She would make a move, cry out, flinch, something.
Just to be on the safe side, he took a step backward as he shoved the door.
It flew open, banged against the wall, and then swung closed again. The wood vacillated a few times before coming to rest.
There had been no movement on the other side.
He had, however, seen more bloody footprints.
With the gun drawn now, he entered the kitchen. He aimed the gun right, then swung it left.
It was empty.
Then he looked down at the floor and saw the bloody footprints again.
They led to the cellar door.
Of course. Reynaldo almost slapped himself in the head. But no matter. He knew there was only one other exit from the cellar—an outdoor storm door with a padlock on it.
Number Six was truly trapped now.
His cell phone buzzed. It was Titus. Reynaldo brought the phone to his ear.
“Have you found her yet?” Titus asked.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
He quickly explained about the cellar door.
“We are on our way back,” Titus said. “Tell Dmitry to start destroying the computer files.”
“Dmitry is dead.”
“What?”
“Dana killed him.”
“How?”
“From the looks of it, I think she has the axe.”
Silence.
“You still there, Titus?”
“There’s gasoline in the barn,” Titus said. “A lot of it.”
“I know,” Reynaldo said. “Why?”
But Reynaldo knew the answer, didn’t he? He didn’t like it. He knew this day was coming. But this farm had been his home. He and Bo liked it here.
It made him angrier than ever at that bitch who was ruining everything.
“Start spreading it throughout the house,” Titus said. “We’re going to burn down the entire operation.”
• • •
Kat had no idea where they were headed.
For over two hours, she had followed the SUV down the New Jersey Turnpike, getting off on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, traveling north of Philadelphia. The FBI had sent out a chopper. It was following from a safe distance, but that didn’t mean Kat was ready to relax.
The Ford Fusion had enough gas. She wasn’t worried about that. Kat was in constant contact with the FBI agents. They had no new information to give her. The black SUV’s original plates had been stolen too. YouAreJustMyType.com was dragging its heels and demanding a subpoena. Chaz had located what he thought might be two more victims, but he couldn’t be sure. It would take time. She got that. On cop shows, it all got wrapped up in an hour. In reality, it always took much longer.
She tried not to let her mind wander to either her father or Jeff, but as time passed, she couldn’t help it. Sugar’s words kept reverberating in her ears, about what he’d sacrifice, what he’d forgive, if he could have just a few more seconds with Kat’s father. She could see that Sugar’s love was real. It wasn’t an act. It made her wonder. Had her father been happy with Sugar? Had he known passion and love? Kat hoped he had. When she stripped it down, when she dismissed her not-so-subconscious prejudice—she was, after all, from the neighborhood too—maybe Kat could be grateful for that.
She started playing what-if, wondering what would happen if her father suddenly materialized in the seat next to her, if she told him that she knew everything and that he had been given a second chance, what would her father do? Death was probably a great educator. If he could do it over again, would her father come clean to Mom? Would he live his life with Sugar?
That would be what Kat would want for him. That would be what Kat would want for her mother too.
Honesty. Or how had Sugar put it? The freedom to be authentic.
Had her father been close to coming to that realization? Had he grown tired of the lies and deceptions? When he arrived at that club with flowers for Sugar, had he finally found the strength to be authentic?
Kat would probably never know.
But the larger question, when she let herself go there, when she let her mind wander away from the far more important task of saving Brandon and his mother from whatever evil this was, ended up being more present-day. Suppose her dad did indeed materialize in the seat next to her. Suppose she told him she had seen Jeff again, that she was convinced they had a chance, that when she saw Jeff, she understood what Sugar had meant about giving up anything for just a few more seconds with him.
What would her father tell her to do?
The answer was so obvious now.
It didn’t matter why Jeff ran off, why he changed his name, none of that. Sugar wouldn’t care. Dad wouldn’t care. Death teaches you that. You would give anything, forgive anything, for just one more second. . . .
When this was over, Kat would drive back up to Montauk and tell him how she felt.
The sun was setting, coloring the sky a deep purple.
Up ahead, the black SUV finally exited the turnpike onto Route 222.
Kat followed. It couldn’t be too far now.
• • •
Brandon asked “What do you want with my mother?” one time too many.
Titus clocked him in the mouth with the butt of his gun. Brandon’s teeth broke. Blood flowed from his mouth. Brandon ripped off his T-shirt and pressed it against the wound. He stopped talking then.
When they hit Route 222, Titus checked his watch. They were less than forty minutes away. He did a few calculations in his head—the size of the fire, the visibility, how long it would take local firefighters to arrive, especially if he called them and told them he had it under control.
An hour, at least.
That was all the time he would need.
He called Reynaldo. “Have you finished spreading the gasoline?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still trapped in the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Where are Rick and Julio?”
“They’re in the yard. One in the front, one in the back.”
“You know what has to be done.”
“I do.”
“Take care of it. Then set the fire. Make sure it burns all the way to the ground. Then get to the boxes and finish cleaning up.”
• • •
Reynaldo hung up the phone. Bo stood by the barn. He’d be safe. That was the important thing now. Rick was in the front of the house. Reynaldo walked toward him.
“Did you speak to Titus?” Rick asked.
“Yes.”
“Are we going to set the fire?”
Reynaldo had the knife hidden in his hand. He stabbed him fast and deep in the heart. Rick was dead before he slid to the ground. Reynaldo took out a book of matches. He headed back to the house, lit one, and dropped it on the front steps.
The flames leapt to life, traveling in a fast, blue line.
Reynaldo kept walking. He reached the back door. His gun was by his side. He aimed and shot Julio in the head. Reynaldo lit another match and threw it by the back door. Again, flames exploded in a glorious blue wave. He took a few steps back so he could see both exits.
There was no other way out. He saw that right away. Dana would burn to a crisp in the fire.
He watched the flames climb higher and higher. He wasn’t a pyromaniac or anything like that, but you couldn’t help but be enthralled by the sheer power of the blaze. It quickly ran through the house, eating everything in sight. Reynaldo listened for her screams. He had hoped to hear them. But there were none. He kept his eyes on the doors, especially the kitchen one, hoping that the fire would drive her out, that a flaming figure would whirl into sight, driven by agonizing pain, pirouetting in a final death dance.
But that didn’t happen either.
Reynaldo lifted Julio’s body and tossed it into the flames. He and Rick would end up charred but perhaps identifiable. That might help. If anyone would take the fall, it would be the dead.
The blaze was at full power now.
Still no screams, no sightings.
He wondered whether the fire or the smoke had killed Dana. He might never know, of course. He was sure, however, that she was dead. He could see no way she could have escaped.
And yet, as he turned away from the wreckage, he felt a funny sense of unease.