Page 122 of Last Girls Alive
“I’ll be here,” he said, not looking up from the piles of paperwork.
Katie hurried to the Elm Hill property and drove up the driveway. This time it stirred emotions inside her—some fear and some trepidation from her previous experience. She tried not to think about the time ticking away as it usually did during these types of investigations. So many things seemed to be tied back to this property. She thought about the people who built the home in hopes of having a big family—but it ended up being the biggest grief in their lives with the loss of those babies.
The property looked the same, but the gate was open. The large metal container was still on its side down the hillside. The crinkled and torn end was a reminder of her rescue. There were strips of metal bent back, looking like a giant tin can. She knew how close she had been to that container being her tomb.
She shuddered as she walked across the main area where long strands of yellow crime tape lay strewn across the property—now partially covered by mud. The large earthmover and heavy-duty forklift were still in the same position from that day. Looking away from the monstrous machine, almost able to hear the roar of its diesel engines, Katie turned her concentration to the rest of the property but nothing appeared out of place.
She saw another car, a small white compact, and assumed it belonged to Shane. Glancing up at the front door, it was open. Smiling in spite of herself, Katie knew that Shane was curious about the house and wanted a firsthand view—and to get out of the county basement for a change.
Katie stepped inside the foyer. “Shane?” She waited and looked at the remnants of the blue-and-yellow wallpaper which must have been stunning in the day. “Are you here?”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “Upstairs.”
“Oh, okay,” she said as she jogged up the staircase. She was getting a bit more excited about what he had for her to see. It must be quite interesting if he reached out to her like this.
As she rounded the bend in the staircase, she caught a whiff of stagnant air mixed with mold. It was a shame that they were going to demolish the house and not keep it for historical purposes—maybe a museum, or even a bistro. It was too late now.
There was a thud, so she stopped. Her first instinct was that something in the house wasn’t sturdy—but her footing was solid and, glancing around, nothing appeared to be falling in on her.
She grabbed the ornate wrought-iron railing and continued upstairs. When she reached the landing, it was vacant. There were several pieces of odd beige paper scattered on the floor.
“Shane?” she said. “Hey, where are you?”
Katie scanned the room suspiciously and slowly bent down and picked up one of the papers. It was a journal entry, dated 1897, in fancy cursive handwriting.
Abigail has now joined her sister Greta in the garden. I don’t know why God needed these two children, but they are in better hands now. May my sweet, precious girls rest in peace. I love you forever, Mommy.
“Wow,” said Katie. “This is amazing.” It appeared to be the journal of Emily Von Slovnick.
Another entry:
We rarely look at one another. I know he doesn’t blame me for the stillborns but his eyes never look into mine. I don’t know how much longer I can take this…
“How sad,” said Katie. She gathered all the papers together, wondering why they were on the floor if they were so valuable, and then decided to take some photos first.
Someone walked up behind her.
“Oh, these are fantastic, Shane, but I don’t know if it will help in the investigation,” she said and stood up.
“Don’t move, Detective,” the stern voice ordered.
She turned to see Jerry Weaver, the social worker, pointing a gun at her face. “Drop your weapon.”
Katie shook her head to indicate she didn’t have one. She was stunned by the change in appearance of the fumbling, goofy social worker she met just days ago. His eyes were steely, hardened, and his movements were deliberate. Hundreds of questions flooded her mind—all while she was trying to keep her wits about her. Her thoughts raced in fast forward.
“Do it,” he said. “I know you have a weapon.” He walked to a closet. “Let me make this easier for you.” He opened the door and inside was Shane, his body doubled over to his side, tied with his hands behind his back, and he appeared to be unconscious. “I will put a bullet in his incompetent brain if you don’t relinquish your weapon… Detective,” he said with hate-filled venom.
“Okay, take it easy,” Katie said. Slowly, she opened her jacket, revealing her Glock in its holster. She unsnapped it. At first, she thought she could overpower Jerry Weaver, but after watching him, she decided it wasn’t a good idea.
“Do it, Detective,” he said again, never changing the tone to his voice.
She dropped her gun but made sure it was still within fighting distance. “You know it doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Like what?” he said. “It’s going to be what I say it is.” He picked up the gun.
“Where’s Tanis?”
“Safe.”
