Never Die Alone

It had to end.

She was in no mood to have some creep get his voyeuristic jollies from observing her, and who knew how many others.

If she could draw him close enough to see his license plate, take a picture with her phone, then Jase would help her figure out the creep’s identity, enough solid information to go to the police.

In heavier traffic, only a mile from Jase’s apartment, she slowed and switched lanes, all the while hoping he would drive closer, maybe even drive alongside her so she could get a glimpse of his face. No such luck. With the sun slanting against his dirty windshield, she could only make out dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Sweat beaded on her upper lip as she wound her way through afternoon traffic to Jase’s neighborhood. She had to do something. Now. After a quick maneuver onto Jase’s street, she found a place to tuck the car. She pulled into the space near a fire hydrant in the shade of a live oak with Spanish moss waving from its limbs. Quickly, she climbed out of her Honda and hid behind the tree, where she could take a video of the van driving by. She knew the driver might flee if he got wind of what she was doing. Even worse, he might try to confront her, but then there would be plenty of witnesses on this busy street. Plenty of passersby that she could turn to for help. She’d be fine.

Either way, she had him.

The van pulled onto the street and headed in her direction, then slowed when the driver didn’t immediately spy her Honda.

She was already filming from her iPhone, but catching the numbers of his grimy license plate wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. When she’d finally gotten the footage, she focused the camera’s eye on the driver, but because of the angle of the sun, its rays bouncing off the glass, she couldn’t see who he was.

Until the van stopped in the middle of the street, blocking her Honda from exiting its illegal spot. Then he looked at her full-on and she recognized the man in dark glasses, scrubby beard, and hard expression.

Milo Tillman.

What the hell? Milo was stalking her? Why?

“Hey!” she called. “What’re you doing, following me?”

The passenger side window was already rolled down, and he motioned for her to come closer.

She did. “I told you I would meet with you later.”

“It couldn’t wait.”

“What can’t? You said you wanted to talk about your twin.”

“I have to,” he said, and he sounded desperate. “I . . . it’s bad.” A car pulled up behind his van, and the driver honked impatiently. “It’s about—” He glanced in the mirror as the car behind him, a silvery BMW, sped into the oncoming lane.

“Hey, buddy!” The driver, a thirtyish guy with spiky hair, yelled, “Drive, asshole! You’re clogging up the whole street!”

Bria

“Yeah, I really need to talk,” he admitted. “Finally. I’m ready. I need to talk to somebody about Myra.”

Zoe fell into Selma’s arms.

Right on the small grassy area in front of her mother’s apartment building, she dropped the farmer’s phone and held fast to her mother. While Rand Cooligan stood uncomfortably by, she sobbed wildly and clung to her mother, relishing the smells of Selma’s perfume and smoke, the scents she’d grown up with. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and still the tears ran freely. During the phone conversation that had lasted from the second Selma had called back until this very moment with the afternoon sunlight streaming and people staring as they walked past, she’d learned that no one had heard from Chloe. Her twin was still missing. Zoe’s heart cracked. All her hopes that her sister had escaped had been dashed, and now, she was certain that Chloe was still in the psycho’s clutches.

Or dead.

Dear God, she couldn’t, wouldn’t think that was possible. If Chloe had died, Zoe was certain she would sense it. She would just know. Surely.

Her soul ripped a little at that thought, that she, like her mother before her, might spend the rest of her life without the comfort of her sister, the person she’d known since before birth, the sibling with whom she’d grown in the womb. Was it possible that the very part of her that was her center, how she defined herself, would be lost to her forever?

No!

She swallowed back a sob of despair.

“Oh, baby,” her mother whispered, tears ru

He nodded, looked away, then cleared his throat. “She said something about a twin sister,” he said, and Zoe felt Selma’s arms tighten around her.

“Chloe.” Zoe sniffed loudly and blinked against the wash of tears. “We have to save her. He’s got her.”

“Who?” her mother asked.

“I don’t know. The freak. This tall psycho who kept us in a basement out in the middle of nowhere and sang the birthday song and wore nothing but a rubber apron. A psycho freak! He’s got her and . . . and we have to save her.”

“We . . . we will,” Selma said.

“Look, Mrs. De

Shaking her head, Selma said, “I . . . I was on the phone with Zoe.”

Rand spied his phone and plucked it from the ground. “Yeah, right, okay. But now, why don’t you get her cleaned up and we’ll all go to the station?”

“He’s right,” Zoe said, sniffing. “But we have to go now. I . . . I’ll take a shower later.” It sounded like heaven, but there was no time. If the freak had Chloe, if she hadn’t escaped—

Don’t even think it!

Zoe was still clinging to her mother. “We have to tell them about Chloe ASAP.” Tears clogged her throat again and she blinked hard, tried to think. “If he still has her, she’s not safe. I mean, he kept saying he had to kill me first. It was all part of his twisted ritual and . . . he kept repeating it, when he wasn’t singing the birthday song. First me, then her. I thought she would be safe if he couldn’t kill me first.”

“That’s crazy,” her mother whispered, horrified.

“I know, but he was really a nut job. But now I’m really scared for her. The way he was shooting at the truck. Aiming right at us. Now I’m not sure. It could be that all bets are off. Maybe he’d break his stupid ritual and . . .” She couldn’t say it aloud, didn’t want to admit that the monster might kill Chloe. Didn’t want to think that maybe he already had.

Swallowing back her fear, she tugged her mother toward the apartment. “Let’s make it fast. I’ve got some old jeans here and . . . a sweater or something. I’ll grab them while you grab your bag and the car keys.”

“I told you Detective Bentz was busy,” Nellie Vaccarro’s sharp voice heralded another visitor.

Bentz, who was on the phone with Hayes in LA, glanced up to find Jase Bridges standing in the doorway of his office. “Thanks,” he said into the phone. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Hayes promised, and hung up. He’d called to tell Bentz that according to all outward signs, it appeared that Donovan Caldwell had killed himself. Rumors of suicide had been swirling since they’d found the body, and now detectives and crime-scene techs were begi