Ellie fell in beside him as they wandered down the narrow corridor. Hard to believe that only hours ago, she and Clay and Shane had sprinted down this very same hall, frantic to reach Bethany and her mother. Kingsley had died in the cramped bedroom he’d likely grown up in.
Ellie pictured that gap-toothed little boy’s face. Had he rolled toy trucks in the spot on the floor where he’d bled out? Built pillow forts or played with Legos? Had the pretty woman in the photo knelt beside that bed each night when he was younger before kissing his forehead and tucking him in?
Ellie stumbled, and Clay’s hand shot out to steady her. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
Clay’s expression remained concerned, but he didn’t press her.
Quit torturing yourself. You don’t know what Kingsley was like as a kid, and it’s irrelevant now anyway. No matter how cute his baby pictures, he grew up to be a sadistic murderer. His death will save countless lives and wondering about what could have been is an exercise in futility.
They turned into the master bedroom. The adult Kingsley’s domain. One forensic tech dusted for prints on the far side of the room, while the other one snapped photos.
Ellie spun in a tight circle before taking a slow lap of the room, mentally itemizing and assessing each object in turn. First stop was the closet, full of expensive suits, crisp button-downs, and pressed slacks. All neatly hung and arranged by category and color. A testament to Kingsley’s need for order, or perhaps the result of Far Ridge Boy’s Academy’s abusive training methods.
With her gloved hand, Ellie fingered a navy sport coat. Each item was tailored, elegant, and age appropriate. Just the sort of attire that would earn the approval of a haughty perfectionist like Letitia Wiggins.
She moved on to the bed. Immaculate, like something from a model home. Not a crinkle or crease to be found, yet another remnant from his boarding school days, with their strict adherence to tidiness as a moral attribute.
If Ellie had ever needed a reason not to feel guilty when her apartment fell into disarray, this was it. The orderly, tidy nature of Kingsley’s room was a front, a tool in which to hide his inner turmoil and pain from the world, and even himself.
The bookshelf was next. Ellie paused to study a series of photos before her gaze fell on a collection of pastel books with gold trim arranged in a neat line along the bottom shelf.
Photo albums or scrapbooks. Each one bearing a name across the spine.
Ellie picked up the first one and flipped through the pages. When she comprehended what she was looking at, acid scalded her gut like liquid fire. Scrapbooks had been correct, but the contents didn’t contain ticket stubs or report cards from Kingsley’s childhood days.
No, these were books dedicated to his victims. As she scanned the pages, the bile spread, burning up her esophagus. Newspaper clippings and pictures blurred before her eyes, outlining how Kingsley started with the stalking phase, progressed to kidnapping, and culminated in torture and murder.
Typed notes next to some of the photos illuminated Kingsley’s suggestions to himself on how to prevent a victim from dying too quickly or ways to draw out a particular torture method. Comments about the psychological traits of the women he found the most satisfying and how to forge stronger specimens.
On the last page of every book, he’d rendered a judgment in bold letters.
Success.
Failure.
The successes were few…only Ellie.
The failures were the women he’d tortured to death, which he blamed on them. For not possessing the strength of will to stay alive.
Her hands quivered, and she swallowed the bile that raced toward her mouth. Forget the little boy. Right now, Ellie wished she could shoot the man all over again. There weren’t enough bullets in the world to have made him suffer the way he deserved.
Enough of this. The vile torture catalogs could wait.
She was about to snap the book shut and slide it back onto the shelf when the back of her neck started tingling. Had Kingsley kept a record of every single kidnapping victim or murder? Given his pathological need to organize and catalog his exploits, the answer was almost certainly yes.
Head spinning, Ellie sifted through the albums, flipping past images of unfamiliar women before she opened to a picture of herself.
Another shiver went through her as she stared into the face of her fifteen-year-old self. To the side of the image was a note.
Freed this one because I was longing for a chase, but she dared to get away from me. I will bide my time and make her pay.
And just like that, Ellie’s mind opened up, and the last moments of her captivity clicked into her mind like she’d pushed the button of a remote.
She yelled the vile words…
The screaming had ended…
Kingsley just smiled, congratulating her on discovering the beast inside her own heart.
He approached her, knife in his hand. The other woman’s blood dripped from the tip like a faucet.
Pain, but not from the knife. A punch to the face.
Then…she was running, running, running.
A man chasing her. Laughing.
The bright lights of a car.
More pain.
“He freed me on purpose.”
Not out of compassion or any act of humanity. To chase her. Toy with her.
“Sucks for you,” Ellie muttered. “Who has the last laugh now?”
It wasn’t funny, though.
Exhausted to her core, Ellie started to put the book away, then stopped, considering.
Could she finally find her answer?
Heart heavy with a mixture of hope and dread, Ellie turned the pages until a high-school-aged girl holding a flute appeared. At first glance, the photo appeared normal. Just another high schooler posing with her instrument before band practice. Except the girl’s eyes told a different story than the forced, sharp smile.
Another shiver crawled down Ellie’s spine. Something in those dark eyes tugged at her memory. Not so much the color, but the haunted, hopeless
