Page 70 of The Hanging Dolls
He gestured her to sit on a bench, facing the calm waters. “She said she owed money to someone.”
Zoe tried to imagine Rachel in the colors that he was painting her in. She knew Rachel had a past, something murky. “Why didn’t she involve the police?”
His silver eyes bore into hers. “She said that whoever was after her was powerful. He had connections in the police. She didn’t trust anyone.”
“She never mentioned a name to you?”
A flurry of sounds took over—seagulls cowing overhead, a distant foghorn, waves slapping against the hulls of ships, and a bell signaling an arrival. Keith fidgeted, his gaze fixed on the flood of activities at the harbor, but his mind was somewhere else.
“You have no idea how many times I asked her.” His voice became heavy. “But she was scared. Missing work. Always looking over her shoulder. Unable to sleep. And then I told her we should go away.”
“What about your con?”
A dreamy look crossed his face. “I was in love. I didn’t care about that anymore. I just wanted her to be happy again. And so we both quit and left for the west coast. Which is where that photo is from… things were good for a while but they didn’t stay that way. One night, I saw her sneak out. I followed her and saw her meeting some man. She was buying a gun.”
“A gun?” Zoe was still slotting together the information. Rachel always seemed hassled and worried. They never stayed in one place for too long so she never bothered to make friends. She spent most of her time at home, taking care of Zoe and Gina, telling them stories and making her own clothes. It was a lonely, quaint, and unglamorous existence of a woman on the run—but not a woman who bought a gun. “She must have gotten really desperate.”
“That’s not what shocked me. It was the fact that she knew guns a little too well.”
Confusion muddled her mind. “What?”
“The man showed her a selection of guns and the way she handled them, to me it looked like she knew exactly what to do with them. She wasn’t the Rachel I knew that night with that man. Gone was the terrified, demure woman. She was confident, the way she stood and walked. It was like she was a different person.”
Her heart rose up her throat. “Did you confront her?”
“I did.” His face was stoic and unreadable. “When she came back that night, she told me she was sick of living on the run and she had to confront her past. Again I tried to find out who she was running from, but she didn’t give me a name. We decided totemporarily part ways. She needed a few months to sort out her shit. We planned to meet again in a year at this café we liked. I showed up, a year later, but she never did. And I never heard from her again.”
“Was the person after her that powerful?”
Keith said nothing.
“But I’m an FBI agent. I can help,” she insisted, sounding like a child. She was within reach of the complete picture. She could feel it in her fingertips, a relentless buzz as if that name was a physical object she could get her hands on.
Tears of frustration stabbed her eyes. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. The sight of finding Rachel’s body was seared in her brain. But what crippled her was the aftermath. How she had got out the mop and wiped away evidence of muddy footprints and water on the bathroom floor. How she had closed the window to the fire escape. How she had even scrubbed the ledge of the window and the bathtub, while Rachel lay there dead, her eyes open, staring into nothing.
Keith’s hand rested on her back. “She never gave me a name. She would often have these vivid nightmares and wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and screaming that the Viper will get to her. She was so scared of him that she was seeing snakes in her dreams. I’m sorry, kid. I wish I could help you more.”
She nodded, her face still hidden in her hands. But she wasn’t giving up. She had gotten this far.
Viper.
“I have no idea what happened to her. She had two kids, so I’m sure she found some happiness and normalcy before she passed. A part of me feared that the man had gotten to her. I looked for her but I didn’t know enough to get anywhere.”
Normalcy. The word tasted bitter in her mouth. She took a shuddering breath and threw him a glance. He looked almost pained, like he was aching for a piece of Rachel.
So Zoe gave it to him. “We spent almost a decade in witness protection.”
THIRTY-NINE
Zoe blinked as she awoke, her eyes heavy with sleep, the remnants of her nap still clinging to her like a warm blanket. She stretched lazily, her small body sinking deeper into the couch where she’d dozed off.
As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the sound of hushed voices drifted in from the next room. Zoe frowned and her curiosity piqued. It wasn’t likely to be her mother on the phone or chatting with a neighbor. Rachel lived an isolated life, not liking to mingle with anyone.
These voices were different—deeper, more serious. She sat up slowly, still groggy, and quietly slipped off the couch, padding barefoot toward the slightly ajar door that led to the living room.
Peeking through the crack, Zoe’s eyes widened at the sight of two men in dark suits standing in the middle of the room. Their presence was imposing, their expressions stern. They wore matching badges clipped to their belts, and the way they held themselves, rigid and authoritative, sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t know much, but she knew these men were important.
Marshals. She’d seen men like them on TV, and they were always serious.
