The Final Girl Read online

  Chelsey joined Thomas beside the wheel and concentrated on the beauty before them—the crystal blues of the lake, the endless green stretching through the valley and over the tree-covered hills. On a day like this one, it seemed summer would never end. But she knew better. Seasons changed and brought the unexpected.

  Thomas’s radio crackled on his hip. She didn’t like that he always brought the radio with him on his days off. As county sheriff, he needed to stay in touch with his deputies. But it seemed Thomas hadn’t enjoyed a vacation since returning to Wolf Lake from Los Angeles. Thomas gave Chelsey an apologetic glance as he lifted the radio.

  “Thomas here, deputy. Repeat.”

  As he turned the volume higher, Deputy Veronica Aguilar’s voice boomed through the speaker.

  “Sorry to bug you on your day off, Sheriff. There’s a woman’s body near the Nightshade County border in Oak Hollows Forest. I’m heading out to the site with Deputy Lambert. The medical examiner is en route.”

  “Give me forty-five minutes.”

  “Roger that.”

  So much for their relaxing day on the lake. Thomas sped toward the shore, the motorboat cutting through the water and shooting waves off the port and starboard sides.

  A shiver rolled through Chelsey as she braced herself against the hull. Was a murderer stalking upstate New York?

  3

  An interstate traffic jam delayed Naomi Mourning south of Syracuse. If it didn’t clear soon, they’d arrive late for her daughter’s appointment at the medical center. Pulling down the visor to shield her from the morning sun, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Horns honked like angry geese.

  She met Scout’s eyes in the mirror and gave her daughter a reassuring smile. No, fate wouldn’t be so cruel. If Naomi missed today’s appointment, who knew when the doctor would reschedule Scout’s surgery? They were lucky to get an appointment so soon. Her daughter had survived enough tragedy between the accident that left her paralyzed and the divorce with Scout’s father. Glen visited from Ithaca every few weeks, a marked improvement over the months he’d gone without seeing his daughter after the paralysis. He still blamed himself for what happened, though there was nothing he could have done to prevent the tractor trailer from smashing into their car.

  “We’ll get there on time.”

  “I’m not worried,” Scout said, turning her attention to her phone.

  The brake lights flicked off on the Jeep in front of them. Naomi pumped a fist in the air, but the Jeep stopped after coasting twenty yards up the highway. More horns. Some guy with a beer belly climbed out of his car and leaped twice, trying to determine what was causing the jam. After that, he wandered to a neighboring truck and conferred with a woman hanging an elbow through the open window.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Not sure,” Naomi said. “But I bet it will clear in a few minutes.”

  Scout stared at the angry, obese guy while he stomped back to his car. “People should learn patience. Throwing a fit won’t make traffic move.”

  Driving home Scout’s point, a man in a Porsche pressed his horn until Naomi was certain he’d drain his battery. Though that wasn’t likely unless he’d shut off his engine.

  “I don’t understand it, either. Some people can’t sit still for five seconds without losing their minds.”

  Traffic crept forward at a snail’s pace. At least they were moving again. When the glut stopped them, Naomi shifted into park and raised herself up in her seat. Her stomach turned when she spotted the problem. A white Volkswagen lay upside down, the front end mangled. A jackknifed tractor trailer angled across two lanes, the rear crumpled against a guardrail. Naomi hoped Scout hadn’t noticed. The accident hit too close to home.

  As Naomi watched her daughter in the mirror, Scout played with her phone. Normally, it bothered Naomi when teens spent too much time immersed with their devices. Thank goodness Scout had her phone to distract her today.

  Just then, the right lane opened up, and vehicles zippered toward the open highway. Naomi could see the whirling lights of two police cruisers ahead. An ambulance departed, as Naomi prayed no one had died.

  As Naomi predicted, impatient drivers jumped the line and cut each other off, rushing to escape traffic. If they followed the rules of the road and took turns, everyone would make it through. Instead, they risked more collisions. When an elderly woman in a BMW waved them through, Naomi lifted her hand and scooted into the right lane before someone else could cut her off. Now they moved at an even fifteen mph, the worst of the glut behind them. They were almost past the wreck when Scout gasped. Naomi searched for her daughter in the mirror. The teenager stared at the smashed vehicles.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Scout made a clicking sound in her throat before she returned to her phone. Naomi pushed the car faster as traffic thinned.

  Please, just let us reach the medical center in time.

  Naomi pulled into the parking garage five minutes before their scheduled appointment time. There would be forms to fill out in the office, and as she searched the second level of the garage, she realized she didn’t know where to find the elevator. After setting up the wheelchair, she opened the door and scooped Scout out of the backseat. Her daughter’s legs hung limp over her arm. It was a struggle to haul the one-hundred-pound teenager from the car to the chair. She’d forgotten to lock the wheels, and the wheelchair kept rolling away. An embarrassed scowl fell over Scout’s face. The poor girl thought herself a burden.

  “This isn’t a problem,” Naomi said, sweat breaking out on her forehead as she wrestled Scout into the chair. She wished LeVar was here to help, but he had summer class this morning and an exam before lunch. “Keep your eyes open for the elevator.”

  Naomi wheeled Scout through the dingy garage. The interior stank of exhaust fumes and fuel. Water dripped from the ceiling and puddled on the chipped concrete floor. She was almost to the end of the row when a pickup truck flew around the corner, tires squealing, and nearly flattened them. Naomi shouted and pulled her daughter aside. The truck disappeared down the ramp.

  “There it is, Mom,” Scout said, pointing at the elevator doors.

  Naomi looked both ways, afraid another reckless driver would turn the corner and take them out. The coast was clear. Naomi pushed Scout to the elevator doors and pressed the button.

  She found the back and spine clinic on the eighth floor. For the life of her, Naomi couldn’t fathom why they asked patients in wheelchairs and with bad backs to travel to the top floor. There were no free chairs in the waiting room. It seemed all of Syracuse had scheduled appointments this morning. After she completed the paperwork, Naomi grabbed an open chair when the nurse called an elderly man into the doctor’s office. Scout busied herself with a magazine and Naomi chewed a nail, one leg crossed over the other and bouncing with nervous energy. Two men across from them sat in wheelchairs. A fifty-something woman with blonde hair sat back in her chair in obvious pain. A cane stood beside her.

  “Scout?”

  Naomi lifted her head when the nurse called them. Inside the office, the mustached man typed at a terminal as Naomi and Scout answered his questions.

  “All right,” he said, closing the laptop. “Dr. Franco will be in soon.”

  The door closed. The silence made Naomi’s mind run wild. She’d read conflicting information on the internet. Some articles claimed the surgery carried high risks, while others purported the operation was safe, but results varied. For many patients, the surgery didn’t work, yet in one article—

  The door swung open, and a dark-haired woman with bifocals entered the room. Dr. Wanda Franco didn’t appear a day over thirty.

  “You must be Scout,” Franco said, shaking the girl’s hand.

  After Franco greeted Naomi, the doctor squirted sanitizer on her hands and rubbed them together. She sat on a rolling chair and slid forward. The doctor asked all the usual questions about Scout’s current prescriptions (the teenager didn’t take any medications) and if she experienced pain. Next, she tested the girl’s reflexes. Scout’s legs never budged, despite Franco tapping her knees several times.

  “And you witnessed Scout move her leg?”

  “Her friend did,” Naomi said, chewing another nail. She forced herself to stop before she bit it down to the quick. “LeVar—that’s Scout’s friend—carried her into the lake a few weeks ago.” When Franco raised an eyebrow, Naomi waved the concern away. “LeVar only took Scout into the shallows, and we were all on the shore if anything happened.”

  “It’s highly unusual for someone to regain movement after three years. Are you sure Scout’s leg didn’t bounce against her friend’s arm while he carried her?”

  “It moved,” Scout said, lifting her head. “My lower leg kicked up after my toes touched the water.”

  Franco gave the girl a curious stare. “Did you feel the water, Scout?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a cold sensation?”

  Scout shook her head.

  The doctor conducted more tests, this time removing Scout’s shoes and socks.

  “Do you feel this?” Franco asked, prodding Scout’s foot.

  “Nope.”

  “How about this?”

  “Nothing.”

  Naomi wondered if Scout and LeVar imagined the kick because they wished for the girl to walk again. Franco’s wrinkled brow made Naomi think the doctor had considered the same idea. But as the doctor typed notes at her computer, Scout insisted her leg had moved.

  “There’s no question about it. Scout is a classic candidate for this procedure, though I must ask why you waited so long to schedule the surgery.”

  Naomi glanced at Scout, then at Franco. Memories from the last three years struck her in the chest. Their insurance hadn’t been worth the paper it was printed on, and they’d settled for the only clinic she could afford.

  “Our doctor never thought . . .” Naomi left the sentence unfinished, unwilling to say the doctor didn’t believe Scout would ever walk again. “Anyhow, our insurance wasn’t very good. Maybe that’s why he didn’t recommend the operation.”

  Franco assessed them through the bottoms of her eyes. “Any doctor worth his or her salt should have suggested the procedure. You said your insurance wasn’t good. How about now?”

  “Our coverage is topnotch. I switched jobs, and the benefits are much better than before.”

  “Excellent.” The doctor swiveled her chair to face Naomi. “Let’s talk about the procedure. Have you researched the surgery?”

  “A little. Just on Google.”

  “Please don’t,” Franco said, with a chuckle. “The internet is notorious for misleading medical information. Still, it’s important you both understand the risks.”

  Naomi swallowed.

  “The surgery is relatively new. We’ll apply electrical stimulation to Scout’s spine, compensating for the damaged spinal cord.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Not usually. But any surgery involving the spine carries risk, as does anesthesia. Scout won’t be awake during the procedure.”

  Naomi turned to her daughter. “Are you comfortable with that?”

  “I just want to try.”

  Franco said, “If the procedure is successful, Scout will regain movement in her lower body after she awakens.”

  “So I’ll be able to walk again?”

  “I can’t promise you that, Scout. Please understand the sample size of data is too small to be reliable. Early studies indicate the operation works on approximately fifty percent of patients. And when I say it works, I mean they regain sensation in their lower bodies and some degree of movement.”

  Scout sent Naomi a worried look.

  Naomi laid a hand over Scout’s. “Some degree of movement?”

  “It’s highly variable,” Franco said. “Some regain enough function to move objects with their legs. Others stand or walk with assistance, with a cane or a walker. And some make a complete recovery. I read an article in The Times last year about a patient who ran a marathon four months after surgery. I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but we’re learning on the fly.” Franco set her glasses on the counter. “The good news is we’ve learned a lot over the last several years. We’ve honed the operation and developed best practices, and we’ve learned a few things from our patients. If Scout’s leg moved on its own, the chances for a favorable outcome are higher. Do you have questions?”

  Naomi shared a look with her daughter. Scout’s eyes burned with an intense determination Naomi only witnessed when the girl was hot on the trail of a fugitive criminal.

  “This is what Scout wants, and I support her one hundred percent.”

  Franco smiled. “Then let’s move forward. As my office explained over the phone, we received a lucky break. We have an opening for surgery in nine days.”

  “Where will the surgery occur?”

  “Right in this building.” Franco angled her chair toward Scout. “And I’ll perform the surgery, Scout. How does that sound?”

  “I’m ready to do it today.”

  “You won’t need to wait much longer. Nine days will fly by. In the meantime, if you have questions, call my office. Otherwise, I’ll see you in nine days.”

  They shook hands again. Naomi’s heart pounded as she wheeled Scout to the elevator.

  For Scout’s sake, the surgery had to work.

  4

  Shayla Pierce’s eyes snapped open to a concrete room with one tiny window six inches below the ceiling. At first, she wasn’t sure where she was. Her brain convinced her she was in the cellar of her childhood home before she recognized her surroundings.

  He’d brought her here. The psycho under the bed. Shayla and Brooke had awakened in the basement with no idea where they were or how they’d arrived. The memory rocketed her blood pressure and made her head swim. She turned back to the window. Even if she freed her wrists, there was no way to reach the window. He’d left the basement devoid of furniture, nothing to stand on. If she scaled the wall, she’d never fit through the window. Though Brooke might squeeze through the opening.

  Shayla listened for her daughter’s gentle breathing and heard nothing. She spun around and searched for Brooke, panic surging into her throat when she realized the girl was missing.

  Struggling to her feet, Shayla stumbled to the door, her feet screaming with pins-and-needles until the blood rushed into them.

  “Where’s my daughter? Please, give her back!”

  The ceiling squeaked over her head as the man rose from a chair. What was the man doing to her daughter?

  “She’s only four,” she cried before the door. “Please, don’t touch her. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t harm my daughter.”

  She waited for a reply. Several seconds passed before the floorboards groaned. His footsteps trailed across the ceiling as he moved from one room to the next, in no rush to appease Shayla. She paced the room and searched each corner for anything she could use to escape the basement. There was a plastic stand with two shelves in the corner. The bargain basement stand wouldn’t support a toddler, let alone an adult. On the lower shelf, she found three stuffed animals—a mangy teddy bear missing one button for an eye, a green dinosaur with the stuffing spilling out the back, and a cloth doll with yellow yarn for hair. The doll wore a pink dress with yellow flowers.

  Shayla rested her back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. How long had the madman held them in the basement? She’d lost track of time. It might have been days or months. Without a clock, she only had the sunlight washing against the window to tell her it was morning or afternoon. At night, their abductor set bland meals on the floor while they slept. Sometimes she spied the man through slitted eyes and pretended to sleep. He loomed over her with lust on his face and hate in his eyes, a dichotomy she didn’t understand.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this man from somewhere. Perhaps she’d passed him in town.

  Shayla moved to the door and listened again. No sounds came from the stairway. She wasn’t certain where the stairs led, but she assumed they ended at the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs was always strong in the morning when he opened the door to check on them.

  Where was Brooke?

  As if to answer her, the man clomped across the ceiling and opened the door. She shrank away when he descended the stairs, the wooden steps groaning beneath his weight. Shayla edged backward and stood behind a support beam. The knob turned on the cellar door before it flew open.

  Here was the man with the psychotic grin, the monster who’d hid under her bed. It sent chills down Shayla’s spine that the same man had stalked them at the cabin. Brooke hadn’t imagined the monster at the window. How long had he followed them?

  Shayla drew a breath when she saw Brooke beside him. The girl’s cheeks were chapped from dried tears, and her eyes were white saucers of terror.

  “Mommy?”

  “I’m here, Brooke,” she said, staggering from behind the beam. “It’s okay. Mommy will protect you.”

  The man quirked an eyebrow, calling her bluff. How would she protect her daughter while she remained at the madman’s mercy?

  “I brought you Brooke, as you requested.”

  Shayla stepped closer. She wanted to grab Brooke by the arm and pull the girl behind her. The fire in the man’s eye warned her to keep her distance.

  “You didn’t hurt my daughter, did you?”

  “I would never hurt a child.” He grinned at Brooke and set a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Brooke flinched as if electrocuted. “She played games while I watched baseball.”

  “Is that true, baby girl? He didn’t touch you?”

  Brooke stared up at the man as though seeking permission to answer. He nodded.

  “I played a game called Candy Land, Mommy.”

  “Come here, Brooke.”

  Brooke glanced at the man as she took two hesitant steps. Then she ran to Shayla and threw her arms around her mother’s legs. Shayla stroked her daughter’s hair.