A floorboard groaned on the upper level. Raven pressed her back flat against the wall and waited until the house fell silent.
“Come on, come on,” she begged the phone.
The screen flickered to life as the phone rebooted. She hid beside the jamb with Damian’s gun in hand. After another thirty seconds, she crept to the counter, cringing when the floor squealed beneath her weight. She dialed 9-1-1. Raven sighed in relief when she recognized the dispatcher’s voice. She was still in Nightshade County.
“I’m inside a farmhouse with Ellie Fisher, the kidnapped girl from the news,” she whispered.
The dispatcher couldn’t understand Raven. She was about to raise her voice when a thump came from somewhere downstairs. Mark was near.
Raven darted away from the phone, knowing the dispatcher would assume the caller was under duress after she didn’t respond to his questions. If she was lucky, the sheriff’s department would locate the phone using GPS coordinates. That she’d called with Damian’s phone gave her added hope the sheriff would recognize the name and act quickly.
As she edged out of the kitchen with the gun trained at the empty living room, she wondered where Mark was. She swung the weapon and directed it up the staircase. Light from Ellie’s room spilled across the upper landing.
Raven froze when the gun barrel pressed against the back of her neck.
“Drop the gun,” Mark growled.
She never considered he carried a second gun. Raven contemplated swinging a blind elbow at Mark’s head. But unlike Damian, Mark held his weapon with confident certainty. If she fought back, he’d pull the trigger. Defeated, Raven let the gun slip from her fingers and smack against the floorboards.
“That’s good. Now raise your hands above your head.” After Raven complied, he gave her a shove from behind. “Climb the stairs. We’re taking Ellie and getting the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sunday, July 19th
1:20 a.m.
Thomas stomped the gas and pushed the cruiser to seventy mph on the open road, as the night flew at the windshield. By now, the sheriff would be at St. Mary’s church, interrogating Father Josiah Fowler, and if Gray was right about the priest, the sheriff was in danger.
“Gray, come in.”
The sheriff didn’t respond to radio calls. Thomas’s heart pounded as the church came into view. The rectory next door housed Fowler. The lights were off.
He stopped behind Gray’s abandoned cruiser and radioed his position. After dispatch confirmed Aguilar was en route, Thomas jogged up the church steps, stopping when he noticed a glow behind a stained glass window. The door stood open a crack.
At the sound of shouting, Thomas shoved the doors open and entered the vestibule. The worship area was empty, the pews spreading into darkness. He followed the light down the stairs and retraced the path he’d taken when he interviewed Father Fowler.
“I didn’t kill anyone. What is wrong with you?”
Thomas found Gray standing over Fowler, who cowered behind his desk. The sheriff waved his gun at the priest.
“Show me your hands and step out from behind the desk.”
“Not until you tell me what this is about.” Fowler’s eyes swung to Thomas when he entered the office. “Deputy, tell this man he can’t arrest me without provocation.”
“You were at the cemetery with Kay Ramsey,” the sheriff said, ignoring Thomas’s presence.
“Kay Ramsey? I was here all night.”
“You killed Lincoln Ramsey and Cecilia Bond.”
“This is ludicrous.”
Thomas turned and glared at Gray so Thomas couldn’t see his face.
“Put the gun away,” he whispered, holding Gray’s eyes. “We don’t have the evidence to hold him.”
He’d never seen Gray like this. The sheriff knew no boundaries. Possessed by rage, he was prepared to fire his weapon if Fowler twitched.
“He’s guilty. I spoke with Suzanne Tillery. She put Garrick’s name in the prayer jar.”
Thomas felt his stomach drop. He glanced over his shoulder at Fowler, the priest staring at the sheriff and deputy in disbelief.
“What’s this about the prayer jar?” Fowler asked, rising.
“I told you to show me your hands,” Gray said as the priest's hands hung beneath the desk. “We know Duncan Bond entered Cecilia’s name into the prayer jar, and Kay Ramsey did the same for Lincoln.”
“And?”
“It’s funny how they both ended up dead within days of each other. How did you do it, Fowler? Did you climb through Ramsey’s window and cover his face with a pillow, making it look like the COPD killed him?”
“You have no right to question me in God’s house.”
“You don’t have an alibi for the night Cecilia Bond died. You claim you walked through the neighborhoods surrounding the church. But nobody remembers seeing you.” Fowler’s jaw shifted. “Suzanne Tillery gave up on Garrick because she couldn’t control his drinking. She asked you to pray for her husband. Then you stabbed him.”
The priest’s face went slack.
“Garrick Tillery is dead?”
“That gave you time to cross the village and murder Kay Ramsey in the cemetery. You knew she’d visit Lincoln’s grave, didn’t you? You’re sick, Fowler, and you’re going to prison.”
Fowler faltered. He grasped the desk as his knees buckled. Thomas rounded the desk and caught the priest before he fell.
“Kay? Why would someone hurt that wonderful woman?”
As Thomas supported Fowler, he frisked the priest and confirmed he didn’t conceal a weapon. But as Thomas glanced down, he noted Fowler’s shoe size looked about right for the prints at the two murder scenes. Dirt marred his black shoes and covered the floor beneath his desk.
“Where did you pick up the mud?” Thomas asked.
Fowler stared back at Thomas with hazy eyes.
“What?”
“You claim you were here all night. But your shoes are covered in dirt.”
The priest looked down, then back to Thomas.
“The rose garden. I
