.
Aidan knew Shaun wanted to bring it up, but at the same time, he knew Shaun understood what was wearing him down.
Aidan was on the phone giving Hansford an update when Shaun strolled toward his desk. He waited patiently until he slipped his cell in its hook attached to his slacks.
“Come with me,” Shaun requested.
Aidan arched an eyebrow.
“Where are we going?”
Shaun tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Just come with me. I want to show you something.”
Curious, Aidan followed him into the humid afternoon.
They climbed into his car and Shaun began driving.
“I understand this investigation is difficult for you,” he began, his eyes on the road. “It’s hard for me as well, knowing Maya’s death was at the hands of someone who has murdered fifty women in ten years.”
Aidan looked sidelong at him to see him frowning.
“I mean, fifty’s a lot of women, don’t you think?”
“Well,” Aidan replied, “Ted Bundy killed at least thirty women in four years. Patrick Wayne Kearney killed about thirty-two homosexuals in two years.”
“It’s a lot to deal with,” Shaun continued before Aidan could go on listing other serial murders.
“What are you getting at?” Aidan asked as Shaun turned onto a new street.
“When I was first at Quantico,” Shaun told him, “there was this instructor who told us that sometimes we see things we wish we didn’t have to. It comes with the job. But if you let it fester, you’ll end up going stir-crazy.”
He parked the car, and Aidan realized they were at a boxing gym.
Without a word, Shaun turned the ignition off and climbed out, so Aidan followed him.
“Remember when I told you I liked to hit things when I’m stressed?”
“Yeah.”
“Well...when I have to deal with something I can’t handle—whether it’s personal or work—I come here.”
He opened the door and they entered the building. Aidan could hear punches, karate shouts, and he could smell the sweat oozing from the walls.
A few men and some women called Shaun out by name. He introduced Aidan and told them he was a friend, and they had better be nice. They pretended to be scared of his empty threat, and then either shook Aidan's hand or slapped him hard on the back, welcoming him to their humble abode.
Shaun led Aidan to an empty punching bag. He motioned toward it with his hand.
“What?” Aidan asked sheepishly.
“Go on,” he urged. “Hit it.”
He did.
A deep, amused laughter erupted within his friend. Once he composed himself, Shaun said, “Do it again. This time, like you mean it.”
Rolling his eyes, Aidan set one foot in front of the other, bent his knees in a fighting stance and held his fists in front of his face. He threw another cross punch as hard as he could muster.
“Again.”
Aidan followed his instructions, knocking the bag with a jab.
“Again.”
Aidan did, then slammed his fist against the bag once more.
Then again.
And again.
By the time he stopped, minutes had flown by and his hair stuck to his scalp, his face drenched with sweat. Aidan's fists throbbed, his breath heaved. He put his hands on his knees, hunching over, trying to slow his heart rate.
Shaun slapped a monstrous hand on Aidan's back, almost knocking him unsteadily to his knees.
“Feel better?”
Aidan looked at him, trying hard to catch his breath and told him
