by Mary Burton
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Deer Lodge, Montana
Monday, August 23
7:15 a.m.
By Monday morning, Ann was on the road headed toward Deer Lodge to see Megan Madison, a Firefly on the list of thirteen women Bryce had sent her. Deer Lodge was less than an hour away, and she believed she could see Megan and then be back in Missoula to meet Bryce at the Classy Cat at ten.
When she pulled up in front of Megan Madison’s middle-class home in Deer Lodge, she was surprised it all looked so normal. The yard was freshly cut, the flower beds mulched and dotted with the heart-shaped daisylike yellow leopard’s-bane floating in a sea of green ground cover. The front door was painted a bright red, and a swirling M dangled from a hook on the front door. A green minivan was parked in the two-car driveway.
She had always pictured Elijah’s Fireflies as women who lived on the outskirts of society. In her mind they were disaffected, lost souls who were so consumed by their devotion for him that they did not have the capacity to manage a normal life.
Her own confirmation bias had blinded her to the idea that these women could be, or at least could appear to be, highly functioning and productive. She parked at the neatly edged curb and walked toward the front door.
Everyone had a core identity that they rarely fully revealed to anyone, including family, friends, and lovers. People, once they stepped outside, put on masks designed to attract mates, cajole parents, raise children, or climb the corporate ladder. In everyday life, most people were chameleons and liked altering dress, speech, opinions, and preferences based on the audience.
Given that, Ann should not have been surprised by Sarah Cameron’s success in business or Megan Madison’s seemingly average life. Both blended in like the grasshopper did on a leaf, all the while hiding their secret obsessions with Elijah.
She had not called ahead to make an appointment, fearing if Megan recognized her from last year’s news accounts, she would not speak to her. Adjusting her purse on her shoulder, she climbed the neatly swept stairs and rang the doorbell equipped with a camera. She stood to the side. Footsteps thudded in the house and paused by the front door before it opened slowly.
The woman staring back at her through the crack between the doorway and jamb was in her midforties. She was in good shape, kept her long blond hair loose around her shoulders, and wore knee-skimming shorts, a button-down shirt, and sneakers.
“Ms. Madison?” Ann asked as she met her gaze.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Ann Bailey.”
A flicker of recognition turned leery, and the woman shifted her body to block the view into her home. “Ann,” she said carefully.
“You’ve heard my name before?”
“You were in the news some last year.”
Ann shook her head slowly. “Elijah told you about me, didn’t he?”
Megan’s face paled, and she dropped her voice. “I haven’t written to Elijah in a long time. I told that to the reporter when he came by.”
“Paul Thompson?”
“That’s right.” She glanced behind her. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this with you or him.”
“I don’t want to pry into your life, but I’m trying to understand the Fireflies. Why was Elijah Weston so appealing?”
Megan’s dim demeanor brightened like a bulb. “You know what he looks like.”
“He’s very attractive.”
“He’s more than that. He has an energy that is beyond the average person.”
Ann noticed the wedding band on Megan’s left ring finger. Did Elijah represent a clandestine escape from everyday life? “It had to be more than his looks.”
Megan drew in a breath, like a schoolgirl who had seen a favorite teen idol onstage. Her demeanor shifted from middle aged to that of a teenager. “He was funny. And so smart. And he knew things about life that I’d never thought about. I could tell him what was going on with my day, and he would write back and give me advice. There were times when he was the only person I could talk to.”
Ann glimpsed the girl living in the suburban wife’s body. “Why did you stop writing?”
“My daughter found the letters. She was fourteen at the time. She called me crazy and threatened to tell my husband if I didn’t stop. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t need that kind of trouble. Ending our correspondence was the hardest thing I ever did.”
“That must have been difficult. Like losing a trusted friend,” she offered.
“It was.”
“But you did stop.”
“I wrote him one last letter and poured my heart out to him. I told him not to write me back, and he respected my wishes and did not. He was considerate that way.”
“Did he ever ask you to do anything?”
“Like what?”
“There was another Firefly. Her name was Lana Long, and he asked her to spy for him. She was killed in a fire last year.”
“I heard.”
“Did you know Lana?”
“We didn’t meet in person, but some of us were in a social media group.”
“Really? The cops never found that.”
“We were careful,” she said. “It’s not like we went by the name Elijah’s Fireflies.”
“What was the name of the site?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. The administrator pulled it down about six months ago.”
“How many people were on it?”
“A dozen.”
“How did you find each other?”
“Received an invitation,” she said. “I didn’t join for weeks because I was afraid, but my curiosity won out.”
“When was this?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“Did you know where any of the Fireflies lived?”
“I had a vague idea about some. They were from everywhere. All over the country.”
Inside the house, a telephone rang, and a young girl called out, “Mom!”
“Look, I’ve got to go.”
“Can I give you my card? I could meet you somewhere for coffee, and we could talk more.”
“No. I’m not doing that. I shouldn’t have spoken to you at all.”
“The police think two recent murders are connected to the Fireflies.”
Megan paled as she shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Just take my card.”
“No. Now go away.” She closed the door.
Ann was frustrated because Megan had shared a small portion of what she knew. She fished a business card from her purse and tucked it in the door. Maybe this conversation had stirred something in Megan, and she would want to talk later.
In her car, Ann backtracked to Missoula and pulled up in front of the Classy Cat at five minutes after ten and parked behind Bryce’s vehicle. The sign on the shop door read OPEN.
She parked, got out of her car, and walked up as his driver’s-side window lowered. “I meant to be here earlier, but I made a stop along the way.”
“I was just about to call you. Thought you might have changed your mind.” His mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes and whatever meaning they might convey.
However, the subtext under his tone was clear: Had she changed her mind about the case? Or him? “I haven’t.” He might change his once he realized the baggage she carried.
“Good. Get in.”
She came around the front of the car and opened the passenger-side door, closing it quickly.
When she slid into the front passenger seat, he shifted toward her. The car’s interior, which had felt perfectly adequate on Saturday, had shrunk. The soft scents of his soap and leather filled the cab.
This was another one of those awkward moments where most single women her age knew how to handle themselves.
“Those thoughts are churning again,” he said.
“Am I that obvious?”
“Afraid so.”
“Chalk it up to being out of practice.” She smiled, feeling her
muscles relax. How many times had she preached to Nate about the power of talking instead of bottling emotions?
“For both of us.”
She shifted her gaze toward him. “You?”
He grinned, shaking his head. “Me.”
“You ever been married?”
“Once in my early twenties. Hard being married to a guy who’s deployed ten months out of the year. No kids, and no harm, no foul. Still friends. She’s remarried and has a couple of kids.”
She sensed a faint hint of sadness that she was not sure extended to his former wife or his childless state. “That’s nice.”
“Why were you late? That’s not like you.”
“I drove to Deer Lodge, and I spoke to Megan Madison.”
“She’s on the Firefly list.”
“I stopped by her house.”
“By yourself.”
“I thought she might talk to me if I had the element of surprise.”
“Domestic calls can be the most dangerous. I know cops who’ve died when they went to make a simple domestic call.”
“She’s a homemaker. She has a neat front lawn.”
“They can wield a knife or a gun just as easy as anyone. In the future, don’t do that.”
She bristled at the order. “I used sound judgment, but you’re right. I should have told you.”
“When it comes to investigating this crime, you’re in my backyard, and you need to play by my rules.”
“Really?”
His jaw tensed and pulsed, irritation clearly rippling through his body. She thought back to the times Clarke had used his size to intimidate her. It was always subtle and for ridiculous things like which brand of gas grill they should purchase or whether Nate should play soccer or baseball. She had always stood up to him, but each time she’d sensed she was negotiating with a caged tiger.
As if reading her thoughts, Bryce tugged off his glasses. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I have no intention of getting hurt.”
“No one does,” he said softly. “But I’ve seen it happen too many times.”
Whereas Clarke’s focus had always been on winning, Bryce’s true concern rang clear. “I hear you. I do. Now would you like to hear what she told me?”
Shaking his head, he looked equally exasperated and curious. “Tell me.”
“The Fireflies, at least some of them, shared a social media page. They talked to each other and swapped stories. They were their own little support group. The site was taken down about six months ago. It would be helpful if your IT guys could identify the site administrator.”
“They can try.”
“Terrific.” She brushed her pant leg, considering whether she should tell him about her visit with Elijah. She decided to wait. “Ready to go inside?”
He regarded her for an extra beat, as if he sensed her unspoken words. “Yes.”
Out of the vehicle, she hurried around the front of his car while he waited for her, and then together they entered the glass-paned front door. The Classy Cat was a tony shop fashioned after an Old West saloon. The shop was chock-full of all kinds of fancy Western wear, such as rhinestone belts, turquoise jewelry, and leather vests and skirts. Fashion had never been Ann’s bailiwick, and whenever she had dressed up, she’d always felt a little self-conscious. As she ran her fingers over a soft, buttery leather vest, she wondered if her new single status required an edgier look.
Saloon doors separating the back office from the front swung open, and a woman dressed in a prairie dress, a silver concha belt, and boots appeared. Dark hair was swept back in a sleek ponytail.
Her gaze flickered to Bryce but then zeroed in on Ann, as if in a glance she had categorized them as a couple. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“I was looking for a pair of boots,” Ann said quickly as she pulled her phone from her back pocket. “Dana Riley posted this pair in July, and I love them. I’m hoping you still have them in stock.”
“Sure thing. May I?”
Ann handed her the phone, watching the recognition flicker on the woman’s features as she nodded.
“That’s a specialty pair. We didn’t have too many of those. I do remember Dana. She was a live wire.”
“You remember her?”
“Mid-July. It was a slow weekday, and when she showed up, I figured she was a tourist who was just looking. Then before I knew it, she bought herself a whole outfit, including the boots. Turned out to be a good day after all. I took pictures of her and posted them on my site.”
On her phone, Ann searched the store and pulled up the July posts. She immediately spotted the boots. The woman had dipped her head and pulled her cowboy hat forward, successfully obscuring her face. It was dated three days after Dana was killed. “Did you post these the same day you took them?”
“Yes. Like I said, it was a slow day.”
“Was she alone?” Ann asked.
“She commented she was with a guy, but she never said who. Why are you asking about Dana?” the woman asked.
Bryce approached and showed the woman his badge. “I’m Sergeant Bryce McCabe with Montana Highway Patrol. This is Dr. Ann Bailey. You are?”
The clerk looked a little confused. “Betsy Davis. Look, those boots had to have been bought by Dana. I asked for her ID, considering the purchase was so large. I’ve been burned before. And she produced a driver’s license. She looked like her picture.”
“Ms. Davis, Dana was murdered several days before that purchase was made, but her body was not found immediately. Without a body or missing-person report, there’d been no reason to red-flag the credit card account,” Bryce said.
“I had no idea,” Ms. Davis said.
“Are you sure she didn’t say anything about the man she was with?” Ann asked.
“She said she was getting dressed for a date with him. Said they’d not seen each other in a while, and she was excited to be with him.”
“And you never saw him?” Bryce asked.
“I didn’t. He never came into the store.”
“Did she mention if they were staying in town?” Bryce asked.
“She said they were moving back to California soon. Said they were meeting a friend there.”
“Did she mention a specific location or a name?” Bryce kept his gaze trained on Betsy.
“No.”
“Did she appear nervous or distressed?” Ann asked.
“No.”
Bryce pulled up the Polaroid picture of Jane Doe. “Was this Dana Riley?”
Ms. Davis studied the picture. “Yes, that’s her. Blond hair.” She looked up at them both. “This isn’t Dana?”
“No, ma’am,” Bryce said.
“Did she kill Dana?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Bryce said as he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything that might be of help, would you call?”
She flicked the edge of the card with a manicured finger. “Sure, I will.”
Neither Ann nor Bryce spoke until they were outside. Both were silent as they considered what Ms. Davis had said.
“Our third victim was posing as Dana Riley?” Ann asked. “The killer gave her Dana’s credit card.”
“Looks like it.”
“If Jane Doe was a Firefly, it’s not hard to assume who the man manipulating her is,” she said.
“Elijah Weston.”
Elijah arrived at Ann’s former home and found Maura in the kitchen, singing to a song on a beat-up brown radio. She was wearing an apron dotted with small blue handprints and handwritten letters reading HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY. She had cinched the strands at her narrow waist, knotting it at the base of her back in a neat bow. The apron was another Ann remnant picked off the trash pile, and the handprints were Nate’s.
“You look very domestic,” he said.
She jolted at the sound of his voice and whirled around, wide eyed with hints of fear and then relief. “I didn’t hear you come in.
”
He knew how to move quietly or announce his presence with heavy footfalls. Prison had called for both skills, and if he was anything, he was an adept student. “What are you doing here today?”
“Last day on the job. Ann comes by this afternoon to pay me, and then my work here is done.”
The freshly scrubbed air smelled of a melody of cleaners. The dirt and grime were gone, but like all houses, the walls were infused with laughter, tears, shouting, and quiet conversations. He was glad Nate was not living here. The past could be a heavy weight to carry.
She peeled off her yellow rubber gloves and draped them carefully over the sink. “Don’t you have volunteer work today?”
“Later,” he said, moving toward her until only inches separated them.
“Why did you come by?”
“To see you,” he lied.
She captured one of his buttons and gently twisted it between her fingers. “I’m finished here. This place can’t get any cleaner. I have time to kill.”
“Really?”
“The bedrooms are still staged.”
He refused to fuck in the family bed and certainly not on Nate’s old bed. He backed her up until she bumped into the counter. “What’s wrong with here in the kitchen?”
“Nothing.”
He traced a blue handprint. “Take the apron off.”
She arched her breasts toward him as she reached behind her and undid the bow. She loosened the apron and bunched it in her hand, ready to drop it. He took it from her, neatly folded it, and placed it on the table behind them.
“You’re very sentimental,” she said curiously.
He hefted her up on the counter and slid his hands up her naked legs to the edges of her shorts. Her skin was smooth, soft, and nicely tanned.
She pulled the band from her hair, letting light-brown tresses fall around her shoulders. He gathered a lock of it in his hand. It smelled of flowers and sunshine. She reached for the snap of her pants, pushed open the folds, and wiggled out of them. He undid his top pants button, then the zipper.
He pressed into her hard, imagining she was Ann. Frustration twisted around lust, driving him to plunge deeper. She gripped his shoulders, gasping.