Silver Falls - Anne Stuart [92]
But now those missing barrettes seemed far more sinister, according to David. Were they really up at Caleb’s dilapidated half-built house, locked away so he could gloat over them, stroke them, remembering choking the life from poor Tessa?
“No.” She jumped, then realized she’d said the word out loud. The house was still and empty. She shook her head, as if to clear it, and shoved the newspaper clippings away from her, unable to bear looking at them. She could understand David’s morbid fascination. After all, he was trying to do the unthinkable, to catch his beloved older brother in a series of crimes so unthinkable that Rachel hadn’t even been able to read about them.
She started thumbing through the Yellow Pages. Silver Falls wasn’t large enough to have a car-rental agency, but if she could find one within fifty miles then she could talk Maggie into driving her there. She’d have to pick a time when David wasn’t around, so he wouldn’t try to stop them, or, even worse, go with them.
Maybe she was overestimating her importance. But something told her he wasn’t going to let her go easily—his sweet demeanor only went so deep.
He’d left the BMW behind and gone out in his beloved Range Rover. It wouldn’t be that awful if she took the BMW and drove to the car-rental place three towns over and left it there. People wouldn’t think very highly of her, abandoning her poor husband during such a difficult time, and abandoning his car, but she was tired of caring what the small-minded people of Silver Falls thought of her. They were the same ones who’d condemned Caleb without proof.
But they had been right about him after all, hadn’t they? So why was she fighting it?
She closed the phone book without calling anyone. She had a sick, restless feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn’t figure out why. She picked up the clippings again, looking into the sweet face of Jessica Barrowman, moving past to the articles about the missing librarian with the mane of blond hair, the young girl in Portland, almost a clone of Sophie, the dead girl from eighteen years ago, another student from the college, her glittery butterfly barrettes giving her an oddly frivolous look.
She went through the papers, looking at each face, trying to somehow honor them as an act of penance, when she froze. Elizabeth Pennington, from Santa Fe, New Mexico, found raped and strangled in 2003. Her blond hair was pushed back from her sweet face, held in place by a pair of silver barrettes. The same barrettes Rachel had left on Sophie’s dresser.
She didn’t think, she moved. The drawer beside her was locked, and none of the keys worked. She picked up David’s letter opener, one in the shape of Excalibur, and forced it open, breaking the blade, scarring the walnut of the desk. She yanked it open, to see the pile of confidential student papers, just as David had told her.
She looked at them for a moment, a feeling of dread washing over her. David would never forgive her, he’d kill her—
She yanked the folders out and threw them on the floor. There, at the back of the drawer, was a tiny velvet pouch, like the kind used to hold jewelry. She drew it out, her hands shaking, and emptied it out on the desk.
Thirty-six barrettes. Counting Sophie’s, that made thirty-seven, the number David had given her. The supposedly random number. She reached out a hand to pick them up, then pulled it back. She didn’t want to touch them.
She pushed away from the desk. Caleb had been right all the time. He wasn’t the serial killer or a sociopath. He was Jack the Ripper’s brother, trying to put an end to murder. She picked up the telephone, her hands shaking, planning to call Maggie.
There was no dial tone. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a door close, and she froze in