Final Vow, page 9
Behind it, nailed to the wall, are dozens of photos. Wilma lets out a startled cry and stumbles backward, ripping the left sheet from the wall with her.
I hurry forward and yank back the other sheet.
“Jesus,” Hanks mutters.
Samantha Winters stares back at us from every angle. Dozens of photos—printouts from social media mixed with surveillance shots taken from a distance. Her at work. Her in a parking lot. Her through windows, unaware.
“Holy mother of Christ,” Wilma breathes as she retreats back to the basement stairs. She climbs to the bottom step, her face gone gray.
“Ms. Taylor.” I try to make my voice steady. “Have you seen this before?”
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “I told you, I haven’t been down here in…” She can’t tear her eyes away from the photos. “What… what did he do?”
Hanks and I exchange a look. There’s no good way to say this.
“Ms. Taylor,” Hanks says, “Samantha Winters was murdered yesterday.”
The color drains from Wilma’s face entirely. She sways, and for a moment, I think she might faint. Then she sinks down onto the step.
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Goddammit, Grayson.”
“We need to photograph this,” I say gently. “Do we have your permission?”
She nods without looking at me, still staring at her son’s shrine to the woman he was obsessed with. The woman who might now be dead because of him.
“Do whatever you need.” Her voice cracks. “I always knew he was… struggling. But I never thought—” She breaks off, shaking her head, then retreats upstairs.
I pull out my phone and start documenting the wall of photos. Shadow stays close to me, his body tense, ears swiveling at every small sound.
It takes me several minutes to record everything. We’ll need a warrant to come back to collect the rest.
When we finally climb back up the stairs, Wilma is sitting at the kitchen table, a cigarette burning between her fingers. I hate the smell of them, but I don’t blame her for needing one at a time like this. She looks like she’s aged ten years in the last half hour.
Hanks and I set our business cards on the table in front of her. “If your son comes home, or if you hear from him, call us immediately.” Hanks catches her eye. “Don’t confront him yourself.”
She nods.
“Do you have any idea where he might be right now?” I ask. “Anywhere he likes to go? Friends’ places, hangouts?”
“No.” She takes a shaky drag.
“Which pizza place does he work at? Could he be there?”
“Roselli’s Pizza.” She blows out a mouthful of smoke. “Like I said, though, he doesn’t tell me anything anymore.” Her eyes well up with tears she doesn’t bother to wipe away. “I tried, you know. After his dad left, I tried so hard to keep him on the right track. But somewhere along the way, I lost him.”
I wish I had some comfort to offer her.
“We’ll be in touch,” Hanks says.
We let ourselves out.
I gulp fresh air as soon as we’re outside, filling my lungs with something that isn’t funk and cigarette smoke. Shadow shakes himself, his tags jingling.
“Let’s check the pizza place first?” I suggest.
We pile back into Hanks’s car, and I navigate him to Roselli’s, only to learn that Grayson’s not scheduled today. We idle in the parking lot as Hanks scratches his chin. “I think you’d better call it in.”
I key my radio. “Dispatch, this is Officer Mercer requesting an APB on a vehicle. Red 1993 Nissan Maxima.” I give her the license plate number, reading from Hanks’s notes. “Person of interest is Grayson Taylor, white male, late twenties, blond hair. Wanted for questioning in connection with a homicide.”
The radio crackles. “Copy that, Officer Mercer. APB going out now.”
Hanks grips the steering wheel. “What do you think, kid? What’s our next move?” He likes to quiz me, help me develop my detective skills.
“We need to find Grayson Taylor before he runs.” I nibble the inside of my cheek. “But I think we’ve done all we can on that front.” I fold my arms. “The gate footage shows Grayson at the wedding venue yesterday. But with people there like Kim and Samantha’s parents who would have recognized him, it makes me think he showed up dressed to blend into the background. He probably pretended he was staff.”
Hanks grunts, acknowledging my point.
“I say we head back to the coast and see if any of the vendors spotted him.”
CHAPTER 13
The sun beats straight down through the iron grate, casting a crosshatch of shadows across the dirt. Daniel huddles against the wall of the pit, chasing what little shade remains. His skin is tight and tender where it’s burned, peeling in patches across his shoulders and the back of his neck. The pit is barely six feet deep—shallow enough that he can’t stand fully upright without his head brushing the rusted metal above. The earth walls are hard-packed, unyielding.
At least it’s cooler underground. A small mercy.
He has stopped counting the days. More than a week. Maybe many weeks. Time has become foggy, measured only in the arc of the sun and the hollow ache of his stomach. His tongue is thick and dry, his lips cracked. They give him water and food once a day—sometimes twice if someone remembers. Just enough to keep him breathing.
Daniel draws his knees to his chest and rests his forehead against them. The movement sends pain lancing through his right hand, and he cradles it against his body. Two of his fingers are swollen, the knuckles purple-black. They’re probably broken, but everything hurts in a dull, constant way that makes it difficult to separate one injury from another.
His right eye is still swollen shut, the flesh around it hot and painful. When he touches it gently with his good hand, his fingertips come away with fluid—probably infection. He doesn’t have the strength to worry about it.
He should pray.
But when he closes his eyes and reaches for the words that once came so easily—The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—they taste like ash in his mouth. Meaningless sounds. He has whispered them into this pit for days and received nothing but silence in return.
Perhaps Father was right about Daniel after all. Perhaps he truly is forsaken.
The memories come whether he wants them or not.
Noah Cross, with his easy smile and his gentle voice. “I know where Caleb is. I can help you get him out.” The words had been everything Daniel wanted to hear. Everything he had been desperate to believe.
Bernice. The kindly older woman who had taken him and Rachel in. Who had fled the cult herself many years before and spent her life helping others. She’d fired a gun, which had allowed Rachel to flee from Noah.
Daniel could have run then, too, but he didn’t.
He remembers Rachel’s face as he climbed into the van. The way her eyes widened with terror, how she screamed his name and begged him not to go.
But he hadn’t listened.
He had been so certain he was doing the right thing. Following his heart. Saving the person he loved. Rachel was young, he had told himself. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t know what it was to love someone the way he loved Caleb—wholly and completely, in a way the Brethren called abomination. To Daniel it was the truest thing he had ever known.
He had still believed, even as the van pulled away and Rachel’s screams faded behind him. He had believed Noah was telling the truth, that Caleb was waiting somewhere, that they would be together again.
He had been a fool.
The beatings started before they even reached the compound.
Somewhere on a dark road in the Nevada desert, the van had pulled over. Noah’s easy smile disappeared, replaced by something cold and satisfied. The other men—Daniel didn’t know their names—hauled him from the vehicle and threw him to the ground. He remembers the taste of dirt and blood. The crack of a boot against his ribs. Fists connecting with his face again and again until the world went black.
When he woke, he was in a shed. A small wooden structure that smelled of rust and motor oil, somewhere on the edge of the compound. They kept him there for days. He lost track of how many.
Father visited.
Elder Jebediah Walker stood in the doorway of that shed like a prophet descending from the mountain, his pale eyes burning with righteous fury.
“Thou hast brought shame upon this house,” Father said. “Upon the Lord thy God.”
The punishments that followed were harsh. Father quoted scripture between each blow, his voice never rising above its measured cadence. Daniel learned to go somewhere else in his mind—to float above his body and watch from a distance as it absorbed the violence.
He thought he would die in that shed. He prayed for it, toward the end.
But Father had other plans.
The entire community gathered in the open space in front of the church—hundreds of them in their modest dress, standing in rows beneath the brutal desert sun. Daniel was brought before them, barely able to stand, his clothes torn and stained with blood, both dried and fresh.
Father preached for hours.
Daniel’s legs gave out. He knelt in the dirt while Father spoke of sin and corruption and the costs of unrighteousness. Of sons who betrayed their fathers. Of demons that must be purged from the flock.
The faces had blurred before him. Some he had known since childhood—had taken meals with, worked beside, prayed alongside. They looked at him now like he was something unclean.
When the sermon finally ended, two men lifted Daniel by his arms and dragged him. He was too weak to fight, his feet trailing in the dust behind him.
They threw him into the pit. The grate clanged shut above him. A padlock snapped into place.
And there he has remained.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel above.
Daniel doesn’t look up. He has learned that looking up only invites more cruelty. Instead, he presses himself tighter against the wall, making himself small, trying to disappear into the shadows.
The footsteps pause directly above the grate. Through his good eye, Daniel can see boots—dusty and worn, casting long shadows through the iron bars.
“Still breathing down there?”
Noah.
Daniel’s stomach clenches.
“Your beloved Caleb asked after you, before the end.” Noah crouches, and Daniel can see the shape of his face now, backlit by the sun. “Wanted to know if we had found you. If you were safe.”
Daniel’s heart seizes. Before the end.
Noah’s tone is light, conversational. Almost friendly. “He wept. It was… affecting.”
No. The word rises in Daniel’s throat but emerges as nothing more than a croak.
“You should have seen what we did to him.” Noah tilts his head, studying Daniel through the grate like a specimen in a jar. “Your sin brought his punishment upon him. The Lord uses the wicked to chastise one another—is that not what your father teaches?”
Daniel squeezes his eyes shut. One of them won’t fully close.
The boots move away. The footsteps recede. Daniel does not move.
Caleb is dead. Caleb is dead because of him.
He tries to summon grief, rage, anything. But there is nothing left. Just a vast and terrible emptiness.
The afternoon passes in a haze.
People walk by on their way to evening prayers. Most do not pause. A few glance down, their faces carefully blank. One woman hesitates at the edge of the grate. For a moment, Daniel thinks she might speak. Might show some small kindness.
Then she moves on.
A group of children run past, laughing. One of them kicks a spray of gravel through the bars. The pebbles rain down on Daniel’s head and shoulders, stinging his sunburned skin.
Later, two men pass nearby. Daniel can’t see them—they move just out of his line of sight—but their voices carry in the still desert air.
“…don’t fancy packing up again,” one mutters.
“Hush.” The other man’s voice is sharp. “The elders know best. If we must move, we move.”
The men walk away, their voices growing distant. Daniel files the words away in some distant corner of his mind, but nothing matters anymore.
He is going to die in this pit.
If his father frees him, it will only be for the final punishment. The one that ends with a body buried in the desert, unmarked and unmourned. He’s heard others whispered about around cookfires, acknowledged in the fearful glances of those who step out of line. They don’t speak of it openly, but everyone knows.
Better to die here, perhaps. Slowly. Quietly. Alone.
Night falls.
The temperature plummets, as it always does in the desert. Daniel curls into himself, shivering, his thin, torn shirt providing no protection against the cold that seeps up from the earth. His broken fingers throb, and his hollow stomach cramps.
He thinks of Rachel and Bernice and hopes they know he loves them. That he never meant to hurt them. That he was trying, in his own misguided way, to do something good.
He thinks of Caleb with his curly dark hair and his shy smile. Caleb, who used to bring him wildflowers when no one was looking. He is gone now. Because of Daniel.
He should weep, but he’s too tired.
Daniel turns away from the dark night sky above, stars filling the gaps in the grate, and closes his eyes.
CHAPTER 14
The forest opens up briefly, revealing a vista of green ridges rolling toward the horizon under a bright blue sky. The drive back to the coast is beautiful, but I’m too anxious to find Grayson to enjoy it.
There’s already an APB out on him in Banks. But maybe we need to do more.
“Hanks?”
He glances over, then returns his eyes to the winding two-lane highway. “Hm?”
I drum my fingers on the car door. “I think we should put out the alert on Grayson in Nightfall, too, just in case he stuck around.”
He nods. “Go ahead.”
He guides us over a bridge, a stream flowing in the ravine below as I tap Linda Park’s contact and put the call on speakerphone.
She picks up on the second ring. “Nightfall Police Department, this is Linda.”
“Hey, Linda. It’s Eden.”
“Eden!” Her voice warms. “How’s my handsome boy?”
“Hungry,” Hanks grumbles.
“Psht. I said handsome boy,” she teases.
Hanks smirks, and Shadow’s ears perk at the sound of her voice through the speaker. He knows who keeps treats at the front desk.
“We’re good. Listen, we need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I’m sending you some images of a suspect. Grayson Taylor—white male, late twenties.” I give her the details of his mother’s borrowed car. “He’s connected to our wedding murder.” I tap to send the screenshots I just saved. “Can you put together a collage and distribute copies? We need uniforms to show them around to the wedding guests, see if anyone remembers seeing him at the venue.”
“Already pulling up my email.” I hear keys clicking in the background. “Got ’em. I’ll have it done within the hour. Nathan’s here—want me to rope him in?”
“Perfect. Whoever’s free. And Linda? Tell them to be thorough. This guy might’ve been wearing a mask or been dressed as staff to blend in.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Yeah, if you could put out a general APB on him for Nightfall, that’d be great.”
“You got it. Stay safe out there.”
I hang up and immediately start scrolling through my contacts for the next call. We’d compiled a list of vendors yesterday—catering, hair and makeup, florist, DJ, photographer. I find the number for Coastal Catering and hit Dial.
A woman answers, brisk and efficient. “Coastal Catering, this is Imani.”
“Hi, this is Officer Eden Mercer with Nightfall PD. I’m following up on the Grant-Winters wedding from yesterday. Would you have time to speak with us this afternoon?”
A pause. “The one where the bride was…?”
“Yes.”
“Lord.” She exhales heavily. “We’re prepping for an event tonight, but I can give you a few minutes. You know where we’re located?”
“Got it.”
“Come on by.”
Coastal Catering operates out of a commercial kitchen on the outskirts of Nightfall, tucked into a strip of businesses near the highway. The building is nondescript—white siding, small sign, parking lot that’s seen better days. But when Hanks pulls in, I spot a catering van with the company logo parked near the back, freshly washed and gleaming.
Shadow hops out after me, stretching his legs. He lifts his nose in the air, sniffing eagerly at the smells drifting from the building—garlic and fresh bread.
The front door opens into a small reception area, but I can see through a window into the main kitchen beyond. Stainless steel surfaces, industrial equipment, workers in white coats and hairnets bustling about. The air is warm and makes my mouth water.
A woman emerges from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. She looks to be in her forties, with a curvy build and warm brown skin. Her chef’s coat is crisp but practical, her hair pulled back under a black headband. She carries herself with the confident energy of someone who runs a tight ship.
“Officers.” She extends her hand. “Imani Williams. I own the place.”
Hanks shakes first. “Thanks for making time.”
“Mm-hmm.” She regards Shadow with a mix of wariness and curiosity. “He bite?”
Hanks folds his arms. “Only bad guys.”
That earns a small smile. “Fair enough. What can I do for you?”
I show her the printed photos of Grayson Taylor, then pull up the screenshots on my phone. “We’re trying to identify this man. We have reason to believe he may have been at the wedding venue on Saturday.” I hold the paper out to her and give her the physical description we have for him. “Was he part of your team?”
