Page 12 of Her Last Farewell

"Leery," she called out. "Look at this. Julia told us Carla had been talking about having nothing to live for, right? Even if shedidn’twrite the note of her own accord, she was struggling. Whatif that's the connection? What if someone is specifically targeting women who are struggling with thoughts of suicide?"

The deputy's skeptical expression wavered. "That's... that's dark, Agent Gift. Even for this job."

"But it fits," Rachel pressed. "The suicide note. The careful treatment of Carla's body. If Andrea is being held by the same person..." She let the implications hang in the air.

"Alright," Leery conceded. "What's our next move?"

Rachel grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. "Novak and I will talk to Dr. Tharpe. Can you pull any missing persons reports from the past year? Focus on women between twenty and forty, especially any cases where suicide was mentioned or suspected."

Rachel hurried back to the interrogation room as she slid her coat on. She opened the door and peered in. “Got that information?”

Keith nodded, tearing out the sheet he’d written on and handing it over. Now that some kind of action was being taken, he looked slightly more composed but still clearly worried. "You'll find her, right?" he asked, his voice wavering and fragile. "You'll find Andrea?"

Rachel met his gaze. "We're going to do everything we can, Keith. I promise."

But as she and Novak exited the room and headed for the doors, Rachel now felt that they were racing against an invisible clock. If she was right about the connection between Carla and Andrea, they needed to move fast. Because somewhere out there, a predator was hunting vulnerable women—and Rachel had a terrible feeling that Andrea Haskins might not be his last victim.

CHAPTER NINE

Andrea's mind drifted in and out of consciousness like a fading light. Fragments of memory floated like debris in murky water. A strange man's face swam before her eyes – kind blue eyes that had seemed so gentle and understanding on the bridge, set in a weathered face lined with age—not old, but not young, either. He'd appeared almost grandfatherly with his wispy gray hair and cardigan sweater, speaking to her in that soft, careful voice. Nothing about him had suggested danger. When he'd extended his hand as a lifeline, she'd felt only relief that someone cared enough to stop her.

That moment of trust made the betrayal even worse…his grip suddenly tightening on her arm as the needle plunged into her neck. The sharp pinch had barely registered before her legs gave out. The last thing she remembered was the cold asphalt of the bridge against her cheek and his arms lifting her as darkness claimed her. And for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d ended up falling off the bridge anyway.

She had no idea how long she'd been knocked out she finally opened her eyes and found herself staring up at a featureless ceiling with a series of boards and struts running along most of its surface. It was blocked from her, though, but a lattice-style wiring. The first sensation she felt was cold – a bone-deep chill that made her entire body ache. Then came the hardness beneath her, some kind of metal grating that pressed painful patterns into her skin. When she finally managed to open her heavy eyelids, absolute darkness greeted her. For one terrifying moment, she thought she'd gone blind.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted to reveal a dim basement illuminated by a single halogen bulb hanging from exposed beams overhead. The harsh light cast sharp shadows acrossconcrete walls and floor, all painted a dingy institutional gray. Water stains created dark patches on the ceiling, and ancient cobwebs stretched between pipes that ran along the walls. The air held the musty thickness of spaces that never saw sunlight.

A basement,she thought.That ceiling is also the underside of a floor.

Andrea pushed herself to sitting, fighting a wave of dizziness. Whatever drug he'd used still circled through her system, making her movements sluggish and her thoughts foggy. As her vision cleared further, the reality of her situation emerged in horrifying detail. She was inside a cage – no, a kennel, the kind used for large dogs. The walls were made of heavy-gauge wire mesh, each square opening about two inches across. A solid metal floor formed the base, while the top was the same mesh as the sides. The whole structure measured roughly four feet in each direction, with just enough height that she could stand without hitting her head, though she had to stoop slightly.

The cage door was secured with a thick padlock that looked new, its brass surface still gleaming. In one corner sat a plastic water bottle, a basic liter-sized bottle you could find at any gas station. The other corner held a white plastic bucket that made her stomach turn when she realized its intended purpose. It was meant to be used to relieve herself. And the mere idea of it told her that whoever had brought her here did not intend for her to leave anytime soon.

Beyond the mesh walls of her prison, bare fluorescent tubes cast harsh shadows across the basement. Concrete block walls stretched up to meet exposed floor joists overhead, all painted that same institutional gray. Pipes and electrical conduit snaked across the ceiling, disappearing into the darkness beyond the immediate pool of light. The floor was unfinished concrete, sloping slightly toward a drain in the center of the room.

"Hello?" Andrea whispered, her voice catching in her dry throat. "Is... is anyone there?"

The voice that answered was barely more than a rasp coming from her right. ""Oh god, you're awake,” said a shaky, female voice. “I was starting to worry you wouldn't wake up at all."

"Who's there?" Andrea pressed closer to the mesh, trying to see past her cage's walls. There was another solid wall between her and the other woman, so Andrea couldn't see her. Not only was she in a cage, but it also appeared that she and this other girl were being held like horses in stables, with walls between them.

"I'm Monica," the raspy voice replied.

A second voice joined in from further away, at the complete opposite end of the basement. "I'm here too." This voice was stronger but trembling with fear. "I'm Sarah. How long have you been here?"

"I don't know," Andrea admitted. There was a slight bit of relief to know that she wasn't alone…but then a sharp fear came in when she understood that these girls were also trapped. "I was on the bridge…Patterson Bridge and then... How long have you both been here?"

"Four months, maybe?" Monica's voice cracked. "It's hard to keep track. Sarah came later, maybe six weeks ago?"

"Five weeks and three days," Sarah corrected. "I've been counting. Making marks on the floor with my fingernail."

Andrea's heart hammered against her ribs. "What... what does he want with us? Why are we here?"

A bitter laugh came from Monica's direction. "To save us. That's what he says. Of course, it’s messed up if you ask me…wanting to save people but needing to drug them to have them accept. And, you know…the cages aren’t helping, either.”

“He says he's giving us the gift of life whether we want it or not," Sarah said.

"There was someone else here before you," Monica added, her voice dropping to a whisper. "In your cage. Carla. God, she said she’d been here for a while…longer than either of us. He took her away yesterday morning. Said he needed to make room." A sob escaped her. "We heard the gunshot."

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