Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake Book 2) by Rachel Caine

Author:Rachel Caine [Caine, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781542046411
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2017-12-12T05:00:00+00:00

Claiming federal agent privilege skips the ER waiting list and gets us immediate attention from a doctor who pronounces me okay, except for the pain, swollen vocal cords, abrasions, and a neck that will look like I’d survived a hanging for the next couple of weeks. He thinks I’m lucky to be alive. I do, too.

X-rays and a head CT scan reveal that Suffolk has a mild concussion, thanks to either his original fall to the ground or Sam whacking him soundly on the head, but either way he’s released, as am I, and half an hour later we’re in a plain interrogation room at the FBI’s Wichita field office. The old days of reinforced one-way glass are gone. These days it’s cheaper to mount multiple cameras in the room that capture every angle of the conversation.

I don’t get a seat at the table. Me, Sam, and our escorted-visitor badges get to park ourselves in the monitoring room with an FBI staffer who lets us watch as Lustig sits down with Carl Suffolk. There’s a good half an hour of chitchat, lulling Suffolk into a sense of security, before Lustig looks up at the camera and says, “Would you please run that video we talked about for Mr. Suffolk now?”

The tech in the monitoring room, who’s only glanced up long enough to see our prominent visitor badges, presses some buttons, and a flat-screen TV in the interrogation room begins to show something I can’t make out, but I can see it running on a separate screen here in the studio. I’ve never seen what’s being shown, but it’s obvious on the face of it that it’s . . . horrific. And familiar.

It’s video taken in Melvin’s garage, before the wall was broken. Before his secrets were out. I recognize everything, down to the oval braided rug on the floor.

There’s a woman standing on the rug with her hands bound and a metal noose around her neck, and for a frozen second, I thank God that this time it isn’t Sam’s sister. I think it would break him if it was.

Lustig pauses the video on a close-up of the young woman’s face. She’s a pretty blonde, with big, pleading, terrified eyes. I recognize her. It’s my husband’s fourth victim, Anita Jo Marcher.

“Every once in a while, our teams stumble over some really dark shit,” Lustig is saying to Suffolk. “We all know about the child porn—and yes, Mr. Suffolk, we’ve got your phones, tablets, and computers, work and home. Everything with your digital fingerprints on it is about to get autopsied. That ship has sailed all around the world. Clear?”

Suffolk doesn’t say anything, but he nods. He’s back to looking pallid, lost, and completely helpless. I’d feel pity for him if I hadn’t seen the demon under his skin. If I didn’t still feel the scraping burn of his fingers around my neck.

“So tell me where this particular video came from,” Lustig says. “Doesn’t seem your usual perverted taste.”

“I don’t know,” Suffolk mumbles.

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