PROLOGUE: EVE KNOX
Friday, December 22, 1995
Eve wasn’t even supposed to be in these caves. They had a dizzying number of stony corridors and with one wrong turn she could become lost. At fifteen she knew these paths better than most people twice her age, and she moved as quickly as she could, being careful not to slip on the icy cave floor. Eve had come here to clear her head, to think about things and now she may never make it out alive.
Fear made Eve’s skin buzz, numbing the pain in her head and her wrist. She considered her options. She could try to talk her way out or she could try to run from the cave and to safety.
She didn’t get a chance to decide. Before she could speak fingers were digging into her arm trying to push her more deeply into the cave. Eve managed to wriggle free but lost her balance and stumbled to the ground. Her fingers swept the floor in search of some kind of weapon and her hand landed on a jagged piece of limestone. She clutched onto the rock and with a cry of frustration she swung her arm hoping to strike but only cut through the damp air. She swung again, this time grazing flesh.
Eve tried to get up but was pulled back to the ground with a teeth-rattling crash. She twisted around to see talon-like fingers clinging to her boot.
“No,” Eve cried, kicking out at her captor. She tore away from the grasp and ran toward the cave’s opening, hopscotching over jagged stone. Almost there, Eve thought as her right foot plunged into a narrow crevice and she tumbled forward.
The sickening snap of her ankle filled her ears and Eve howled in pain. Using her good hand, she tried to push herself up to her knees but her right foot was still snared. Only twenty yards more and she would be free. She gave her leg a desperate yank, the gasping, ragged breath closing in. Her skin tore and her Doc Marten was lost, but the foot came free.
She army-crawled across the rough stone toward the mouth of the cave, the ends of her scarf cascading down her back as she moved. Almost there. Suddenly, the scarf pulled tight at her throat. Eve froze but still the pressure. She scrabbled at the fabric, desperately trying to slide her fingers between the wool and her skin. Her legs felt weak and her lungs screamed for oxygen. Night had fallen and the only light came from the houses far up atop the bluffs, twinkling cold stars. Tiny beacons. Only a little bit farther, Eve thought. I’m so close.
With one frantic effort, she managed to flip onto her back but the scarf didn’t loosen. It cut still deeper into her throat. Her screams became lodged in her chest. Her vision blurred and her arms fell uselessly to her side. Above her, Eve found eyes filled with rage. There was no fear, no regret, no sorrow. No air could pass through to her lungs. The cold crept through her skin, settling deep into Eve’s bones until she became one with the slick limestone.
How did things go so wrong? Eve wondered. Why? Just beyond the cave, night had fully arrived. Snow came down in dizzying swirls. Dark places made it so much easier to be cruel, to exact revenge.
MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE
Monday, June 15, 2020
As I slide out of my unmarked police car my swollen belly briefly gets wedged against the steering wheel. Sucking in my gut does little good but I manage to move the seat back and squeeze past the wheel. I swing my legs out the open door and glance furtively around the parking lot behind the Grotto Police Department to see if anyone is watching.
Almost eight months pregnant with a girl and not at my most graceful, I’m not crazy about the idea of one of my fellow officers seeing me try to pry myself out of this tin can. The coast appears to be clear so I begin the little ritual of rocking back and forth trying to build up enough momentum to launch myself out of the driver’s seat.
Once upright, I pause to catch my breath. The morning dew is already sending up steam from the weeds growing out of the cracked concrete. Sweating, I slowly make my way to the rear entrance of the Old Gray Lady, the nickname for the building we’re housed in. Built in the early 1900s, the first floor consists of the lobby, the fingerprinting and intake center, a community room, interview rooms and the jail. The second floor, which once held the old jail, is home to the squad room and offices. The dank, dark basement holds a temperamental boiler and the department archives.
The Grotto Police Department has sixteen sworn officers; that includes the chief, two lieutenants, a K-9 patrol officer, nine patrol officers, a school resource officer and two detectives. I’m detective number two.
I grew up in Grotto, a small river town of about ten thousand that sits among a circuitous cave system known as Grotto Caves State Park, the most extensive in Iowa. Besides being a favorite destination spot for families, hikers and spelunkers, Grotto is known for its high number of family-owned farms—a dying breed. My husband, Shaun, and I are part of that breed—we own an apple orchard and tree farm.
“Pretty soon we’re going to have to roll you in,” an irritatingly familiar voice calls out from behind me.
I don’t bother turning around. “Francis, that wasn’t funny the first fifty times you said it and it still isn’t.” I scan my key card to let us in.
Pete Francis, an overconfident rookie officer, grabs the door handle and in a rare show of chivalry opens it so I can step through. “You know I’m just joking,” Francis says, giving me the grin that young ladies in Grotto seem to find irresistible but just gives me another reason to roll my eyes.
“With the wrong person, those kinds of jokes will land you in sensitivity training,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but you’re not the wrong person, right?” he says seriously. “You’re cool?”
I wave to Peg behind the reception desk and stop at the elevator and punch the number two. The police department may only have two levels but I’m in no mood to climb even one flight of stairs today. “Do I look like I’m okay with it?” I ask him.
Francis scans me up and down. He takes in my brown hair pulled back in a low bun, wayward curls springing out from all directions, my eyes red from lack of sleep, my untucked shirt, the fabric stretched tight against my round stomach, my sturdy shoes that I think are tied, but I can’t know for sure because I can’t see over my boulder-sized belly.
“Sorry,” he says, appropriately contrite, and wisely decides to take the stairs rather than ride the elevator with me.
“You’re forgiven,” I call after him. As I step on the elevator to head up to my desk, I check my watch. My appointment with the chief is at eight and though he didn’t tell me what the exact reason is for this meeting I think I can make a pretty good guess.
Protocol can’t dictate when I have to go on light duty, but seven months into my pregnancy, it’s probably time. I’m guessing that Chief Digby wants to talk with me about when I want to begin desk duty or take my maternity leave. I get it.
It’s time I start to take it easy. I’ve either been the daughter of a cop or a cop my entire life but I’m more than ready to set it aside for a while and give my attention, twenty-four/seven, to the little being inhabiting my uterus.