by R. J. Noonan
“I want to be happy with the shadow behind me,” I went on. “Proud of the things I’ve done. Being a cop, I can leave a good shadow, Dad. I can be proud of my work.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Being a cop, then, with your good shadow . . .” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “Will you jump for joy?”
“In my heart.”
He squeezed my hand. “Then this is good.”
* * *
It took a few days to really kick the effect of the drug, but when I returned to work, Z, Omak, and Claudia Deming had already been hard at work building separate cases against Martha and Kent Jameson. Martha shut down and spoke to no one, but once she was in jail, her staff members came forward with anecdotal evidence of her crimes. Proof that someone always does see something.
Kent talked to everyone and anyone, playing the victim of childhood abuse by his uncle and begging for mercy and a shot at rehabilitation. But as the forensic team identified the girls in the graves and their photos and stories filled the media, the public turned against the famous author. Claudia thought he would take a plea bargain and serve the state-mandated three hundred months in prison. That was twenty-five years.
After Martha and Kent were arrested, the compound was scoured in search of evidence. I’d been scared that Lucy had been locked up there—or worse—but there was no sign of her beyond her room and her cell phone. The continued news coverage of the case asked viewers to be on the lookout for the missing girl.
The day I was released from the hospital, Omak called to tell me that Lucy was accounted for. “I got a call from the Seattle PD saying Lucy Jameson is safe. Went into a precinct so that people would stop looking for her.”
“When can we interview her?” I asked.
“That’s the thing. The address she gave them doesn’t check out, but it’s definitely her. She just doesn’t want to be found.”
Despite the news, I still worried about Lucy.
“It’s so hard when you start to care about these kids,” Alma Hernandez told me during one of our meetings. “You just need to say a little prayer that God is watching over her. That’s all you can do, honey.”
I’m not big on prayer, but when I went for my run each day, I thought of Lucy and imagined her in a safe, loving place.
About two weeks after the arrests, my cell phone rang with a call from Washington State. It was Lucy.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Just chillin’ up north with my homey the Prince.” She laughed. “You know he’s from Seattle. But did you know he owns an island? It’s pretty cool.”
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you happy?”
“Some of the time. But if this goes bad, I know I’ve got options. There are plenty of places I can go, and maybe I’ll do that. New York and Paris and London. Maybe the Prince will go with me. If he’s lucky.”
“He’s still making you call him the Prince?”
“What would you do if your name was Emory?”
“That’s true. Lucy, it’s good to hear your voice.” She sounded so . . . normal. Maybe even happy. “Are you going to come back to testify?”
“I don’t want to, but my lawyer says I’m compelled, whatever that means, and my therapist thinks it’s a good idea.”
“I’m glad you’re getting help.”
“Yeah. It’s all good. Well, mostly. I wanted to thank you for looking out for me. No one ever did that before.”
“Then it was about time.”
“Thanks. I gotta go. I’m learning how to sail a boat. Don’t laugh. I’m actually pretty good at it.”
I told her to call me anytime, but I knew she wouldn’t. With her eighteenth birthday, her trust fund had kicked in, and her world had shifted. She was fiscally free. In time, I hoped she would find emotional freedom, too.
As for me, I tried to be nicer to my mother. I started making an effort to visit my father at the restaurant more often. And I started looking for an apartment to share with Natalie. Time to leave the nest and get away from my room with a view of Randy’s driveway.
Z and I received commendations and medals for our work on the Kyra Miller homicide and the Lost Girls recovery. I have never seen Z so serious as when he stood behind the podium to receive the medal and handshake from Lt. Omak. The achievement meant a lot to him because under that cynical façade, I think he really cares for people. In the aftermath of the investigation, Cranston was transferred to another rookie cop, and Z and I were officially made partners. I’m honored to have him as a partner, but I could never say that to his face.
Natalie was in the audience at the commendation, not as a reporter but as Z’s invited guest. I’d been right about that chemistry. Nat beamed us smiles from her seat beside my parents, who sat motionless as stones during the brief ceremony. When it ended, my father led the applause, clapping like a maniac. My mother smiled as if I’d just discovered the cure for cancer. My parents really knew how to get to me.
So I guess that, in a weird way, the Jamesons did me a few favors. Well, sort of. I won’t be sending them a thank-you card anytime soon.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to everyone who helped me bring Laura Mori and the town of Sunrise Lake to life.
First to my agent, Robin Rue, who is always tossing out seeds to sow. You’re the best.
The editorial team at Crooked Lane really dig a good mystery, and their enthusiasm is contagious. They generously shared their treasure chest of tips, tools, and magic to make this book sparkle and sing. Their knowledge of the mystery paradigm and their faith in these characters made this novel a joy for me. Thanks to Matt Martz, Sarah Poppe, Heather Boak, and the mysterious Maddie.
I am lucky to have a proofreader who understands Oregon and catches my blunders. Thank you, Victoria Groshong!
And how lucky am I to be married to a former cop from one of the finest police departments in the country? Thank you, Sig, for your patience, your inside information, and your wealth of knowledge, procedural and otherwise.