The Perfect House
Only then did she allow herself to breathe. As she inhaled and exhaled slowly, she walked around the small apartment, nightstick in hand, ready for anything. Searching the whole place, including the closets, shower, and pantry, took under a minute.
When she was confident that she was alone and secure, she checked the half dozen nanny-cams she had placed throughout the unit. Then she evaluated the locks on the windows. Everything was in working order. That left only one place to review.
She stepped into the bathroom and opened the narrow closet that held shelves with supplies like extra toilet paper, a plunger, some bars of soap, shower scrubbers, and mirror cleaning fluid. There was a small clasp on the left side of the closet, not visible unless one knew where to look. She flipped it and tugged, feeling the hidden latch click.
The shelving unit swung open, revealing an extremely narrow shaft behind it, with a rope ladder attached to the brick wall. The tube and ladder extended from her fourth-floor unit down to a crawl space in the basement laundry room. It was designed as her last-ditch emergency exit if all her other security measures fell through. She hoped she’d never need it.
She replaced the shelf and was about to return to the living room when she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. It was the first time she’d really studied herself at length since she left. She liked what she saw.
On the surface, she didn’t look that different from before. She’d had a birthday while at the FBI and was now twenty-nine, but she didn’t look older. In fact, she thought she looked better than when she’d left.
Her hair was still brown, but it seemed somehow bouncier, less limp than it had been when she left L.A. all those weeks ago. Despite the long days at the FBI, her green eyes sparkled with energy and no longer had the dark shadows underneath that had become so familiar to her. She was still a lean five feet ten, but she felt stronger and firmer than before. Her arms were more toned and her core was tight from endless sit-ups and planks. She felt…prepared.
Moving into the living room, she finally turned on the lights. It took her a second to remember that all the furniture in the space was hers. She’d bought most of it just before she’d left for Quantico. She hadn’t had much choice. She’d sold all the stuff from the house she’d owned with her sociopathic, currently incarcerated ex-husband, Kyle. For a while after that, she crashed at the apartment of her old college friend, Lacy Cartwright. But after it was broken into by someone sending a message to Jessie on behalf of Bolton Crutchfield, Lacy had insisted she leave, pretty much right then.
So she’d done exactly that, living in a weekly hotel for a while until she found a place—this place—that met her security needs. But it was unfurnished, so she’d burned a chunk of her money from the divorce all at once on furniture and appliances. Since she’d had to leave for the National Academy so soon after buying it all, she hadn’t gotten a chance to appreciate any of it.
Now she hoped to. She sat down on the love seat and leaned back, settling in. There was a cardboard box marked “stuff to go through” sitting on the floor beside her. She picked it up and began rifling through it. Most of it was paperwork she had no intention of dealing with now. At the very bottom of the box was an 8x10 wedding photo of her and Kyle.
She stared at it almost uncomprehendingly, amazed that the person who had that life was the one sitting here now. Almost a decade ago, during their sophomore year at USC, she’d started dating Kyle Voss. They’d moved in together soon after graduation and gotten married three years ago.
For a long time, things seemed great. They lived in a cool apartment not far from here in downtown Los Angeles, or DTLA as it was often called. Kyle had a good job in finance and Jessie was getting her master’s degree. Their life was comfortable. They went to new restaurants and checked out the hot bars. Jessie was happy and probably could have stayed that way for a long time.
But then Kyle got a promotion at the company’s office in Orange County and insisted they move to a McMansion there. Jessie had consented, despite her apprehension. It was only then that Kyle’s true nature was revealed. He became obsessed with joining a secret club that turned out to be a front for a prostitution ring. He began an affair with one of the women there. And when it went bad, he killed her and tried to frame Jessie for it. To top it all off, when Jessie uncovered his plot, he tried to kill her too.
But even now, as she studied the wedding photo, there was no hint of what her husband was ultimately capable of. He looked like a handsome, amiable, rough-around-the-edges future master of the universe. She crumpled up the photo and tossed it toward the trash can in the kitchen. It dropped right in the center, giving her an unexpected cathartic rush.
Swish! That must mean something.
There was something freeing about this place. Everything—the new furniture, the lack of personal mementos, even the borderline paranoid security measures—belonged to her. She had a fresh start.
She stretched out, allowing her muscles to relax after the long flight on the tightly packed plane. This apartment was hers—the first place in over half a dozen years she could truly say that about. She could eat pizza on the couch and leave the box lying around without worrying about anyone complaining. Not that she was the type to do that. But the point was, she could.
The thought of pizza made her suddenly hungry. She got up and checked the fridge. Not only was it empty, it wasn’t even turned on. Only then did she remember that she’d left it that way, not seeing any reason to pay for the electricity if she was going to be gone for two and a half months.
She plugged it in and, feeling restless, decided to make a grocery run. Then she had another idea. Since she didn’t start work until tomorrow and it wasn’t too late in the afternoon there was another stop she could make: a place—and a person—she knew she’d eventually have to visit.
She had managed to put it out of her head for most of her time at Quantico but there was still the matter of Bolton Crutchfield. She knew she should let it go, that he had been baiting her during their last meeting.
And yet she had to know: had Crutchfield really found a way to meet with her father, Xander Thurman, the Ozarks Executioner? Had he found a way to reach out to the murderer of countless people, including her mother; the man who left her, a six-year-old child, tied up next to the body to face certain death in a freezing, isolated cabin?
She was about to find out.
CHAPTER THREE
Eliza was waiting when Gray got home that night. He arrived in time for dinner, with a look on his face that suggested he knew what was coming. Since Millie and Henry were sitting right there eating their mac & cheese with hot dog slices, neither parent said anything about the situation.
It was only after the kids were down for the night that it came up. Eliza was standing in the kitchen when Gray walked in after putting them to sleep. He had taken off his sport coat but was still wearing his loosened tie and slacks. She suspected it was to make him look more credible.
Gray wasn’t a big man. At five foot nine and 160 pounds he was only an inch taller than she was, though he outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. But they both knew that he was far less imposing in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Business attire was his armor.
“Before you say anything,” he began, “please let me try to explain.”
Eliza, who had spent much of the day turning over how this could have happened, was happy let her anguish take a temporary back seat and allow him to squirm as he tried to justify himself.
“Be my guest,” she said.
“First. I’m sorry. No matter what else I say, I want you to know that I apologize. I should never have let it happen. It was a moment of weakness. She’s known me for years and she knew my vulnerabilities, what would pique my interest. I should have known better but I fell for it.”
“What are you saying?” Eliza asked, dumbfounded as much as hurt. “That Penny was some seductress who manipulated you into having an affair with her? We both know that you’re a weak man, Gray, but are you kidding me?”
“No,” he said, choosing not to respond to the “weak” comment. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I had the three whiskey sours. I ogled her legs in the dress with the slit up the side. But she knows what makes me tick. I guess it’s all those heart-to-hearts you two have had over the years. She knew to brush her fingertip along my forearm. She knew to talk, almost purr in my left ear. She likely knew you hadn’t done any of those things in a long time. And she knew you wouldn’t be walking into that cocktail party because you were back home, knocked out on the sleeping pills you take most nights.”
That hung in the air for several seconds as Eliza tried to compose herself. When she was sure she wouldn’t yell, she replied in a shockingly quiet voice.
“Are you blaming me for this? Because it sounds like you’re saying you couldn’t keep it in your pants because I have trouble sleeping at night.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sniveled, backing down at the venom in her words. “It’s just that you always have trouble sleeping at night. And you never seem all that interested in staying up with me.”
“Just to be clear, Grayson—you say you’re not blaming me. But then you immediately transition into saying I’m too knocked out on Valium and don’t give you enough big boy attention, so you had to have sex with my best friend.”
“What kind of best friend is she to do that anyway?” Gray tossed out desperately.
“Don’t change the subject,” she spat, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, partly to avoid waking the kids but mostly because doing so was the only thing keeping her from losing it. “She’s already on my list. It’s your turn now. You couldn’t have come to me and said, ‘Hey honey, I’d really love to spend a romantic evening with you tonight’ or ‘Sweetie, I feel disconnected from you lately. Can we get closer this evening?’ Those weren’t options?”
“I didn’t want to wake you up to bother you with questions like that,” he replied, his voice meek but his words cutting.
“So you’ve decided sarcasm is the way to go here?” she demanded.
“Look,” he said, wriggling around for any way out, “it’s over with Penny. She told me that this afternoon and I agreed. I don’t know how we move past this but I want to, if only for the kids.”
“If only for the kids?’ she repeated, stunned at how many ways he could fail at once. “Just get out. I’m giving you five minutes to pack a bag and be in your car. Book a hotel until further notice.”
“You’re kicking me out of my own house?” he asked, disbelieving. “The house I paid for?”
“Not only am I kicking you out,” she hissed, “if you’re not pulling out of the driveway in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”
“To tell them what?”
“Try me,” she seethed.
Gray stared at her. Undeterred, she walked over to the phone and picked it up. It was only when he heard the dial tone that he snapped into action. Within three minutes, he was scampering out the door like a dog with its tail between its legs, his duffel bag stuffed with dress shirts and jackets. A shoe fell out as he rushed toward the door. He didn’t notice and Eliza didn’t say anything.
It was only when she heard the car peel out that she put the phone back in its dock. She looked down at her left hand and saw that her palm was bleeding where she’d been digging her nails into it. Only now did she feel the sting.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite being out of practice, Jessie navigated the traffic from downtown L.A. to Norwalk without too much trouble. Along the way, as a way to push her impending destination out of her mind, she decided to call her folks.
Her adoptive parents, Bruce and Janine Hunt, lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He was retired FBI and she was a retired teacher. Jessie had spent a few days with them on her way to Quantico and had hoped to do the same on the way back as well. But there wasn’t enough time between the end of the program and her start back at work so she’d had to forgo the second visit. She hoped to return again soon, especially since her mom was battling cancer.
It didn’t seem fair. Janine had been fighting it on and off for over a decade now and that was on top of the other tragedy they’d faced years ago. Just before they took Jessie in when she was six, they had lost their toddler son, also to cancer. They were eager to fill the void in their hearts, even if it meant adopting the daughter of a serial killer, one who had murdered her mother and left her for dead. Because Bruce was in the FBI, the fit seemed logical to the U.S. Marshals who had put Jessie in Witness Protection. On paper, it all made sense.
She forced that out of her head as she dialed their number.
“Hi, Pa,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay,” he answered. “Ma’s napping. Do you want to call back later?”
“No. We can talk. I’ll speak to her tonight or something. What’s happening there?”
Four months ago, she would have been reluctant to speak to him without her mom there too. Bruce Hunt was a hard man to get close to and Jessie wasn’t a ball of cuddliness either. Her memories of her youth with him were a mix of joy and frustration. There were ski trips, camping and hiking in the mountains, and family vacations to Mexico, only sixty miles away.
But there were also screaming matches, especially when she was a teenager. Bruce was a man who appreciated discipline. Jessie, with years of pent-up resentment over losing her mother, her name, and her home all at once, tended to act out. During her years at USC and after, they probably spoke less than two dozen times total. Visits back and forth were rare.
But recently, the return of Ma’s cancer had forced them to speak without a middleman. And the ice had somehow broken. He’d even come out to L.A. to help her recuperate after her abdominal injury when Kyle attacked her last fall.
“Things are quiet here,” he said, answering her question. “Ma had another chemo session yesterday, which is why she’s recuperating now. If she feels well enough, we may go out for dinner later.”
“With the whole cop crew?” she asked jokingly. A few months ago, her folks had moved from their home to a senior living facility populated primarily by retirees from the Las Cruces PD, Sheriff’s Department, and FBI.
“Nah, just the two of us. I’m thinking a candlelit dinner. But somewhere where we can put a bucket beside the table in case she has to puke.”
“You really are a romantic, Pa.”
“I try. How are things with you? I’m assuming you passed the FBI training.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“Because you knew I’d ask you about it and you wouldn’t have called if you had to deliver bad news.”
Jessie had to hand it to him. For an old dog, he was still pretty sharp.
“I passed,” she assured him. “I’m back in L.A. now. I start work again tomorrow and I’m…out running errands.”
She didn’t want to worry him with her actual current destination.
“That sounds ominous. Why do I get the feeling you’re not out shopping for a loaf of bread?”
“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I guess I’m just wiped out from all the travel. I’m actually almost here,” she lied. “Should I call back tonight or wait until tomorrow? I don’t want to mess with your fancy, puke bucket dinner.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he advised.
“Okay. Say hi to Ma. I love you.”
“Love you too,” he said, hanging up.
Jessie tried to focus on the road. The traffic was getting worse and the drive to the NRD facility, which took about forty-five minutes, still had a half hour left.
NRD, short for Non-Rehabilitative Division, was a special stand-alone unit affiliated with the Department State Hospital–Metropolitan in Norwalk. The main hospital was home to a wide array of mentally disordered perpetrators deemed unfit to serve time in a conventional prison.
But the NRD annex, unknown to the public and even to most law enforcement and mental health personnel, served a more clandestine role. It was designed to house a maximum of ten felons off the grid. Right now there were only five people being held there, all men, all serial rapists or killers. One of them was Bolton Crutchfield.
Jessie’s mind wandered to the most recent time she’d been there to see him. It was her last visit before she left for the National Academy, though she hadn’t told him that. Jessie had been visiting Crutchfield regularly ever since last fall, when she’d gotten permission to interview him as part of her master’s practicum. According to the staff there, he almost never consented to talk to doctors or researchers. But for reasons that didn’t become clear to her until later, he’d agreed to meet with her.
Over the next few weeks they came to a kind of agreement. He would discuss the particulars of his crimes, including methods and motives, if she shared some details of her own life. It seemed like a fair trade initially. After all, her goal was to become a criminal profiler specializing in serial killers. Having one willing to discuss the details of what he’d done could prove invaluable.
And there turned out to be an added bonus. Crutchfield had a Sherlock Holmesian ability to deduce information, even when locked in a cell in a mental hospital. He could discern details about Jessie’s life at that moment just by looking at her.
He’d used that skill, along with case information she shared, to give her clues to several crimes, including the murder of a wealthy Hancock Park philanthropist. He’d also tipped her off that her own husband might not be as trustworthy as he seemed.
Unfortunately for Jessie, his skills at deduction also worked against her. The reason she’d wanted to meet with Crutchfield in the first place was because she’d noticed that he’d modeled his murders after those of her father, legendary, never-caught serial killer Xander Thurman. But Thurman committed his crimes in rural Missouri over two decades earlier. It seemed like a random, obscure choice for a Southern California–based killer.
But it turned out that Bolton was a big fan. And once Jessie started by asking him about his interest in those old murders, it didn’t take him long to piece things together and determine that the young woman in front of him was personally connected to Thurman. Eventually he admitted that he knew she was his daughter. And he revealed one more tidbit—he’d met with her dad two years earlier.
With glee in his voice, he’d informed her that her father had entered the facility under the guise of a doctor and managed to have an extended conversation with the prisoner. Apparently he was looking for his daughter, whose name had been changed and who had been put in the Witness Protection Program after he killed her mother. He suspected that she might one day visit Crutchfield because their crimes were so similar. Thurman wanted Crutchfield to let him know if she ever showed up and give him her new name and location.
From that moment on, their relationship had an inequality that made her incredibly uncomfortable. Crutchfield still gave her information about his crimes and hints about others. But they both knew that he held all the cards.
He knew her new name. He knew what she looked like. He knew the city she lived in. At one point she discovered he even knew she’d been living at her friend Lacy’s place and where that was. And apparently, despite being incarcerated in a supposedly secret facility, he had the capability of giving her father all those details.
Jessie was pretty sure that was at least part of the reason that Lacy, an aspiring fashion designer, had taken a six-month gig working in Milan. It was a great opportunity but it was also half a world away from Jessie’s dangerous life.
As Jessie pulled off the freeway, only minutes from reaching NRD, she recalled how Crutchfield had finally pulled the trigger on the unspoken threat that had always hung over their meetings.
Maybe it was because he sensed she was leaving for several months. Maybe it was just out of spite. But the last time she’d looked through the glass into his devious eyes, he’d dropped a bombshell on her.
“I’ll be having a little chat with your father,” he’d told her in his courtly Southern accent. “I won’t spoil things by saying when. But it’s going to be lovely, I’m quite certain.”
She had barely managed to choke out the word “How?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Miss Jessie,” he’d said soothingly. “Just know that when we do talk, I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”
As she pulled onto the hospital property, she asked herself the same question that had been eating at her ever since, the one she could only put out of her head when she was intently focused on other work: had he really done it? While she was off learning how to catch people like him and her dad, had the two of them really met a second time, despite all the security precautions designed to prevent just that sort of thing?
She had a feeling that mystery was about to be solved.
CHAPTER FIVE
Entering the NRD unit was just as she’d remembered. After getting authorization to enter the enclosed hospital campus through a guard gate, she drove behind the main building to a second, smaller, nondescript one in the back.
It was a bland concrete and steel one-story structure in the middle of an unpaved parking lot. Only the roof was visible behind a large, green-meshed barbed-wire metal fence that surrounded the whole place.
She passed through a second guard gate to access NRD. After parking, she walked toward the main entrance, pretending to ignore the multiple security cameras that followed her every step. When she got to the exterior door, she waited to be buzzed in. Unlike the first time she’d come, she was now recognized by the staff and admitted on sight.
But that was only for the outer door. After passing through a small courtyard, she reached the main entrance to the facility, which had thick, bulletproof glass doors. She swiped her entry card, which made the panel light turn green. Then the security officer behind the desk inside, who could see the color change as well, buzzed her in, completing the entry process.
Jessie stood in a small vestibule, waiting for the outer door to close. Experience had taught her that the inner door couldn’t be opened until the outer one shut completely. Once it locked audibly, the security guard unlocked the interior door.
Jessie stepped inside, where a second armed officer stood waiting for her. He collected her personal belongings, which were minimal. She’d learned over time that she was better off leaving almost everything in the car, which was in no danger of being broken into.
The guard patted her down and then motioned for her to go through the airport security-style millimeter wave scanner, which gave a detailed impression of her entire body. After she’d gone through, her items were returned without a word. It was the only indication that she was free to continue on.
“Is Officer Gentry meeting me?” she asked the officer behind the desk.
The woman looked up at her, an expression of complete disinterest on her face. “She’ll be out in a moment. Just wait by the Transitional Prep door.”
Jessie did as she was instructed. Transitional Prep was the room where all visitors went to change before interacting with a patient. Once inside, they were required to change into gray, hospital-style scrubs, remove all jewelry, and wash off any makeup. As she’d been warned, these men didn’t need any additional stimulation.
A moment later, Officer Katherine “Kat” Gentry stepped out the prep door to greet her. She was a sight for sore eyes. Though they hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot when they’d first met last summer, now the two women were friends, connected by a shared awareness of the darkness inside some people. Jessie had grown to trust her so much that Kat was one of fewer than a half dozen people in the world who knew she was the daughter of the Ozarks Executioner.
As Kat walked over, Jessie noted once again how much of a hard-ass NRD’s head of security was. Physically imposing despite being an unexceptional five foot seven, her 140-pound body was comprised almost entirely of muscle and steel will. A former Army Ranger who’d served two tours in Afghanistan, she bore the remnants of those days on her face, which was pockmarked from shrapnel burns and had a long scar that started just below her left eye and ran vertically down the side of her cheek. Her gray eyes were measured, thoroughly taking in everything she saw to determine if it was a threat.