by Tess Diamond
“Zooey, you . . . that’s the most reckless plan I’ve ever heard in my life,” Abby said, a little awed at her gumption. “You did it to prove how valuable you could be to the FBI, right?”
Zooey grinned. “I knew you were smart,” she said. “Exactly. If I had just walked in, seeking sanctuary, babbling about an international dealer in chemical weapons with no real concrete proof, they’d probably throw me out. And then he’d get me. I had to prove my worth. Right away. The boss—and Agent Sinclair—were the ones to do my initial interview.”
Abby frowned. “How old were you?”
“Nineteen,” Zooey said. “Paul fought for me. The director at the time thought I’d be a security risk. But Paul got me to Quantico for the training I needed. I even teach a course there on poisons now.”
“Wow,” Abby said. “You’ve come totally full circle. That’s amazing.”
“I don’t tell you this to brag,” Zooey said. “I’m telling you this because I want you to know I understand, what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. For a lot of my life, that’s how I felt. Until I walked into FBI headquarters. Which is pretty ironic considering how I spent most of my teenage years.”
“Thank you,” Abby said. “I appreciate it, especially after I dumped all my emotions on you.”
“Like I said, I have one of those faces,” Zooey said as the waitress dropped off the check.
“So, what happened?” Abby asked. “With the bombmaker?”
Zooey’s lips tightened, her normal cheerful countenance seeming to flicker for a moment. “He’s still out there,” she said quietly. “They’ve never been able to track him down. But someday . . . I’m going to. He and I have business to settle.”
Abby understood this. She recognized the steely glint in Zooey’s eyes.
It’s how she felt about Cass’s killer. About the specter of death that had been haunting Northern California, no one the wiser, because he was a little more clever than most.
She had business to settle with him. The kind of business that involved him looking down the barrel of her Winchester.
And she’d be damned if anyone stopped her.
Chapter 20
By the time Paul had eaten breakfast with his family and helped his mother fix a beam in the barn, it was nearly noon. He sped a little down the highway on his way to the courthouse, where the evidence boxes from Cass’s case—the ones the FBI had deemed nonessential—would be.
He wasn’t feeling very hopeful that he’d find the missing pages of the medical report there, but he’d try for Zooey. If she thought there might be missing forensic evidence, finding the missing pages was a lot better than the alternative.
Because the alternative involved things like exhuming bodies. His stomach clenched at the thought.
He wasn’t going to do that. Or let Zooey do that. He knew she wouldn’t even bring it up unless it was her only, last resort, but he prayed he’d find the damn missing pages so he didn’t even have to think about it.
The courthouse was an old Art Deco building from the 1930s that was the only place in town that had a basement. He checked himself in at the front, walking through the metal detector that looked like it was from the seventies. The security guard raised an eyebrow at his badge.
“This real?” he asked.
“It is indeed,” Paul said. “Do you mind?”
He took the badge back from the man, tucking it in his back pocket. It felt awkward there. He spent most of his days in a suit, his badge tucked in the inside jacket pocket. But he was in jeans and flannel and cowboy boots today, and he felt oddly off balance, suddenly.
Did he even belong here anymore? Had he ever?
He took the elevator down to the basement, smiling at the dark-haired older woman sitting behind the desk in front of the evidence locker. A long line of chain-link fence was strung behind her, and Paul couldn’t blame the sheriff for beefing up security—there were a lot more drug confiscations around these parts with the rise of heroin and meth. Sometimes, an addict could get so reckless that even the idea of robbing the law seemed like a good idea.
“Hi there,” Paul said, glancing at the little name placard that said Annie Wheeler. “Annie, I’m Special Agent Paul Harrison, FBI. I believe Sheriff Alan called and said I’d be coming by?”
The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. She was round and soft and cute, her curly dark hair springing up around her head like a middle-aged Betty Boop. “You’re Tandy’s boy!”
“I am,” he said.
“Your mother is so proud of you,” she said. “All she does is talk about you. We ran the Christmas Fair at the church last year together, and it was the best year ever. We raised over five thousand dollars for the homeless shelter.”
“That’s great,” Paul said.
“But Sheriff Alan did call and give me a heads-up you’d be coming,” Annie said, getting up and fishing a large ring of keys out of her desk. “He told me to let you wander around, take whatever you wanted.” She unlocked the chain on the gate into the evidence locker, pulling it open. “I do have to lock it behind you, though. Sheriff Alan brought in a bunch of heroin this morning. They were looking for that arsonist and instead came across a whole operation in a warehouse outside of town. Can you imagine? What are people thinking these days, I swear. They need the good Lord to guide them.”
“I’m sorry Alan’s having such trouble with that arsonist,” Paul said.
“Four fires now,” Annie said, tutting. “Like the world’s not burning down fast enough already. Anyway, you go on, find what you need. I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Annie,” Paul said.
The evidence locker was dimly lit by a lone bulb that swung back and forth with the vibrations from the movement upstairs in the courthouse. Paul scanned the shelves and the neatly labeled brown boxes, trying to get a sense of how they were organized. It didn’t seem to be completely chronological, and it took him a few moments to realize the sheriff had organized the place by crime and then alphabetized the sections.
“Okay, homicide,” Paul muttered to himself, scanning the boxes. His eyes lighted on the name EVANS, CASEY. He knew that name. It was the football player who had drowned over Labor Day weekend Paul’s freshman year. Foul play had been suspected, but there’d never been enough evidence. He was in the right section, at least.
He spent the next fifteen minutes going through the boxes in the homicide section. And then, when he couldn’t find any of them with Cass’s name or her case number, he began to go through the entire room.
An hour later, he’d checked every single evidence box.
Cass’s weren’t here.
“Hey, Annie,” he called.
“Yeah, Paul?” she asked, hurrying over and unlocking the gate and letting him out. “You find what you need?”
He shook his head. “You keep a log, right? Of who checks out what evidence?”
“Sure,” Annie said. “It’s right here.” She went over to her desk and pulled out a logbook, handing it over to him.
Paul’s stomach clenched as he saw the last entry, made this morning.
Ryan Clay, checking out Case #543
Paul felt a curl of disgust in his stomach. What was this guy’s problem? He must’ve snooped to see what file Paul was looking for in the records room yesterday and decided to fuck with him.
His fists clenched and he tried to breathe deeply. This was the kind of petty bullshit he hated. He wasn’t someone who played games. And Ryan seemed determined to do some stupid, pointless male posturing to make himself feel better when all it was going to do was get his ass handed to him—first by Paul, then by his boss.
“Thanks, Annie,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”
She blushed. “Tell your mom I said hi.”
“Will do. ‘Bye now.”
He headed out of the courthouse, blinking in the sudden sunlight after being in the dim basement for the last hour. He put in a call to Sheri
ff Alan, but it went to voice mail. He didn’t want to leave a message chewing out the man’s deputy, so he decided he’d track down Ryan’s address and go there himself.
But first, he needed to stop by the farmhouse and see if Abby and Zooey had made any progress on the Dr. Jeffrey front.
As he drove down Orchard Row, the windows rolled down, the cooling autumn air filling his lungs, he found himself thinking about Abby.
And thinking about Abby always led him to think about regrets. He didn’t regret much in his life—he tried hard not to, even with how he and his fiancée had ended their engagement—but most of his regrets were centered around the two girls who had shaped him more than anyone else.
That month before Cass was killed had been confusing for him. She’d been up visiting her grandmother, and they’d talked on the phone, and he’d gone up to visit her a few times, but it’d been hard on a teenage relationship. She had seemed so stressed at his last two visits, and he found himself spending all the time he wasn’t visiting Cass with Abby.
It wasn’t anything new, the two of them hanging out. It was like every summer of his memory, really.
But there had been moments—maybe he’d imagined it? Maybe it had been wishful thinking?—where he’d thought . . .
He had loved Cass, but Abby . . . Abby knew him in a way no one else really ever did. She’d been the one he used to run to when his dad got a little too drunk. They’d lie together in the meadow between their homes, among the lupine and California poppies, and they’d never talk about the distrust each of their father’s choices wore in their hearts, but they understood each other. And the older they got, the deeper that understanding went, and the more his teenage self realized that as much as he loved Cass, he didn’t have that with her.
And that maybe he wanted that.
Maybe he wanted Abby.
Looking back, when Cass’s murder was a fresh wound in him, he’d pushed it down. The wondering. The attraction. Those thoughts that had bubbled to the surface in the hot summer nights when it was just him and Abby. The want that he could feel in the very tips of his fingers when she shot him that tilted smile.
He’d denied it until he almost believed it had never existed. There had just been one night, right before they both left for college. And there’d been one quick, tear-filled kiss that wasn’t about either of them. It was about Cass. It was about goodbye. To the people they’d been. To the bond they had. To the girl whose death had helped define them.
But he’d been able to excuse that simple kiss as grief and it hadn’t broken them, because they could still deny it. Deny the want simmering under the surface.
Until Abby’s dad died and he’d showed up on her porch after the funeral. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from getting on a plane as soon as he was able to. It killed him he hadn’t been able to attend the service, but he’d been on a case.
He thought at least he could give her distraction and a bottle of whiskey and his company as she grieved.
But he’d fucked it up. He’d let his guard down and let everything he felt show on his face and then he’d bent forward and . . .
Kissing Abby—really kissing her—was just like he thought it would be. And at the same time, nothing like he thought it’d be. It was like the harvest sunset and bright, crisp apples and the comfort of a woman’s hand resting over your heart. It was Abby and it was him and it was right.
Until she pulled away. And then everything—all those secret dreams he’d been harboring for longer than he’d like to admit—shattered.
He wasn’t sure they’d ever get back to normal. Even now, even with this—the hunt—bringing them together. The way she looked at him was wary, like she was worried he might be her downfall.
He pulled onto the road leading to the Winthrop Orchard, driving down the dirt lane, the rows of almond trees blurring as the tires kicked up dust and he veered around the big pothole near the end of the road.
He didn’t see Zooey’s rental car in the driveway, but Abby’s truck was parked under the big oak tree. And she was sitting on the porch in the swing.
“Hey,” he said, as he got out of the car and ambled up to the porch. “You are not going to believe what your ex did.”
“My . . .” She trailed off, puzzled. “Ryan?”
“He decided to pull a power play and check the evidence box out of the locker before I could. Sheriff Alan’s getting an earful from me later.”
“Oh,” Abby said.
Paul frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “How did your talk with the doctor go?”
Abby met his eyes for the first time and his stomach clenched, the worry in them sending a chill through him.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “About Cass.”
“What about her?” he asked. “What did Dr. Jeffrey say?”
“Paul,” she reached over, taking his hand in hers. “Cass was pregnant.”
“What?” He thought he’d misheard her. Surely he had misheard her. “No,” he said. “That’s . . . no . . .”
“She was,” Abby said. “Dr. Jeffrey left it off the report because he thought Mrs. Martin couldn’t take it. He buried it.”
“No!” Paul repeated. His ears were ringing. The weight was back, pressing on his chest. He could almost feel Mancuso’s breath against his cheek as he flashed back to the bomber threatening him, threatening the teen girl he was trying so hard to protect.
“Dr. Jeffrey is wrong,” he said firmly. God, he had to be wrong. Please, let him be wrong.
“He’s not,” Abby said. “Paul, I am so sorry. I know this is incredibly hard. It’s a whole new loss. But—”
Paul jerked his hand away from her, standing up swiftly. “Abigail,” he said sharply, and she startled, her eyes growing wide at his harsh tone. “Cass could not have been pregnant. Not with my baby, at least.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cass and I never had sex,” Paul said, and he felt it clawing inside him, the truth that he didn’t want to face and now had to. “I wasn’t a virgin when we got together, but she was. She wanted to wait until she was at least engaged. I respected that. If she was pregnant . . .”
“The baby wasn’t yours,” Abby finished.
Chapter 21
For the second time that day, Abby felt like she’d been punched. Her mind was going in all sorts of directions, spinning all the possibilities.
Had Cass been raped? She didn’t want to voice this question to Paul, even though she knew his thoughts must be going there as well.
Or had Cass cheated on Paul? God, she hoped it was the latter.
Had that been why she was so insecure about his and Abby’s friendship? Because she had been unfaithful herself? But with who?
“God, this is a fucking mess,” Paul said, and he slumped down in his seat, his eyes sad and hopeless.
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” Abby said, trying to tamp down the guilt rising inside her. Once again, she’d tangled them all together. Once again, she was making choices that were hurting the people she loved most.
“She . . . she never gave you any clue that she was pregnant? Or that maybe she’d been assaulted?” Paul asked.
Abby shook her head. She knew, like her, he was frantically tracing back every interaction with Cass during that time period, examining the memories of each conversation with new eyes.
“That doesn’t mean an assault isn’t what happened,” she said. “Every survivor reacts to sexual assault differently. Dr. Jeffrey did say she was at least three months along, so it meant she got pregnant before she left for her grandmother’s.”
“So there were at least three months where she was . . .” Paul trailed off, his fists clenching. “I hope to God she was cheating on me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I hope she was just being a reckless teenager, and no one hurt her even more. If they did . . .” He raised a shaky hand to his mouth.
Abby went to him, unable to stop herself. Without another word, she crossed
the space between them on the porch and slid into his arms, hugging him tight.
“You are a good man,” she whispered into his neck, unable to pull back enough to meet his eyes. His hands were warm, resting high on her hip, and it made her want to shiver, but she steeled herself instead, the denial running too deep for her to fight it. She forced herself to step away, sitting back on the porch swing.
“Cass wasn’t perfect,” she said. “She might have made some mistakes. But she loved you.”
“I know,” Paul said. “And I loved her. I will always love the memory of her. But being in love with her? It’s a memory too. I’m not hurt if she was cheating on me, Abby. It was a long time ago. We were babies. We had no concept of what forever really meant. I’m a completely different person now—and a realist. We would’ve likely made it to college and then broken up midfreshman year like most couples who try to do it long distance in college do. But this?” His eyes glittered. “A pregnancy changes things. It changes the case. It changes the profile of our unsub.”
Abby hadn’t even thought of that. She’d been so focused, first, on breaking the news to Paul, that she hadn’t even considered how it would affect the case.
“How so?” she asked.
“One of the times a woman is most in danger from an abusive partner is when she’s pregnant,” Paul said. “I know it’s messed up,” he said, obviously seeing the horrified look on her face. “But it introduces a motive here that we hadn’t considered.”
“You’re saying you think whoever got Cass pregnant is her killer,” Abby said.
“It’s very likely,” Paul said.
“That means she had to be sexually assaulted,” Abby said. “I don’t think she would’ve been with someone much older. And there’s no way Dr. X’s student was another teenager.”
“Not necessarily,” said a voice.
Abby, on edge from everything, nearly jumped a foot in the air. Zooey had obviously pulled up the back way and she hadn’t heard her come up from the back porch.