The Missing

lust for causing pain, although Taige suspected the man did enjoy inflicting the pain. She could hear his harsh, labored breathing, but it sounded more like the gasps of a man in the throes of passion than exertion. Fury drove him. Though she couldn’t see him, and though her gift was one of thought, not emotion, she could feel his fury. It beat at her, crawled over her, digging into her flesh like a thousand little knives.

    The boy screamed again and again, until his voice gave out, and then he went silent. He retreated into the safety of his own mind—and Taige felt it when his mind finally gave out. Inside, he stopped living. Although his body still bled and his heart still beat, what had made the boy alive was gone. As Taige came clawing back into awareness, she knew that it had been a blessing.

    She was on the floor, a quivering, sweaty mess, and she shoved to her knees. Before she could lurch to her feet, her stomach rebelled. Jones was there, shoving a pot under her just before she would have puked all over the floor. It was a sense of fastidiousness that had him holding her hair as she puked, not compassion, but she was thankful, nonetheless. Her eyes burned, and her throat felt raw as she sat back on her heels.

    “God.” Closing her eyes, Taige said a prayer under her breath. A prayer for strength to do what she had to, a prayer for justice, a prayer to stop the man before he killed again. She’d saved Jillian, but that wasn’t enough now. She had to save them all, stop this man before he could hurt another soul.

    When she opened her eyes, she saw Jones watching her with faint amusement. “Considering what your uncle did to you in the name of God, it’s a wonder you pray at all.”

    “My uncle did it, not God, Jones,” she said tersely. Slowly, every muscle in her body protesting, she pushed herself upright. Taige doubted she had the strength to stand, though. Instead, she rested there on her heels and waited until her breathing slowed. She jerked her chin back to the coffee table where two more pictures still sat. “Those pictures of the boy or other people?”

    “Others. Two girls. Did you see anything?”

    She shook her head jerkily. “Not much. Not him.” Taige didn’t need to clarify. She didn’t like Taylor Jones, but she knew him well, and she knew what he had been hoping for when he showed her those pictures. “I can’t help you find him—not yet. The boy couldn’t see him.”

    “His name was Kendrick.”

    Kendrick. Taige squeezed her eyes closed and tried to block out the sound of his screams. “He had a sweet smile.”

    Jones didn’t respond to that. Instead, he rose to his feet and went back to his briefcase. “I have the original file from his case. He disappeared in 1982 from a mall in Atlanta. He was there with his mother, picking out clothes for school. He would have started third grade that year.”

    “Third grade,” Taige murmured. “He was so young.”

    Jones glanced at the pictures and then back at her. “I’ll warn you now. One of the girls was even younger.”

    With a grimace, Taige said, “I need a drink.”

    “You drink too much as it is.”

    Her legs still felt way too unstable as she shoved to her feet. Three unsteady steps had her back to the couch, and she collapsed on it thankfully. “Considering the shit you dump on me, it’s amazing I still have a functioning liver.” She started to ask how young, but then she shook her head. It was best she not know much before she looked at the picture.

    “Did you notice anything unusual about the boy?”

    Frowning, Taige asked, “Like what?”

    “Like the fact that he was like you.”

    Taige blinked. “Like me how?”

    “Gifted.” Jones leaned back into the dark blue leather of his chair, watching her closely. “His mother ran away with him when he was two, because his father was using him to help win at the races. The boy knew which horse would win, which would lose. All before he could even tie his shoes.”

    “Could it be just dumb luck?”

    Once more, Jones glanced at the coffee table.

    Taige felt something sick spin inside her.

    “It could, but you and I don’t believe in coincidences, do we? Jillian is gifted. Kendrick was gifted—and at least one other victim that we’ve identified.”

    No. It wasn’t coincidence. Taige reached up and wiped a hand over her mouth. She felt numb inside, chilled from the fear. Three victims. No way was that a coincidence. Which meant