by Karen Rose
“Whatever it was, someone’s coming after you because of it,” Rob said. “If it was only you, I’d let them. But by God, this is destroying my family. We all know Sean wasn’t as bright as the rest of you. He used him, used him and killed him to send you a message.” He stood. “No more, Garth.”
He looked up at his uncle. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are you going to the police?” his wife asked, crying now.
Rob scoffed. “Not in this town.”
Garth stood. Looked his uncle in the eye. “I wouldn’t say anything if I were you, Rob.”
Rob’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And why not?”
“You have a few hours? Actually, it would only take me a few minutes. A few well-placed calls and you’ll have a bank examiner down your shorts so fast . . .”
Rob’s pale face mottled with angry color. “You have the nerve to threaten me?”
“I have the nerve to do anything I need to do,” he said calmly.
His wife covered her mouth with her hand. “I don’t believe this. This is a nightmare.”
He nodded. “True. But if you keep your mouth shut and your head down, we just might live to wake up when it’s over.”
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 9:15 a.m.
The little room with the two-way mirror was quiet as they sat waiting for Dr. McCrady. Alex propped her elbow on the table, leaned her cheek on her fist, and watched Hope color. “At least she’s using other colors now,” she murmured.
Meredith looked up, a sad smile on her face. “Black and blue. We make progress.”
Something in Alex snapped. “But not enough. We have to push her, Mer.”
“Alex,” Meredith warned.
“You didn’t see them pull that woman from the ditch this morning,” Alex shot back, her voice shaking with fury. “I did. My God. Including Sheila, five women are dead. This has to stop. Hope, I need to talk to you and I need you to listen.” She tugged at Hope’s chin until the child’s hand stilled and wide gray eyes looked up at her. “Hope, did you see who hurt your mommy? Please. Sweetheart, I need to know.”
Hope looked away and Alex tugged her face back, desperation clawing at her throat. “Hope, Sister Anne told me how smart you are, how many words you know, and how well you talk. I need you to talk to me now. You’re smart enough to know your mommy’s gone. I can’t find her.” Alex’s voice broke. “You have to talk to me so I can find her. Did you see the man who took your mommy away?”
Slowly Hope nodded. “It was dark,” she whispered, her voice tiny.
“Were you in bed?”
Hope wagged her head no, misery filling her eyes. “I snuck out.”
“Why?”
“I heard the man.”
“The man that hurt her?”
“He left and she cried.”
“Did he hit her?”
“He left and she cried,” she said again. “And played.”
“With toys?” Alex asked.
“The flute.” The words were only a breath.
Alex frowned. “Your mom played a big shiny horn. That’s different than a flute.”
Hope’s mouth set stubbornly. “The flute.”
Meredith put a blank piece of paper in front of Hope. “Draw it for me, baby.”
Hope picked up her black crayon and drew a round face in a childish style. She added eyes, nose, and a thin rectangle that went sideways from where the mouth would have gone. She then chose a silver crayon from the box and colored the thin rectangle.
She looked up at Alex. “Flute,” she said.
“It is indeed a flute,” Meredith said. “That’s a good picture, Hope.”
Alex hugged Hope. “It’s a wonderful picture. What happened to the flute?”
Hope’s eyes dropped again. “She played the song.”
“Your pa-paw’s song. Then what happened?”
“We runned.” Her words were barely audible.
Alex’s heart was thumping hard. “Where did you run?”
“The woods.” Hope whispered it, then scrunched into the smallest space she could.
Alex lifted Hope to her lap and rocked her. “In the woods, were you with Mommy?”
Hope began to cry, with a low mewling sound that tore at Alex’s heart. “I’m here, Hope. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Why did you run to the woods?”
“The man.”
“Where did you hide?”
“The tree.”
“Up a tree?”
“Under the leaves.”
Alex drew a breath. “Mommy covered you with leaves?”
“Mama.” It was a frightened little plea.
“He hurt your mama?” Alex whispered. “The man hurt your mama?”
“She runned.” Hope’s hands clutched Alex’s blouse frantically. “He was coming, so she runned. He g-g-got her and he hit her and hit her and—” Hope was rocking as she chanted the words. Now that she was talking she seemed unable to stop.
Unable to listen to any more, Alex cupped the back of Hope’s head and pressed Hope’s mouth into her shoulder while the child sobbed. Meredith’s arms came around her and they sat, listening to Hope’s choked sobs. “Bailey hid Hope so he wouldn’t find her,” Alex whispered. “I wonder how long you stayed under those leaves, baby.”
Hope said nothing, just rocked and sobbed until finally she quieted, breathing hard, her little forehead covered in sweat, her cheeks drenched. The front of Alex’s blouse was soaking wet and Hope still clutched the fabric in her hands. Alex shifted her, prying her fists away, cradling her.
The door behind them opened and Daniel and Mary McCrady came in, looking sober. “You heard?” Alex said, and Daniel nodded.
“I came into the back room when she started drawing the flute. I called Mary.”
“I was already on my way for our session.” Mary brushed her hand over Hope’s hair. “That was hard, Hope, but I’m so proud of you. So’s your aunt Alex.”
Hope burrowed her face into Alex’s chest and Alex’s arms tightened around her protectively. “Can she be done for now?”
“Yes,” Mary said, sympathy on her face. “You hold her for a while. But let’s not wait too long, okay? I think we might be able to get somewhere with the artist now.”
“A little longer,” Alex insisted. She looked up at Daniel, whose eyes were resting on her in an almost palpable caress. Then he spread his big hand over Hope’s thin back in a gesture so tender it stole her breath.
“You did well, Hope,” he said softly. “But, honey, can I ask you one more question? It’s important,” he added, more for her own benefit, Alex thought, than for Hope’s.
Hope nodded, her face still pressed against Alex’s chest.
“What happened to your mommy’s flute?”
Hope shuddered. “In the leaves,” she said, her voice muffled.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Daniel said. “That’s all I needed to know. I’m going to have Ed go over that area in the woods again. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 9:15 a.m.
Daniel had barely hung up after talking to Ed when Leigh appeared in his doorway.
“Daniel, you have a visitor. Michael Bowie, Janet’s brother. He’s not happy.”
“Where is Chase? He’s supposed to be handling communications.”
“Chase is in a meeting with the captain. You want me to tell Bowie you’re not here?”
Daniel shook his head. “No. I’ll come talk to him.”
Michael Bowie looked like exactly what he was—a man whose sister had been viciously murdered days before. He stopped pacing when Daniel stopped at the counter. “Daniel.”
“Michael. What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me you’ve found the man who killed my sister.”
Daniel steeled his spine. “No, I can’t. We’re following leads.”
“You’ve been saying that for days,” Michael gritted.
“I’m sorry. Have you thought of anyone who hated Janet enough to do this?”
Michael’s ferocity seemed to wilt. “No. At times Janet was selfish and arrogant. Sometimes she could be devious and just plain mean. But nobody hated her. She and Claudia and Gemma . . . They were just girls. They didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
“I’m not saying they deserved this, Michael,” Daniel said gently. “But someone has targeted Janet and the girls she knew.” To be pawns in a bigger game. “Anything you can remember. Any person she’d annoyed.”
Michael made a frustrated noise. “You want a list? The girls were spoiled and probably pissed people off every day of their lives. But this. They did nothing to deserve this.”
Michael was grieving, Daniel knew. That the girls hadn’t deserved their fate was a break in logic he couldn’t yet absorb. He would, in time. Victims’ families usually did.
“I can’t tell you what you want to hear, Michael. Not yet. But we will catch him.”
Michael nodded stiffly. “You’ll call me?”
“As soon as I have news to share. I promise you that.”
Chapter Twenty
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 10:15 a.m.
I can take her, Alex,” Meredith said, looking up from her laptop. “You haven’t moved from that position in an hour. Your arms have to be breaking by now.”
Still sitting at the table in the room with the two-way mirror, Alex pulled Hope a little closer. “She’s not that heavy.” Even asleep, Hope grabbed at Alex’s shirt as if she was afraid Alex would leave her. “I should have been with her all this time,” Alex murmured.
“Ideally, yes,” Meredith said logically. “But this is far from ideal. You’ve been looking for Bailey. You needed to see Fulmore and all the other people, so stop feeling guilty.”
But as she held Hope, Alex knew it was more than simple guilt. She’d been quick to accept the responsibility for Hope’s physical care and safety, but until Hope had sobbed against her, she hadn’t opened her heart to this little girl who’d needed her. She hadn’t opened her heart to many people over the years. Certainly not to Richard, and if she was honest, not even to Bailey. Again, she’d been quick to offer help to get Bailey into rehab, but she hadn’t offered her heart.
Maybe she hadn’t known how. Deep down she was afraid she still didn’t. But then the door opened and Daniel came in, and every dark and heavy thing inside her heart lightened at the sight of him. Maybe there was hope for her after all. It was a light in the midst of all the darkness.
“Is it time for Hope to go with Mary?” she asked softly, but he shook his head.
“Not yet. I didn’t mean to make you wait here so long. There’s a sofa in the break room. Hope can sleep there until Mary comes back.”
Alex started to rise, Hope in her arms, but Daniel stopped her. “I’ll take her.” And he did, holding Hope much like he’d held Riley the night before. Hope didn’t wake, though she snuggled against him, and Alex was hit with a wave of longing so strong it almost knocked her over.
This is what I want. This child. This man. She stood unsteadily, a wave of panic following in the wake of the longing. What if he doesn’t want the same? What if I can’t give him what he needs?
Meredith was watching her with a frown. “Come on.” She put her arm around Alex’s shoulders as they followed Daniel.
Daniel stopped at the sofa in the break room, Hope nestled on his shoulder. He gently rocked from side to side, his brows bunched, his mind obviously somewhere else. Alex was certain he didn’t realize what a picture he made, strong golden-haired man holding the small golden-haired child.
He settled Hope on the sofa and shrugged out of his jacket to cover her, then glanced at Alex and gave her that half smile. “Sorry, my mind wandered.”
“Where did it go?” she said, her voice low.
“To the day your mother died.” He slid his arm around her waist and walked her to a table by the coffee machine. “I need to talk to someone who talked to your mother after she found Alicia.” He pulled out chairs for her and Meredith.
“That would have been Sheriff Loomis, Craig, the coroner, and me,” Alex said, sitting down.
“And me,” Meredith added.
Daniel’s hands stilled on the coffeepot. “You talked to Kathy Tremaine that day?”
“Several times,” Meredith said. “Aunt Kathy called that morning to say Alicia was missing and my mom packed her suitcase. Her car wasn’t too reliable, so she decided to fly.” Meredith frowned. “My mom was guilty about that decision until the day she died.”
“Why?” Alex asked and Meredith shrugged.
“Her flight kept getting delayed because of storms. If she’d driven, she would have arrived hours earlier and your mom would have still been alive. And if Aunt Kathy had been alive, you would never have taken those pills.”
“I wish Aunt Kim were here to know the truth,” Alex said sadly.
Meredith patted her hand. “I know. Anyway, Aunt Kathy called later, hysterical, and that’s when I started talking to her. Mom had left for the airport already and back then nobody had cell phones. I was the go-between. Mom called from a pay phone at the airport every half hour and I’d tell her what Aunt Kathy had said. The first time I talked to Aunt Kathy, she’d gotten a call from a neighbor saying some boys had found a body.”
“The Porter boys,” Daniel said.
Meredith nodded. “Aunt Kathy was leaving to check it out.”
“And that’s when she found Alicia,” Alex murmured.
“When did you talk to her again, Meredith?” Daniel asked.
“When she came home from finding Alicia, before she went to identify the body. She was . . . past hysterical. She was sobbing, crying.”
“Do you remember what she said?”
Meredith frowned. “She was crying that her baby had been left in the rain.”
Daniel frowned as well. “It didn’t rain the night before. There was thunder and lightning, but no rain. I checked the weather report after we talked to Gary Fulmore.”
Meredith shrugged. “That’s what she said. ‘Just asleep in the rain.’ Over and over.”
Alex tensed, remembering the phrase. “No, that’s not what she said.”
Daniel sat beside her, looking her square in the eye. “What did she say, Alex?”
“When Mama came back from identifying Alicia, Craig gave her a sedative, then went to work. I put her to bed. She was crying so hard, and so was I . . . so I climbed in bed with her and just held on.” Alex pictured her mother lying in bed, a steady stream of tears running down her face. “She kept saying, ‘A sheep and a ring.’ That’s all she had to identify Alicia because her face was so destroyed. ‘Just a sheep and a ring.’ ”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed, and she saw the flash of triumph. “All right then.”
Alex looked down at her hands. “Alicia had a ring. So did I. Our birthstones. Mama gave them to us for our birthday.” Her mouth curved bitterly. “Sweet sixteen we were.”
“Where is your ring, Alex?” he asked softly, and her stomach turned over.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Her heart was suddenly racing. “I must have lost it.” She looked up, studied his eyes, and knew. “You know where it is.”
“Yes. It was in your old room. On the floor, under your window.”
A sense of dread stole inside her, darkening everything. Inside her mind, thunder rolled and a single voice screamed. Be quiet. Close the door. “That’s it, isn’t it? What I don’t want to remember.”
His arm tightened around her. “We’ll find out,” he promised. “Don’t worry.”
But she did.
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 10:55 a.m.
Daniel stopped by the team room, where Luke pored over a stack of spreadsheets.
“A sheep and a ring,” Daniel said with a nod.
Luke looked up, his eyes narrowed. “That sounds nasty, Daniel.”
“But it’s not.” He sat down a
t the table and pushed a stack of yearbooks out of the way. “Alex’s mother said it the day Alicia died. She meant because Alicia’s face was smashed, she could only identify her by her sheep tattoo and the ring on her finger. And she saw Alicia before the cops got there.”
Luke frowned. “Alicia had a sheep tattoo?”
“On her ankle. They all did—Bailey, Alicia, and Alex.”
“And a ring on her finger. So now you have independent corroboration that Fulmore was telling the truth,” Luke said. “And that the Dutton sheriff’s office wasn’t.”
Daniel nodded grimly. “Looks like. So what have you found?”
Luke pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “I’ve compiled the names of every male to graduate the same year as Simon, a year ahead and a year behind, from the public and the private schools.”
Daniel scanned the list. “How many?”
“After we cut minorities and dead people?” Luke asked. “Roughly two hundred.”
Daniel blinked. “Shit. Do all two hundred still live in Dutton?”
“No. Culling out everyone that’s moved away leaves only about fifty.”
“Better,” Daniel said. “But still too many to show to Hope.”
“Why would you show them to Hope?”
“Because she saw the man who abducted her mother. I have to assume whoever took Bailey did so because of the letter she got from her brother, Wade, or else Beardsley wouldn’t be missing now.”
“That makes sense. But then what? I hate to be a broken record, but we’re trying to solve the murders of four women left in ditches. How are you going to connect whoever took Bailey to whoever’s killing the women?”
“You assume it’s not the same person.”
Luke blinked. “I guess I did.”
“And you’re probably right. Whoever took Bailey doesn’t want anyone to know about the rapes and the pictures. Whoever’s killing the women wants us to focus on Alicia Tremaine. I don’t know how I’ll connect them. All I know is that this SOB doesn’t leave anything behind on the body or at the scene that can identify him. If I can find out who took Bailey, something else might shake out.”
“Fair enough,” Luke said. “So you want me to get these fifty photos down to five or six so we can show them to Hope. You’re going to have her talk to an artist, right? If she can give the artist some basic description, we can cherry-pick from the fifty.”