Winter Black Box Set 2 Read online

  “Oh, you’re here.” Aiden’s voice was as flat and unimpressed as Noah’s.

  Though she wanted to crawl beneath the table to avoid their scrutiny, Winter straightened in her chair and crossed both arms over her chest.

  “Get it out of your systems,” she ordered. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Aiden rolled his eyes as he eased the glass and metal door closed behind himself. “Right. Work.”

  From where he sat in the shadows off to the side, Max cleared his throat. “Dalton, Parrish, stop acting like a couple pissy teenagers and get to it. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  Winter had to stop herself from jumping at the sudden disturbance. She’d been so preoccupied with Noah’s sarcastic greeting that she hadn’t even noticed her boss.

  “Roger that,” Noah grumbled.

  “What did you find?” Bree’s calm demeanor was a stark contrast from the tension that permeated every other square inch of the damn room.

  Glancing from Bree to Winter and then back, Aiden took a seat in the chair beside Noah’s.

  “A month and a half ago,” Noah bit out, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen, “we ran a picture of Justin Black through a new age progression software prototype to generate an image of what he’d look like now. The program is clearly new and still in beta, but its algorithms let you add photos of family members to make the image more accurate. Its primary use will be in missing persons cases and to generate images of fugitives who’ve been on the run for years at a time.”

  Winter wanted to ask what he meant when he said “we” ran the picture through age progression software, wanted to ask why they hadn’t thought to make use of the program sooner, but every word coming from her brain got caught in her throat as he turned the laptop to face her and Bree.

  “That’s him,” was all she could manage.

  Blue eyes the same unusual hue as her own stared back at her, and the light shadow of facial hair darkened the young man’s cheeks. His black hair was short but styled. Where she remembered a goofy, gap-toothed grin, the smile now showed off straight, white teeth.

  Though Bill Black, Winter’s father, had braces during his early high school years, Winter and Justin’s mother was born with a perfect smile. Without a doubt, Winter had inherited her mother’s dental genes, but she, of course, never knew how Justin had fared.

  Noah met Winter’s gaze for the shortest of moments. “We went through all the shit Kilroy left behind.” Any irritability or sarcasm was gone.

  “And then we went through it again,” Aiden put in.

  Winter’s intent stare was on the computer screen, but she saw Noah nod from the corner of her eye.

  “And again,” Aiden said before lifting his shoulders in a heavy shrug. “We caught a break when a woman who’d been out of the country for six months returned home and recognized Kilroy’s picture as someone who utilized a storage unit close to her own.”

  Winter leaned forward, her breath barely wanting to leave her lungs. “What did you find?”

  Aiden’s glance flicked to her for the space of a second. “Among boxes of useless shit, he had a folder full of mostly useless shit. Newspaper clippings of other crimes like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy’s murders. But there was something else in there, something that just didn’t look like it belonged.”

  Winter felt a new energy crackle in the air. It was hope. She knew the feeling well, and most often, despised it.

  Aiden went on. “It was an unmarked envelope containing a letter about parent-teacher conferences at Bowling Green High School, the home of the Bowling Green Timberwolves. I thought it might’ve been Bowling Green, Kentucky at first, but none of their high schools have a team called the Timberwolves. But there’s a town a little bit north of here, Bowling Green, Virginia, and their high school mascot is a wolf.” Aiden he tapped a couple keys on his laptop. “We looked through the school’s records.”

  When he pushed the computer toward her, another photo lit up the screen. The young man was almost identical to the first, right down to the creases at the corners of his eyes.

  “Holy shit,” Bree murmured.

  Winter opened and closed her mouth, but she couldn’t summon a single word to her lips. As she shifted her focus down to the name below the school picture, her stomach lurched.

  “Jaime Peterson,” she breathed. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded harried and weary, almost like she’d spent the previous night shouting.

  No matter what the photograph said, she knew the kid who stared back at her was not Jaime Peterson.

  He was her baby brother. He was Justin Black.

  5

  Dr. Robert Ladwig hated making phone calls. He never knew what to do with himself during the conversation, and he often resorted to picking at a label or a sticker, anything that would give his fingers something to do.

  The majority of the outbound calls made to his patients were handled by one of the two full-time desk clerks, but the dial tone that buzzed in his ear was not a routine phone call.

  Months had passed since the so-called football player, Brady Lomond, had all but run out of his office. Robert’s curiosity had been piqued, but when he went to double-check the man’s intake form, he learned that Lomond had faked almost every piece of information.

  Lomond wasn’t the first person to falsify personal details, and Robert doubted he’d be the last, but the similarity of Lomond’s alleged symptoms to Winter Black’s was too striking to ignore.

  For the fifth time in the past two weeks, Robert sat at his desk and listened to the monotonous buzz as he waited for the voicemail he was sure would come. He had been surprised to learn that “Brady’s” phone number was active, and though he doubted the repeat calls would yield any useful information, he would be remiss if he didn’t try.

  Just as he was prepared to leave yet another generic message for whoever in the hell owned the number, he heard a light click. He pulled the smartphone away from his face to check if the line had been disconnected, but he froze in place.

  The call had connected.

  “Hello?” a voice finally asked.

  “Yes, hello.” Robert’s voice was warm and soothing. The man was not Brady Lomond, but there was a real possibility that the Texan had scrawled out contact information for a friend or family member without realizing the mistake.

  “Who is this?” The man sounded equal parts annoyed and skeptical.

  “Hi, I’m sorry, this is Dr. Ladwig, and I’m looking for Brady Lomond. Do I have the right number?”

  “Brady who? No, dude. Look, you’ve called this number like fifteen times and left me seven voicemails. I don’t know who in the hell you are, and I don’t know who in the hell Brady Lomond is. Please, take this number off your list. I’m not going to sign up for a credit card or buy a case of whatever in the hell you’re selling.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Robert said. He made sure to keep his tone pleasant. He still represented his practice. “Someone must’ve put down the wrong phone number. I’ll make sure you don’t get any more calls from us. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “All right, no worries. Thanks.”

  As Robert dropped the phone back to the wooden desk, he combed the fingers of one hand through his hair and heaved a sigh.

  “Well, this isn’t good, is it?” he asked the empty room.

  Lomond’s condition might have piqued Robert’s curiosity, but he didn’t want to locate Brady Lomond—or whoever in the hell he actually was—strictly for his own sake.

  As if on cue, his work phone buzzed against the polished surface. He hadn’t saved the caller’s contact information, but he knew that number. With every damn call, he had committed the number to memory as he stared at the screen and forced himself to pick up the device.

  “This is Dr. Ladwig.” He made the formal greeting out of habit. The caller knew who he was.

  “Hello, Robert,” the woman purred.

  Her calming voice was punctuated with just enou
gh of a northern accent to give homage to the fact that she was not a native of Virginia or the surrounding area. The folksy pronunciations were disarming, and they belied little of her formidable intellect.

  She sounded like an extra from the set of Fargo, not a neurosurgeon.

  “Doctor Evans,” he replied. He suspected the name was fake, but he honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to know her real name.

  “It’s been a few days since we talked, so I thought I’d give you a call to check and see if you’ve made any progress on getting through to that Brady Lomond fellow.”

  Rubbing his eyes with one hand, Robert leaned back in his chair and suppressed a groan. “Yes and no. The only progress I’ve made is to officially establish a lack of progress.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” she said with a laugh. The sound contained a hint of mirth, but whenever Dr. Evans laughed, he was sure the humor she found had a darker meaning.

  “All the information Lomond provided was fake, right down to the address and the insurance information. I’ve looked seven ways from Sunday to see if any of it is affiliated with someone related to him in some way, but it seems like it was all random. The address he provided is a pizza place at the edge of downtown Richmond, and his parents’ names are Al and Peggy, probably from Married with Children.”

  That light laugh again. It lifted the hair on his arms. “Clever.”

  He suppressed a sigh. “The phone number was valid, but it was another dead end. I ran it through a couple different databases, and it looks like it’s been affiliated with a few different people, none of whom have any connection to a guy named Lomond. As I said, it’s a dead end, Dr. Evans.”

  “It’s curious, though, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for him to answer the question before asking the next. “Why would someone come to your office with the exact same symptoms as your other patient and forge all his contact information? Do you suppose he’s law enforcement?”

  Robert gritted his teeth. “It crossed my mind. Everything for my practice is in order, though. The police would have no reason to be here, and I think the fact that he hasn’t shown back up is testament that they weren’t conducting an investigation. At least not into my staff or me.”

  “Right, of course. Well, Robert, I’m afraid I’ve got some disappointing news too. This newest patient, the man from Pennsylvania, has given me a whole lot of nothing. You know, we’d make a lot more progress on this research if I could take a look at someone who’s actually manifested these phenomena, these visions, as you’ve called them.”

  Of course, that was what she wanted. That was what she always wanted. Robert thought he had caught a break when Brady walked into his office, thought he had been given a ticket to get Sandra Evans off his back for longer than a week.

  But he knew what Dr. Evans did to her so-called patients, and he knew what her idea of “progress” entailed. As soon as Sandra had mentioned her interest in examining Winter Black, Robert had purged any mention of Winter from his records, both digital and physical.

  He’d checked, double-checked, and triple-checked to make sure there were no traces of Winter left behind.

  Sandra Evans took every precaution to avoid detection for her gruesome experiments, but Robert didn’t want to put her stealth to the test by handing her an FBI agent.

  The feds took the kidnapping or harm of their own as a personal affront. As smart and well-connected as Evans was, Robert wasn’t about to risk the bureau breathing down his neck.

  If Winter Black had presented with brain abnormalities after she sustained severe trauma to the head, then there had to be others who experienced the same phenomenon.

  And right now, Robert would much rather take his chances with someone like Brady Lomond.

  “No,” he said to return his attention to the conversation. “You know that Patient Zero isn’t an option.”

  The term “patient zero” was used to refer to the person responsible for the start of a disease outbreak, but Patient Zero was his preferred method to refer to Winter Black when Dr. Evans brought up the topic.

  Evans didn’t know if Patient Zero was a man or a woman. All she knew was that the symptoms had begun after a traumatic brain injury at approximately age thirteen.

  “Fine, Ladwig.” She pronounced each word slowly, and he felt the start of a chill creep down the back of his neck. “But I hope you know this is starting to test my patience. If you won’t give me Patient Zero’s information, then you’d better come up with a replacement soon.”

  With a light chime, the call was disconnected before he could formulate a rebuttal.

  If he didn’t reach a viable alternative soon, he would be forced to decide whether he wanted to test the wrath of the Federal Bureau of Investigation or the wrath of Sandra Evans.

  After his dealings with Dr. Evans over the past seven years, there was no doubt about whose ire he would rather face.

  6

  By the time midafternoon rolled around, Noah thought he had done an admirable job avoiding Winter. Since their little group dispersed from the conference room, he hadn’t even seen his friend.

  His former friend? Honestly, he didn’t know. He didn’t pretend to understand what went through Winter’s head on any given day.

  At the irascible thought, his stomach dropped.

  He was so sure he had the right to be upset with her for the unannounced departure and silent treatment, but when her face fell at the announcement of their theory that Douglas Kilroy had followed Justin Black’s entire life, he felt like an idiot.

  Even Autumn’s words of wisdom, words honed by almost eight years of intense study of human behavior, couldn’t drive the pang of guilt from his head.

  “You’re permitted your feelings,” she’d told him over dinner one evening, “and you shouldn’t minimize them just because you think you understand why she did what she did. What’s important is what you do with those feelings, how you express them. But it’s not healthy just to pretend they don’t exist.”

  He could almost hear Autumn’s voice as he stepped into a hallway to make his way back to his home department.

  For most of the day, he had spent his time talking to members of the tech department. They had scoured the internet for social media accounts that might have been affiliated with Justin Black, now also known as Jaime Peterson, but they’d come up empty-handed.

  As he approached the elevator at the end of the corridor, he tapped the down button with one hand and stifled a yawn with the other. Stealth was exhausting. Maybe he would call it good and head home for the day. He might not understand how Autumn was capable of sleeping for twelve hours straight, but right now, he’d be more than happy to try.

  With a cheery ding, the silver doors slid open.

  As his gaze fell on the single occupant, his mouth suddenly felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. He clenched one hand into a fist to ward off the tremble that came with the unexpected rush of adrenaline.

  When Winter’s blue eyes flicked up to meet his, he felt like they were suspended in their own isolated bubble of space time.

  Shit.

  He wasn’t ready for this. He hadn’t prepared, had no idea how to broach the topic of her absence without sounding like a needy asshole.

  “Afternoon, Dalton.” Her voice was soft, and he expected her to brush past him without another word, but instead, she stepped back and waved a hand to the empty space at her side.

  “You’re not…” he started, pausing to glance over his shoulder. To his chagrin, the hall was empty. “You’re not down here for something?”

  When he returned his attention to her, she narrowed her eyes.

  “Okay then,” he muttered under his breath.

  His hope that another agent would rush over to the elevator at the last minute was dashed as the doors eased closed. Their ascent had only just started when Winter moved forward to smack one of the plastic buttons.

  As the car lurched to a stop, he shot her a fervent look. “Is th
at a good idea? An unexpected elevator stop in an FBI building?” He tried to keep the accusatory tinge out of the question, but he wasn’t sure how effective his effort had been. To his surprise, the shrill alarm of the elevator didn’t go off. Just what he needed, to be stuck in a busted elevator with an enraged Winter.

  “I don’t give a shit,” she spat, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. “It’ll just take a second, anyway. Apparently, that’s about all the time you can stand to be around me, isn’t it?”

  “What?” He gawked at her, truly stunned. “Is that really what you think?”

  She was projecting. He was sure of it. He’d only ever been glad for her presence, but he couldn’t say the same for how she felt about him.

  “Right now, Dalton, yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaimed, throwing both arms in the air.

  So much for Autumn’s words of wisdom. There was only so much of these dejected, run-down feelings he could take, and Winter’s petulant observation had just pushed him over the limit.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? What you did to me?”

  For the second time, she tried to talk, and for the second time, he cut her off.

  “No, Winter…just, no. If you want to do this, then we’ll do it. But right now, here’s the thing. I get what you went through. I mean, I don’t entirely get it, but there’s this thing I like to use called empathy. I know you’ve walked through your whole life like you’re the only one who understands what you’re dealing with, and you’re not wrong. But this shit you’re pulling now, this playing the victim bullshit, I’m fucking tired of it.”

  Her mouth popped open again, an angry glint sparking in her eyes.

  He didn’t care. He plowed on, unable to stop the words now that they had started. “You shut out all the people who want to help you because you don’t think they can possibly get a grasp on what you’ve been through. Just because we didn’t experience the exact same thing, you think we’re incapable of helping you. Honestly, darlin’, it’s a little insulting. It’s like you’re telling your friends that they aren’t good enough. Like you’re waitin’ around for someone who’ll fit the bill, and it sure as shit ain’t any of us! You know when the last time I saw you was?”