The Serial Killer's Daughter: A psychological thriller with a shocking ending, page 1
Books by Rob Blackwell
The Soren Chase Series
Closed at Dark (A Novella)
Carnival of Stone (A Novella)
The Forest of Forever
The Pretender
The Woman in the White Mask
The Jules Castle Series
Riders on the Storm
The Sanheim Chronicles:
A Soul to Steal
Band of Demons
Give the Devil His Due
Complete Box Set
Audiobooks
A Soul to Steal
Band of Demons
Give the Devil His Due
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To Barb Rehm, a fantastic editor and friend
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Interlude
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Interlude
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Interlude
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Interlude
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Interlude
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
I stand outside the house, peering in the window.
There’s a young man inside, his back turned toward me. He’s at the sink, washing dishes.
If I sneak around to his side of the house, he’ll probably catch sight of me. There are floodlights on the patio. If they’re triggered, I’ll be exposed.
I step back and study the house, a modest Colonial that prizes symmetry. To either side of the black front door are long picture windows, designed to give residents a view out. But they also afford an excellent look inside.
This is especially true in the dark. Passing cars won’t give me away. It’s raining, and the night is quiet. It’s not quite a downpour, and though it adds a chill to the November night, I barely notice it. I’ve been in far worse conditions than these.
There are so many ways I could enter. There’s a tree just by the one-car garage. I could climb it, and make my way to a second-story window. But the lights upstairs tell me there may be another person in the house. Or more than one.
A patient person would scout the house over the next few days.
But I’m not feeling patient.
And, besides, there’s no need to find a way to break in. I dig into my pocket and pull out a key.
It’s possible somebody changed the lock. That’s not the way this is supposed to go, but this night has delivered a few surprises already. You never know.
I step back from the window and make my way to the front door. I open the storm door slowly, easing it back so it doesn’t make too much noise. I slide the key into the lock, going for the bolt first. It clicks open easily. I stick the key into the lock below, and cautiously turn the knob.
This is the moment of maximum danger. The man I’d been watching in the kitchen could now be on the other side of the door, waiting for me. I’ll need to adjust to the lights in the house. He could raise the alarm to anyone upstairs, and my plans would be scuttled before they even start.
But when I open up, I blink several times and find an empty front entryway. There are stairs to the left of me, but there’s no sign of people in that direction. I can still hear water running from my right. Mr. Dish Washer remains busy.
I can’t see him. There’s a dining room to my immediate right, and the kitchen in an adjoining room to the left. I’ll have to walk into the dining room before I can reach him.
I step inside, keeping a hand on the storm door behind me so it shuts quietly. With no sign I’ve been detected, I gently push the front door shut as well. Best not to leave any obvious sign someone else is in the house.
I momentarily consider going upstairs first. But without knowing how many people are up there, there’s a greater risk of detection. And then Mr. Dish Washer could come running to help. No, the best course is to deal with him first.
I softly walk into the dining room, hugging the wall of the room as I go. It means I still can’t see him, but also that he can’t see me even if he turns around. When I reach the edge of the kitchen, I risk a look inside.
Mr. Dish Washer is still there, oblivious to my presence. Even better, I can see now that he’s wearing oversized headphones and blaring music so loudly I can hear it five feet behind him. I could have burst through the door with a brass band and he wouldn’t have heard me.
I watch as he does what I can only assume he thinks is dancing, shaking his hips to the thrumming bass. He’s medium height and build with shaggy brown hair that needs a cut. He’s wearing a faded blue t-shirt and boxer shorts with pictures of small anchors on them.
I size up my options. It’s tempting to take my time, but without knowing who else is in the house, I shouldn’t.
There’s a set of steak knives to the right of Mr. Dish Washer. I could theoretically grab one, but it’s likely he’d catch the movement out of the corner of his eye.
My eyes drift instead to a pair of scissors attached to a magnet on the refrigerator to my right.
I’m not sure I need them. The man in front of me—kid might be more accurate, he looks to be in his early twenties—could go down easily without any weapon at all. I could punch him in the kidney and sweep his legs from out underneath him. My hand would be on his throat before he knew what was happening.
But it’s best to play these things safe.
I pluck the scissors off the fridge and walk up behind him. I take a deep breath before committing to action.
I slide up behind him as if we’re lovers, push the scissors to his throat with my right hand as I slide the headphones off with my left. His body stiffens and he takes a breath to scream.
“Say one word and you’re dead,” I whisper into his ear. “Nod if you understand.”
I can see his face in the reflection in the window in front of him, a reflection he could have seen me in earlier if he’d been paying the least bit of attention. His eyes are wide, his body tensed up. I could draw these scissors across his neck and watch him bleed out in under a minute. He wouldn’t be able to utter a word.
Instead, I wait and he gives me the tiniest of nods.
“Good,” I say. “Now you’re going to answer two questions for me. But keep it quiet. I don’t want your friend upstairs to hear.”
I’m taking a risk by saying “friend” instead of “friends.” If there are two or more people up there, he’ll realize I don’t know about at least one of them. But there are two glasses on the drying rack next to him, and two bowls in the sink. It’s not hard to assume there’s just one other person here.
“The first—who are you?” I hiss. “The second—what the fuck are you doing in my house?”
Chapter 2
In our reflection, I can see his look of confusion and surprise. I catch myself staring back with empty brown eyes. In this moment I look startingly like my father.
I don’t always have a great read on people—not lately, anyway—but he appears to have no idea what I’m talking about. Which raises a lot of questions. Is he a squatter? He might have noticed an empty house in a generally crowded Arlington, Virginia suburb and decided to take his chances by moving in.
It’s possible, and yet this house is famous. No, that’s the wrong word. Infamous.
So would the homeowners association tolerate someone moving in without an apparent claim to the place? There is no “For Sale” sign out front, and the neighbors know the house’s history. They could have assumed my friend here is a renter, but given how long this house has been empty, I doubt residents would have shrugged and forgotten about it. Which means someone gave the nosy neighbors a good cover story.
I notice something I hadn’t focused on earlier. The dining room is clean, the kitchen is also in good shape. Whoever is here, they didn’t just move in. They’ve been making a home.
This took planning and smarts, and looking at the guy in front of me, I can’t believe he has either one.
“Call the girl,” I say.
It’s another assumption. But the general cleanliness suggests a couple. And while Mr. Dish Washer could be gay, I play the odds and guess he isn’t.
“If you want money, I can tell you where my wallet is,” he says.
I put the point of the scissors deeper into his neck.
“Why would I want to rob someone who’s living in my house,” I respond. “You’re the thief here, not me. Call the girl.”
“What girl? I live here by myself.”
I cut him with a blade of the scissors. It’s just a nick, but he must think his life is ending because he lets out a shriek.
There’s silence for a moment, and then the sound of someone moving upstairs.
“Derek!” a female voice calls out. “Are you okay?”
I keep the scissors steady, grab his arm and wheel him around so I can see whoever is about to come into the room. Mr. Dish Washer—Derek, I presume—complies easily enough, but begins shouting.
“Babe, don’t come down here!” he yells. “There’s a freaky chick with a knife.”
I briefly look down at myself. I’m in jeans, a dark red shirt that hangs loosely around my thin frame and black shoes. Admittedly, I look a tad on the goth side and I’m wet from the rain, but I’m hardly “freaky.” Not that Derek knows what I look like. He doesn’t even know what’s at his throat.
I hear footsteps coming down.
“Honey, if this is some weird joke to get laid again, I swear to God—”
A young woman strides into the kitchen. She’s blond, blue-eyed, with mussed shoulder-length hair. She’s wearing only a man’s large t-shirt that falls just beyond her thighs. Clearly I’ve arrived just after dinner and sex, or vice versa.
The girl stops when she sees me, her mouth falling open.
And suddenly I’ve solved a mystery. I know why nobody has called the police on these two.
“Oh. My. God,” she says.
I withdraw the scissors from Derek’s throat and give him a small shove forward. When he realizes he’s free, he practically leaps toward the girl, grabs her arm and starts to pull her away. But she doesn’t budge, still staring at me open-mouthed.
Justine Clemons. I should have guessed.
We both stare at each other for a beat, and then she rushes toward me, apparently oblivious to the scissors I’m still wielding. I manage to lower them to the side before she wraps me in a tight hug. I don’t return it.
She’d been my best friend since birth. Our moms had met in college and quickly became inseparable. After college, they married in rapid succession and the couples had spent virtually all their time together. They had kids around the same time. Justine was born only five months after me. We’d grown up like sisters. We were always at each others houses, enjoyed the same things, we were competitive with each other in the way that siblings often are. Who could hold the longest handstand? Who could ride further with no hands while steering a bike? Who could run the fastest? We shared everything, from toys to musical taste to clothes.
That had all changed the same day the rest of my life had. That had been thirteen years ago. We were just gangly preteens when we last saw each other. Now she’s twenty-six, the same as me. She’s grown into a stunning young woman. It just makes me hate her more.
Justine pulls away, looking me up and down.
“You look good, girl. I mean, okay, you’ve probably looked better, certainly. Too pale, for one. But not bad, all things considered. Why are you back in town? Is your mom here?”
“Mom died a month ago,” I reply without emotion.
I wish I could enjoy the expression of shock and guilt on her face.
“Oh, shit. Oh, I’m so sorry.”
She hugs me again, but I don’t move. Her expression of sympathy takes chutzpah, but she always was the gutsy one.
“What are you doing in my house?” I ask.
Derek, who has been mercifully silent, looks dumbly between Justine and me.
“What is she talking about, Just?” he asks.
Justine pulls away again and she has the decency to at least look embarrassed.
“I…” she starts and then trails off.
“Holy shit,” Derek says. “This is your friend? You said she was okay with this.”
“Uh, Shannon, this is my boyfriend, Derek. Derek, this is Shannon Burns. Her mom owns—okay, she—owns the house.”
Derek is still looking between the two of us. If this were a cartoon, his eyes would be bugging out.
I roll my eyes. Clearly Derek is not the brightest bulb on the porch. If I’d killed him I would have been doing Justine a favor. I arch an eyebrow at her.
She shrugs, clearly understanding me. “He’s very sweet.”
Derek catches up after what feels like an eternity and reaches his hand out to shake. I ignore it.
“So, let me guess,” I say. “Your mom kicked you out and you knew a place where you could live rent-free.”
“Close,” Justine replies quickly, her hands up defensively. “I just needed somewhere to get away from her that was cheap. I can’t live with her anymore. You know what she’s like—she’s the most anal person on the planet. And she can’t stand Derek. I swear to God I would have asked you first. But I didn’t know how to reach you. Nobody did. I even asked my mom.”
“We’ve been keeping the place up,” Derek says. “I repainted the shutters a couple weeks ago.”
I nod. “Great. Just for that, I won’t call the police. Now get out.”
Justine still has her hands up like she’s trying to ward off a blow.
“Hold on there, partner. Let’s work out a deal.”
I nod as if this is a reasonable thing to say.
“Makes sense. How about this? You invent a time machine, use it and go back and have your family not abandon my mother and me. Maybe your mom returns my mom’s phone calls, or you return my letters. Wait, no, scrap that. You go back and stop my dad from murdering a bunch of people. Then we can talk about you staying here. Sound good?”
My tone of voice isn’t bitter. I wish I truly felt angry. Oh, I’m mad, but it’s mostly in an intellectual way. I know I should feel that emotion, so it’s the one I’m trying to convey. But I don’t hear conviction in my own voice. I hear Doctor Wexton’s voice in my head.
There’s a price you will pay for this treatment, she told me once. It’s unfortunate, but can’t be helped. You will never feel as you should.
Justine, meanwhile, is emoting just fine. She seems on the verge of tears, her eyes welling up.
“Shannon, I can explain—”
“Your dad murdered people?” Derek asks.
“Not now, Derek,” both Justine and I say at the same time. I remain focused on Justine, crossing my arms.
“Give me one reason I should let you stay.”
She opens her mouth to speak. There’s a speech she wants to give, but she knows enough not to give it. Instead, she closes her mouth and thinks for a minute. Finally she says, “Money.”
That makes me stop. It’s the obvious answer, and unfortunately it is also a persuasive one.
But I don’t want Justine here. I don’t want to be here myself. I damn well don’t want to have roommates, least of all her and her pet idiot.
“If you had money, you wouldn’t be living here,” I say.
“Oh come on, you know that’s not true. You’re right that mom cut me off, but Derek and I work at the coffee place over in Clarendon and dad sneaks me some money on the side. We don’t have a lot, but enough to pay rent.”
“I don’t need it.”
“I’m not dumb, Shan. You’re here. Money is the only reason you’d come back. I’m sorry about your mom, I really am. I didn’t know and I don’t think my mom knows—”
“She knows. I called her. Invited her to the funeral. She sent some flowers.”
If I were normal, the last words would come out in a sneer, but instead I say it flatly, like I say anything else.
