“Christ. This was a stupid idea.” One of the kidnappers paced with nervous indecision. Raven pictured Mark, his hand tugging at his graying hair as Damian stared at the floor. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”
“We need the money, Mark. If we don’t come up with another two-hundred thousand, we’ll lose our houses, our cars. You’ll lose the gym.”
“Who do I have to thank for that? Dammit, I can’t believe you convinced me to short that stock.”
“It was a can’t miss opportunity,” Damian pleaded. “I have a source on the inside. The company is going bankrupt.”
“Then why did they announce record earnings? The stock shot from three dollars to fifty-eight in one week.”
“It can’t go any higher.”
“Admit it, Damian. You got screwed. We both got screwed. What if the stock opens at seventy on Monday? Or it doubles? All you needed to do was place a stop order above the short price. Anything to cap our losses.”
“It was a guaranteed win,” Damian said, defeated.
So that explained why Damian and Mark kidnapped Ellie Fisher. Using insider information, Damian convinced Mark to bet against a company, and the investment blew up in their faces. How much money did they owe their broker—a hundred-thousand, half a million or more? From Chelsey’s conversation with Lizzie Todd, they’d learned Ellie Fisher inherited almost a million dollars.
“You left me no choice,” said Mark. “That bitch investigator took photographs of you and Ellie before the kidnapping.”
“What should we do with the private eye? We won’t get much from ransom.”
“Kill her. Put a bullet in her head and bury her in the woods.”
“Jesus. We never discussed killing anyone.”
“She saw our faces, Damian. We’ll go to jail.”
The voices trailed away, and Raven scooted the chair toward Ellie Fisher, careful to be as quiet as possible. When she was inches from Ellie, Raven leaned into the woman’s ear and whispered.
“Ellie, wake up.”
The girl jumped as though electrocuted. Her head swung to Raven, the woman’s eyes twin moons of panic. Recognition crossed Ellie’s face, and her shoulders relaxed.
“I was awake when they brought you into the room. Who are you?”
“My name is Raven Hopkins. I’m a private investigator with Wolf Lake Consulting.”
Ellie’s brow shot up.
“What do they want with a private investigator?”
“I figured out they kidnapped you.”
“Why would Damian do this to me? Is it because of the money?”
“Your grandmother’s inheritance. Damian Ramos swindled a rich woman into getting engaged, and now he’s after your money. He means to place a ransom on your head. They’re in financial trouble.”
Ellie shivered.
“I never trusted Mark Benson. He always strolls out of the office when a pretty woman enters the gym. Scumbag.”
Raven held Ellie’s eyes.
“Do you know where they’re holding us?”
Ellie’s head shook, and a tear crawled down her face.
“It’s a farmhouse in the country, that’s all I know.” The woman went quiet when the front door opened and someone stepped outside. “That must be Mark. He’s a heavy smoker, and Damian won’t allow him to smoke inside.”
Which left Damian alone in the house. Raven tested her bindings and felt wiggle room around her wrists. Given enough time, she believed she could break free. But how long would Mark and Damian wait before they killed her?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Saturday, July 18th
10:10 p.m.
A half-mile from Hattie’s bar, two state police officers manned a roadblock and turned an irate driver around. When Thomas flashed his badge, the larger of the two officers touched the brim of his hat and waved Thomas around the barricade. He pulled his truck behind Aguilar’s car. His fellow deputy dressed in plain clothes like Thomas.
“What do we have?”
Aguilar nodded toward the ditch.
“Twenty-five minutes ago, a driver reported a truck stopped along the road and a man lying in the ditch. It’s Garrick Tillery, Thomas. Somebody stabbed him.”
Surreal shock rolled through Thomas as he glanced around the deputy. Earlier today, he’d considered Tillery a suspect in the murders of Lincoln Ramsey and Cecilia Bond. He could see one leg covered in blue jeans, the cuff tucked inside a beige work boot. Blood pooled in the ditch, black and silver under the moonlight as Gray glared down at Tillery. Virgil Harbough arrived. The medical examiner’s hair stuck up in opposite directions, as if he just woke up.
Thomas groaned when Gray spotted him. The sheriff strode to them with fury tattooed to his face.
“We can rule out Garrick Tillery as our killer,” Gray said. “Pretty soon, we’ll be down to one suspect. Isn’t it obvious Josiah Fowler is behind the murders?”
“What makes you believe Fowler killed Garrick Tillery?”
“Tillery attended church with the Ramsey and Bond families. We made the mistake of linking Tillery to the victims because he had contact with them.”
“And a sexual assault conviction,” Aguilar added, trying to reason with the sheriff.
“All we did was waste time. It was Father Fowler all along. He’s the only link between our victims.”
Thomas tugged at his collar. Damn, it was humid tonight.
“You agreed Fowler is an angel of mercy serial killer, using the prayer jar to choose his victims.”
“And?”
“Lincoln Ramsey was on his death bed, and Cecilia Bond needed a kidney. Why would Garrick Tillery’s name appear in the prayer jar?”
The sheriff swatted a mosquito, painting a bloody smear across his neck.
“So he doesn’t use the prayer jar. I guess he’s a wolf picking sheep from his flock. What does it matter how he chooses them?”
Thomas wanted to scream. Though he loved the sheriff and appreciated everything Gray had done for him, Thomas recognized Gray was in over his head and tainted with bias. He hated Father Josiah Fowler and ignored evidence pointing toward other suspects.
“I’m going after Fowler,” Gray said.
Thomas shifted his body to block the sheriff.
“No, you’re not. You don’t have proof Fowler did this.”
“Every second we waste gives Fowler time to hide the knife and dispose of the evidence.”
“Let me investigate the scene before you pound on the church doors.”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” Gray said, turning in a huff.
Aguilar shook her head at Thomas. It frustrated him that the
