Where the Blame Lies, Page 3

  Zach typed in Josie Stratton’s name, some details of the long-ago case appearing in front of him in stark black and white. Josie Stratton, who’d been a nineteen-year-old college student at the University of Cincinnati nine years before, had been abducted by a masked intruder who broke into her apartment as she’d slept, attacked and drugged her. She’d woken up in an abandoned warehouse in Camp Washington, an area that had once housed industrial facilities that had shut down in the eighties. Josie Stratton had spent the next ten months chained to the concrete wall of a room on the bottom floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse, being sexually assaulted regularly and only fed sporadically. She’d been tortured, words carved into her skin that weren’t in the file and that he couldn’t remember offhand. He’d heard the nurses whispering about it though as they’d left her room. That poor girl will have to wear that reminder forever.

  As if otherwise, she could have easily forgotten.

  The DOA found earlier that night had appeared to be in similar restraints, but the location was completely different, and that girl had been held in a basement, not a warehouse. Still, both were abandoned properties, both featured concrete walls, both in areas where no one would hear the screams of a woman being tortured repeatedly over a long period of time.

  He wondered who might have called it in and why anonymously? Drug addict or drug seller using the abandoned property for illegal activity? Probable. They might never know for sure.

  Zach continued scrolling. There were no official photos on the computer pertaining to the Josie Stratton case. He’d need them to compare scenes, but he didn’t need them to recall Josie’s haunted eyes. There were few details online about how she’d managed to escape, but escape she had, and then she’d flagged down a cab who’d immediately dialed 9-1-1.

  The man had worn the ski mask he’d initially attacked her in, but she had been able to identify him by his voice, his smell, and other physical attributes, as her downstairs neighbor, Marshall Landish. When police had shown up at his apartment, they’d found him dead by suicide. A single gunshot wound to the head using a stolen weapon. He’d obviously known they were coming and chosen death over prison. Josie’s DNA had been found on his clothes and on several items in his apartment. With that irrefutable evidence and Josie’s ID, the case was closed.

  For the city of Cincinnati anyway. For Josie? Probably not so much.

  Find my baby! Please find my baby!

  Her words came back to him, the way he’d heard them through the door, clear, but with an hysterical edge she had just barely managed to control.

  No, how could Josie Stratton ever move past a crime like the one perpetrated against her? That would have been enough to emotionally take anyone down. But add in the fact that she’d gotten pregnant by her tormenter and birthed his baby—alone and chained—in a cold, abandoned warehouse? His breath hissed through his lips. Christ Almighty.

  Marshall Landish had taken the baby—a boy, he thought—shortly before Josie had escaped her hellish dungeon. The baby had never been found, though law enforcement had conducted a massive search.

  Find my baby! Please find my baby!

  But they never had.

  Zach logged out, shrugged on his coat, and headed back out into the clear night, puddles shimmering on the ground of the parking lot. Josie Stratton’s eyes flashed in his mind one final time before he shook off the memory, fired up his truck, and headed home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The old farmhouse that had been converted into the Persimmon Woods Bed & Breakfast, had been built in 1822. And from what Josie could tell, it was feeling every bit of its one hundred ninety-seven years. “Damn,” she muttered, as another drip splashed to the aged hardwood floor. She quickly grabbed an additional pot from the kitchen and placed it next to the other two already catching rainwater leaking through the roof. Excellent, she thought, her shoulders drooping. A new roof. Add it to the list. The never-ending list of things that would need to be fixed sooner rather than later if she was going to get the old place up and running and, in a state acceptable for guests.

  And she needed guests. She needed income to afford the property taxes on the old place her aunt had left Josie in her will. She needed income to continue to eat. At the thought of going hungry, a stab of emotion pierced her. Emotion too big and complicated to break apart into more descriptive terms. She let the weight of it roll through her and then breathed, letting it go.

  A leaky roof. Repairs. That’s what she had to deal with. That’s what was in front of her. And though it was daunting, it could be fixed. Somehow. Some way. She just had to figure out the details.

  She’d spent the last six months cleaning the house to within an inch of its life, painting every room, and adding what she hoped were charming touches to the décor. Some of the furnishings were beautiful antique pieces that added to the historic feel of the home, but other pieces were simply outdated, ugly, and falling apart. But she’d gotten creative and found ways to use what was available to her for free, rather than spending money she didn’t have. She’d found beautiful old scrolled, wrought iron fencing behind the house, scrubbed it free of rust, spray-painted it, and used it to mount on the walls over a few of the beds to create rustic headboards. In that sense, it was a boon that her aunt Mavis had been somewhat of a hoarder. Her aunt had kept the old fencing, aged whiskey barrels, which Josie had cleaned and re-sealed to use as side tables on the porch surrounding the house, and an attic and basement full of items Josie was still cataloging. She’d found a gorgeous set of cornflower blue and white china that she’d brought down that morning and began washing. She’d stood at the sink, one of the lovely, delicate plates in her hands, looking out the window, mesmerized at how the sun caught the raindrops on the rosebuds outside. She’d opened the window and the spicy scent of the roses mixed with the clean smell of a rain-washed morning had wafted in, filling her spirit. It’d felt like a gift meant just for her. She’d closed her eyes, feeling thankful, living right in that moment. Yes, it had started out as a good day, but then the roof and the leaks and then—

  She froze as a car door slammed outside. Peeking through the curtains, she let out a groan.

  And then . . . Archie.

  She hadn’t realized her day was going to take an even steeper downturn.

  She considered ignoring the knock that came at the door, but her car was parked right outside, the windows were open, and if she was going to assert herself with her obnoxious, mean-spirited cousin, she couldn’t run and hide under one of the beds. She took a deep breath, letting it sweep through her before walking slowly to the door. She pulled it open and Archie, who’d been looking behind him at the large expanse of yard where Josie had treated the grass for weeds, mowed, and planted spring flowers, turned suddenly, spearing her with his cold eyes. Eyes as blue as his mother’s and yet with none of the warmth.

  “Josie.”

  “Hi, Archie.” She waited.

  He looked past her, into the house. “Can I come in?”

  She hesitated. Boundaries, Josie. Boundaries are very important. You must know your own, and respect your own. If you don’t, no one else will. The words of the social worker who’d been assigned her case came back to her. It was funny how they’d barely penetrated her trauma-saturated mind eight years ago, but they must have lodged somewhere in her brain, because they whispered back all the time recently. “Why don’t we sit on the porch? It’s a nice morning.”

  He thinned his lips and hesitated, but finally nodded, walking to one of the wicker chairs and sitting down.

  Josie took a seat across from him. “What brings you out here, Archie?”

  “I’m here to make you another offer on the house. I can up it by five grand.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but I told you I’m not interested in selling. Your mother left this house to me because she knew I had the same vision for it that she did. She knew I’d work hard to get it up and running again, back to its former—"

&nb
sp; “My mother left you this house because she felt sorry for you. She pitied you like everyone else does.”

  Josie swallowed, lowering her eyes. How quickly she could still be emotionally stripped. She was working on that. “Your mother was extremely kind to me when I needed it. She helped me after . . .” She sat taller. “This house is giving me purpose I didn’t even know I needed, Archie,” she said in an attempt to appeal to any speck of kindness or empathy he might have inside his hulkish, overbearing body. “I believe your mother knew that.”

  “My mother was practically a vegetable at the end. She didn’t know anything, including her own name.”

  Josie took a deep breath. “Before the dementia . . . took her. Before that, she had moments of extreme lucidity.” You’d have known that had you ever bothered to visit.

  He pointed at her. “Listen, Josie, I didn’t want to resort to this, but if you don’t sell to me, I’ll be forced to sue you. My mother was not of sound mind to change her will and give this property to you or anyone else. Whatever you did to manipulate her into it should be looked at by a judge. I was offering you money out of the kindness of my heart because I know you barely have a cent to your name, but if you force my hand, I’ll have no choice but to get the courts involved. Make this right.”

  Make this right. Anxiety sparked inside Josie as she regarded him, recalling what Aunt Mavis had said about her own son. After his father died, Archie grew bitter, distant. I should have worked harder to draw him out, but I was suddenly a single mother, trying to support us both, trying to run a business . . . I lost his father, and I lost Archie then too. I didn’t realize that I’d never get him back. Her voice had been laced with sadness. Regret.

  Oh, Aunt Mavis.

  Perhaps she had lost her son, or perhaps some people were just born with a mean streak wider than others. A few were born evil . . . and she knew that well too. Despite the mild temperature, Josie shivered, rubbing her bare arms. But Aunt Mavis had had a part in saving Josie—her battered soul—and for that, she’d be forever grateful. And Josie understood what it was like to let your past, all the missing parts of yourself, rule your choices. She’d done it once too. Before.

  But she couldn’t let this—possibly damaged, possibly mean, most likely both—man in front of her derail her now. The vision of this farmhouse shining under the morning light had kept her going when she didn’t think she could. She’d fought too hard to get here, and she still had a lot more fighting in front of her.

  “Why do you even want this place, Archie? You have your own house, your own business. You do well. What do you want with a rundown farmhouse?”

  His eyes narrowed. “This was my father’s land before he died. It’s been in my family for four generations. It’s rightfully mine.”

  “I’m family too. And I love it as much as you do.” More. He’d never been interested in this place. At least not when his mother was alive. She figured it was solely about possession, about greed, about Archie feeling like he’d been cheated in some way.

  “I’d think you’d feel more content living in the city where there are lots of people around. Safer.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Do you really think guests are going to want to stay here when they find out what happened to you?” He leaned closer. “That sort of thing makes people very uncomfortable, Josie. Very uncomfortable. No one wants to think about it. No one wants it serving them breakfast in the morning.”

  Josie stood suddenly, and Archie looked momentarily surprised then stood too. He towered over her, a big brute of a man. A bully, his brash personality a perfect match to the thick lines of his physique. “Do what you have to do,” she said, trying her best to hide the fact that she’d begun shaking, trying to hide the anxiety trickling through her at the thought of a lawsuit, a lawyer she could not afford, the possibility of losing the house that was doing so much to heal her wounded soul. “But I will not sell.” She turned. “Goodbye.”

  “You’ll regret this, Josie,” he called as she stepped quickly inside, locking the door behind her. She walked around the corner where he couldn’t see her through the glass window of the front door, sinking onto the bottom stair. Archie knocked once, calling her name, but she didn’t answer. A minute later she heard him swear and then the sound of his footsteps on the steps, followed by his car door opening and closing. She exhaled, long and slow, as she listened to his car fade away into nothing. Horrible man. Why was he so bitter? Why preempt failure?

  That sort of thing makes people very uncomfortable, Josie. Very uncomfortable. No one wants to think about it.

  Yeah, she didn’t either. Who wanted to confront the fact that monsters existed? That they could walk right past you on the street—or in your own apartment building—and you’d never know until they decided to strike? But Josie thought about it—she didn’t have a choice.

  Finally, she stood, climbing the stairs to the second floor where she entered the bedroom at the far end of the hall. She was alone in the house, but she still engaged the three locks she’d installed on the heavy wood door. Her heart calmed, breaths coming more easily. She walked to the desk where she had three bulletin boards hung above it on the wall, every inch of them covered with the research she’d been conducting for the past eight years.

  Her gaze moved from one thing to the other—lists, articles, addresses, every scrap of anything that might eventually lead her to her son. She closed her eyes, picturing her baby boy, the way he’d gazed up at her, eyes innocent and trusting. And she made the same vow to him then that she’d made to him in the room of the abandoned warehouse, where their screams had mingled as she’d pushed him into the world: I will never stop fighting for you.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Before

  Josie shrank back from his touch, but there was nowhere to go. The cold cement met her back, her chains clinking as they hit the floor. “What do you want?” she asked, managing to hold back the sob that was filling her chest, her throat.

  His hand paused momentarily before resuming movement, his knuckle running over her cheek. He sighed. “What do I want?” he repeated, sounding truly thoughtful. “Hmm. Everything I s-suppose. Do you think you can give me that, J-Josie?”

  “I don’t understand.” She did sob then, a pitiful sound of terror that she tried desperately to control. If she lost it, she feared she’d never be able to stop crying, screaming, begging. And she needed to try to get him to let her go. Engage him, appeal to his humanity if he had any. She sucked in a big, shaky breath.

  “I know you don’t. But you will. I’ll m-make sure you do.”

  “Please,” she implored. “I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are,” she lied. “Let me go and you won’t be in trouble. I couldn’t give a description even if I wanted to. I could pass you on the street and never know who you are.”

  He let out a soft breath that sounded like a laugh, though she couldn’t see his expression under the ski mask. He moved closer. “You won’t know my f-face, Josie, or who I am, but you will know me.” He leaned forward and rubbed his masked face over hers. She whimpered with fear. She could bite him, try to head-butt him. But she was chained up. He had the upper hand. She’d only anger him and then he’d hit her again, or worse. “You’ll know me well,” he whispered, his hand sliding down the waistband of her sleep shorts.

  Oh God. Bile moved up her throat and she let out a strangled sob. Not that. Please not that.

  “You don’t want it, Josie? Don’t want to be f-fucked like a whore? Why not? You let those other men d-do it. I’ve watched you. W-watched you take them home. Watched them leave in the m-morning with not more than a wave over their shoulders, not m-more than a thanks for the m-memories, you cheap slut. Even the one with a w-wife. I’ve n-noticed the tan line on his ring finger. You m-must have s-seen it too. You’re not very discriminating, are y-you? Cheap. You’re so f-fucking cheap.” He was talking fast, his breathing harsher. Josie clenched her eyes shut, forcing her sobs back, willing herself to get it tog
ether. Stay calm.

  He pulled off her shorts with a grunt. She sobbed, yanking at her shackles uselessly, letting her head fall back against the cement wall behind her with a jarring thud. She clenched her eyes shut when she heard his zipper, her sobs turning to wails. “Am I d-different than them, Josie? Not g-good enough for you? Why? Is it b-because I see who you are? Is that why, J-Josie? Did you not wear these r-red panties for me, you slut?” He ripped her underwear and used his knee to part her thighs. She clenched her teeth as he penetrated her, moving fast, his grunts loud against her ear, the fabric of his ski mask soaking up her tears. “This is what you w-want, isn’t it? I’m just g-giving you what you l-like,” he panted.

  When he came, it was in silence.

  Her soul died quietly too.

  She didn’t look—couldn’t look—as he pulled himself off her, standing, the sound of his zipper loud in the otherwise quiet, empty room. There was a crack on the ceiling. It looked like a lightning strike. She wished it would strike her down. Why me? she wondered, dazedly. Why had she wished to be struck down, instead of wishing for him to be hit by a molten spear of electricity? Interesting. She’d just been raped. He was the one who needed to be punished. And yet she was the one who wanted to die.

  When she raised her head, she saw that he was standing in a ray of muted light streaming in from the small window. His head was raised toward the pane of glass and he appeared pensive. For a moment he looked like a painting, something unreal. A sight you might come upon in some enchanted forest where an evil spell had been cast. Josie wondered if the drug he’d given her was still working in her system. Or maybe she was in shock. Maybe both. He turned his head, the mask moving as though he was smiling.