Face of Death

“I wish I could tell you that it gets easier,” Zoe said. “It does not. The press can be relentless. I imagine that we will find it difficult to move around without running into reporters from this point on.”

Three killings was already a big news story. With this warning issued by the FBI, there was no doubt that more news crews would be flocking from miles around. They would trail Zoe and Shelley, trying to get to the next scene before anyone else, trying to find an exclusive angle.

It was perhaps the most exhausting, and Zoe’s least favorite, aspect of the job.

But even with the threat of journalists hanging over their head, they had no time to pause or allow the investigation to rest.

“It’s getting late. We should find a motel,” Zoe said. “He will kill again tonight. Tomorrow, we should be rested and ready to move.”

She could only hope that he would make a mistake tonight—the first one—that would allow them to draw nearer to catching him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rubie watched the small shrubs by the side of the highway flashing by the window. It was getting dark, the colors bleeding out of the world and reducing down to shades of gray. Fairly soon, she wouldn’t be able to see much at all beyond the headlights of the car.

“What are you doing out here at this time of night anyway?” the driver asked. “You know it’s not safe after dark.”

“I know,” Rubie sighed. “I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t get away until Brent left to go meet his friends.”

The driver glanced her way. His eyes flicked over the purple and green bruises on the left side of her face, then down to the yellowing marks still visible on her arm, before going back to the road. “Brent’s the one who used you as a punching bag, I’m guessing.”

Rubie flinched. To hear it said like that was so—so harsh. Like freezing cold water flung in her face. But it was true, after all.

“Sorry,” the driver said, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean that to be hurtful. The guy must be a complete douchebag if he’s treating you like that.”

Rubie looked out the window again, catching her own reflection. The swelling around her eye had gone down, but it still wasn’t pretty. “No, you’re right. He is. That’s why I had to get away.”

“What was his excuse?”

Rubie snorted, a laugh that couldn’t quite make it past the pain. “Brent didn’t need an excuse. He just got mad. I guess something happened at work. He always takes it out on me.”

The driver shook his head, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Asshole. He’s lucky you were alone when I picked you up. If he was trying to get somewhere, I would have left him in the dirt for doing that.”

Rubie couldn’t say that she was dismayed by the mental image. Brent deserved it. He deserved more than that. It made her feel just a touch safer. This driver seemed like the decent type—the type who didn’t think that men should hit women.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a moment. “I know I come on a bit strong. My mom was beaten by my stepdad. I grew up watching it. Best thing she ever did was grab me and get us away from him.”

“I’m sorry,” Rubie replied softly in return. No wonder he had been so eager to help her. He knew exactly what she was going through. “No kid should have to go through that.”

“No woman either,” he pointed out, glancing over at her.

Rubie found she was able to smile at him. It was such a little thing, but even to hear that from someone else meant the world. It meant she wasn’t alone.

“So, you know where you’re heading?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m going to stay with family.” Rubie clutched a little tighter at the duffel bag on her lap. It contained everything she had been able to carry: a few changes of clothes, some jewelry, and some mementos that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving behind. She guessed that these were her only possessions now. There was no chance that Brent would allow her to collect the rest of her things, not without trapping her and making her stay.

“They couldn’t come and get you?”

“They don’t know. I didn’t have a way to get in touch with anyone. Brent wouldn’t let me use my phone unsupervised.”

Rubie put a finger to her face and probed her bruised skin gently, assessing the damage. She winced and drew in a sharp breath as she prodded a particularly painful spot. The pain was good. It reminded her why she had to get away. Why she couldn’t give in and go back, for Brent to tell her how sorry he was and how it would never happen again.

It always happened again.

“Still, would have been safer to get a bus,” the driver said. “I don’t mean to go on about it, but hitchhiking isn’t usually safe. Sure, it was me that picked you up this time. But it could have been anybody.”

“I don’t have enough money for a bus,” Rubie said, resting her head against the cool glass. “Brent took it all. I just have a bit of change. Enough to get a couple of meals. That’s all.”