The lights vanished so completely that for one second I thought I had closed my eyes. The little upstairs storage room became nothing but cardboard smells, Bentley’s fingers digging into my sleeve, and the soft metallic sound of Detective Ortiz drawing her weapon beneath her coat.
“Stay behind me,” she said.
Bentley whispered, “The key.”
Ortiz already had it. I heard the evidence bag crackle as she pushed it into an inside pocket. “Forget the key. Stay with Mrs. Keene.”
From downstairs came another sound: the slow scrape of the basement door against its frame. Whoever had entered knew enough about the old duplex to move without fumbling. That frightened me more than crashing glass would have.
“Doug is downstairs,” I whispered.
Ortiz froze.
In the shock of the power failing, I had pictured only Travis entering. My son had still been in the kitchen when we climbed upstairs. If Travis had come through the shared cellar, Doug stood somewhere between him and us.
Ortiz touched the radio clipped beneath her coat. “Unit two, possible entry through rear basement. Power is down. Approach quietly.”
Static answered.
Then a man's voice rose from the first floor.
“Ma?”
Doug.
Another voice followed almost immediately.
“Don't move.”
Bentley stopped breathing.
He knew it.
So did I.
Travis Ward had made it inside.
Ortiz stepped into the hallway, but I caught the edge of her sleeve. “My son.”
“I know.”
Below us, Doug said, “Who the hell are you?”
“You already know.”
“No, I don't.”
“You gave me information over the phone.”
Silence.
Even in darkness, I could imagine Doug understanding.
Travis continued calmly. “All I need is something that belongs to me. Nobody has to get hurt.”
“You need to leave.”
“I will.”
A floorboard creaked.
“After I get the key.”
Bentley flinched beside me.
Ortiz leaned toward my ear. “Take him into the back bedroom. Lock the door.”
“No.”
That came from Bentley.
She turned.
“I need you safe.”
“My dad knows I'm here.”
“That is exactly why you need to move.”
“If I hide, he'll come upstairs looking.”
There was logic in it, terrible logic produced by a child who had already spent too much time thinking like prey.
Ortiz lowered her voice. “Bentley, trusting me means doing what I say even if you don't understand why yet.”
He stared into the darkness.
Then Doug's voice came from below.
“There are police outside.”
Travis laughed quietly.
“I know.”
My stomach turned.
He had seen them.
He had entered anyway.
A hard thump shook something downstairs.
I started toward the stairwell before Ortiz caught my arm.
“Mrs. Keene.”
“That's my son.”
“And I need you alive.”
Another sound followed, then Doug cursed.
Bentley whispered, “He hurt him.”
Ortiz made a decision.
“Stay against the wall. Both of you.”
She moved down the stairs.
I kept one hand on Bentley's shoulder and the other against the banister, feeling for each step with my toes.
Halfway down, emergency lights flashed through the front curtains. Red, then blue, then darkness, repeating across the walls.
The patrol officers had arrived.
Travis must have seen them too.
“Don't come farther!” Ortiz shouted.
Everything below us went silent.
Then Travis answered.
“Lena.”
The familiarity in his voice stopped her.
“You remember me.”
Ortiz reached the bottom step.
“Hands where I can see them.”
A dim beam from someone's flashlight swept across the living room.
For one second, I saw the scene.
Doug stood beside the kitchen table, one hand pressed to his mouth. Blood ran between his fingers from a split lip.
Travis was behind him.
He wasn't holding a gun.
He had one arm locked across Doug's chest and a screwdriver pressed near the side of his neck.
The sight was almost absurdly ordinary. Ray had owned dozens of screwdrivers exactly like it.
Ortiz aimed steadily.
“Let him go.”
Travis smiled.
“You still point weapons first and ask questions later.”
“You entered an occupied home after being told to leave.”
“My son is in this house.”
“That doesn't give you the right to break in.”
“He's my child.”
Bentley moved beside me.
Travis saw him.
His expression changed instantly.
For the first time, the calm exterior cracked.
“Benji.”
I felt Bentley's entire body go rigid.
Travis lowered the screwdriver slightly.
“My God. Look at you.”
Bentley stared down the stairs.
He didn't answer.
“Come here.”
“No,” Ortiz said.
Travis ignored her.
“Benji, I'm your dad.”
Bentley's fingers found mine.
“I know.”
Something like relief crossed Travis's face.
“Your mother has told you a lot of garbage about me.”
Bentley remained silent.
“I never stopped looking for you.”
That was when Bentley answered.
“You stopped when you thought Mom was dead.”
Travis's face changed.
The soft expression disappeared.
Only for an instant.
But Bentley saw it.
I felt his hand tighten around mine.
“Who told you that?” Travis asked.
“My mom.”
“She lies.”
“So do you.”
Doug closed his eyes.
Ortiz didn't move her weapon.
Travis looked toward the staircase again.
“I just need the key.”
Bentley swallowed.
“What key?”
“Don't.”
Ortiz's voice was sharp.
Travis smiled slightly.
“Smart kid.”
Bentley looked at me.
The brass key was hidden inside Ortiz's coat. Travis could not know we had already found it unless he had been watching the upstairs room closely—or unless somebody had told him.
“Why do you want it?” Bentley asked.
“It belongs to me.”
“Mom hid it from you.”
“Your mother stole it.”
“Because you killed somebody?”
Every muscle in Travis's face hardened.
Doug turned his head toward him.
Ortiz said, “Bentley, enough. Back upstairs.”
But the boy remained where he was.
He had spent years with missing pieces inside his memory. Now the man who occupied those blank spaces stood fifteen feet away.
“Did you kill Marcus?”
Travis's eyes narrowed.
“Who told you that name?”
That was the answer.
Not legally.
Not completely.
But to Bentley, it was enough.
He stepped backward.
Travis suddenly tightened his arm around Doug.
“Give me the key, Lena.”
Ortiz's voice stayed level. “Release him.”
“I walk out the basement. Nobody follows for five minutes.”
“No.”
“Then your friend's son gets hurt because she decided to play hero.”
Doug tried to twist free.
The screwdriver pressed closer.
I heard myself say Travis's name.
He looked at me.
“You came here because you think a ten-year-old owes you something.”
His expression became almost amused.
“I came because Amber has destroyed enough lives.”
“Then why are you hiding behind my son?”
The amusement disappeared.
Good.
I continued.
“You told me you only wanted to talk. You told police you hadn't threatened anyone. Now you're holding a tool to a man's throat because a child won't give you a key.”
“Shut up.”
There it was again.
The mask slipping.
I kept talking.
“You needed everyone to believe Amber was unstable because otherwise they might look at you.”
“Ma,” Doug whispered.
Travis jerked him backward.
“Shut her up.”
But Doug didn't.
Instead he drove one heel down onto Travis's foot.
It happened fast.
Travis swore.
Doug dropped his weight.
Ortiz moved.
The screwdriver clattered across the floor.
Two officers came through the front door almost simultaneously.
Travis lunged toward the hallway leading to the basement.
He made it three steps.
An officer tackled him before he reached the door.
The old wall shook with the impact.
Bentley buried his face against my shoulder.
I wrapped both arms around him.
Below us came commands, curses, the snap of handcuffs, then a voice announcing that Travis Ward was in custody.
Doug sat against the kitchen cabinets holding a towel to his mouth.
Ortiz lowered her weapon.
For several seconds, no one seemed to know what to do with the sudden absence of danger.
Then Travis laughed.
It was a low, breathless sound from the floor.
“You think this changes anything?”
Ortiz ignored him.
“You found the key,” he said.
She turned.
That caught everyone's attention.
Travis smiled through a split lip.
“I saw the light upstairs. Saw all of you staring into the toy.”
Bentley lifted his head.
“You were outside?”
“Long before you noticed.”
Ortiz's eyes narrowed.
“How long?”
Travis looked directly at Bentley.
“Long enough.”
An officer pulled him upright.
He kept staring at his son.
“You think your landlord's phone call brought me here?”
Doug went pale.
Travis smiled again.
“I found you before that.”
Bentley said nothing.
“I watched you walk to that bus stop two weeks ago.”
Two weeks.
Before Amber collapsed.
Before the water was shut off.
Before Doug told him about Maddie.
Ortiz stepped closer.
“What are you saying?”
Travis's smile faded.
“I knew where Amber was before she ever saw my truck.”
The officers led him toward the front door.
Bentley watched him pass.
Travis stopped just long enough to say, “Ask your mother who told me.”
Then he was taken outside.
The patrol lights strobed across the ceiling.
Nobody spoke.
Ortiz went directly to the black Ford.
Twenty minutes later, she returned carrying a sealed plastic bag.
Inside was a cheap mobile phone.
She placed it on the table.
“The officers found this beneath the driver's seat.”
Doug stared at it.
“What is it?”
“A prepaid phone.”
Ortiz had already seen enough to make her expression hard.
“There are photographs on it.”
My stomach tightened.
“Of what?”
She looked at Bentley.
“Of this house.”
“How recent?”
“Some are dated eighteen days ago.”
Bentley went still.
Ortiz scrolled again.
“There are pictures of Amber leaving for work. Bentley at the bus stop. Doug's truck.”
Then she stopped.
Her eyes remained on the screen.
“What?” I asked.
She turned the phone toward me.
The photograph showed Amber standing in the grocery-store parking lot across town.
Beside her was a man I didn't recognize.
The timestamp was almost a month old.
Bentley leaned closer.
“Who is that?”
Ortiz's expression had changed completely.
“I don't know.”
Then she enlarged the image.
On the stranger's jacket was the logo of the medical laundry service where Amber worked.
Ortiz looked at me.
“Travis didn't discover Amber by accident.”
She glanced toward the door through which he had just been taken.
“Someone in her current life led him straight to her.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Key Opened Unit B17, but What Detective Ortiz Found Inside Forced Amber to Admit She Had Known Marcus Bell Before His Death
For Nine Mornings Bentley Knocked at 7:10, and Every Polite Request Made the Silence Next Door Feel Stranger
Part 9 of 15
