Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

  “No one saw it,” Alex said.

  Rick took another pull on the beer. “Jenna is considering doing an extensive interview with Martinez.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s trying to dig into her past. Trying to make sense of it.”

  “Dad and KC must have handled that case.”

  “You’re right. Dad’s handwriting was all over J. E. Thompson’s missing persons file.”

  “No shit.” Alex sighed.

  “Every time I see his handwriting in a file, I half-expect to see him walk into the room.”

  “I miss the old bastard.”

  “Yeah.”

  Alex straightened his shoulders. “Jenna’s got to be carrying some emotional baggage. Shit, no kid can go through what she did and not be scarred.”

  He remembered her stern, cold expression when she’d closed the door in his face. “She’s not crazy, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “You sure she’s not another Melissa?”

  Rick shook his head. “She’s not.”

  “Sure?”

  Jenna wasn’t Melissa. He’d known that from the instant he’d met her. Independent and strong, she’d not even hinted that she needed him or anyone else. Melissa had been the opposite. Always clinging. Worrying. “Jenna might be searching, but she’s not crazy.”

  Alex arched a brow as he raised his beer to his lips. “Defending?”

  “No.”

  Alex shook his head. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “You got a thing for her.”

  No. Yes. Maybe. “I don’t know. I sure as hell am not getting into another relationship. Too much work.”

  A heavy sigh escaped. “Find yourself a nice normal girl with no baggage, Rick. One that doesn’t need her life fixed.”

  “I’m not in the market for broken people.”

  “You think you can fix everything like you fixed the Big House. You don’t need a woman with issues. Find another.”

  It had been so long since they’d spoken so openly and easily and it struck him how quickly they’d fallen back into old habits. “It’s not like I found this one. Our relationship is professional.”

  Alex laughed. “Then why’re we having this conversation?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Because you defended her. If you were thinking like a cop when it came to Jenna Thompson, we’d not be having this conversation.”

  Rick entered the forensics lab to find Georgia leaning over a light table gazing through a magnifying lens, the pink blanket for the Lost Girl case spread out. She held a pair of tweezers in one hand and an evidence bag in the other.

  “Did you find something?”

  Georgia didn’t answer but gently tweezed up what looked like a small hair and then dropped it in her evidence bag. She straightened and stretched the kinks from her back. “I don’t know. But I thought I’d tell you what I have so far.”

  “Great.”

  She reached for a tablet where she scrolled until she found her notes. “This is the blanket recovered at the scene with our victim. It’s a baby blanket that can be found in most high-end stores. It’s one hundred percent wool and is very well made. I made some calls and twenty-five years ago it would have cost thirty dollars, which is one hundred dollars in today’s market.”

  That could mean any number of things about their victim. Yes, she could have been from a more affluent home, but that wasn’t a given. The blanket may have been stolen or bought secondhand. Any number of scenarios could have fit. “What’s the brown stain in the upper right-hand corner?”

  “That’s human blood. I’ve pulled a sample and sent it off to the lab. If the sample isn’t too degraded to test, the lab won’t send results back for a couple of weeks.”

  “Did the blanket tell you anything else?”

  “I’ve pulled a couple of dark hair fibers and bagged them.” She pointed to another faint stain. “I’ve also tested them for DNA. I don’t know if it’s spit-up or semen or what. Tests will tell.”

  Rick stood back. “The killer stripped the child of clothes. We don’t have a clear reason for that. And then takes the time to wrap her in a blanket. Why?”

  “You said it before. Remorse.”

  “The kid died of a head trauma. I’m seeing a scene where she’s crying. Maybe she’s taking a bath or getting ready for bed. The parent tells her to be quiet. She doesn’t. And the person snaps and hits the kid or shoves her into a wall and wham, she’s dead. Panic. Wrap the kid up and get rid of her.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes this job really sucks.”

  “You’ll let me know about the DNA.”

  “Bro, you’ll be the first.”

  “Good.”

  “Tell me we’re gonna catch this guy.”

  He met his sister’s lost gaze. She didn’t want to hear about the long odds. “You’re damn right, we’re going to find the killer.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, I needed to hear that, even if you don’t really believe it.”

  Ford was breaking the rules. But temptation had been so strong and he ached to prove that he was worthy of carrying out the plan they’d discussed so many times.

  He stood in the back of the packaging store holding his letter. He had less than fifteen minutes to mail it and return to work or his boss was going to dock his pay. The boss had been riding him for weeks over missed hours and half days. Be late again and I’ll can your ass.

  If he didn’t need the money, he’d have quit that loser job. He hated bussing the tables, picking up after sloppy customers who treated him like he was no more than trailer trash. He hated the waitresses who he knew were laughing at him. He hated . . . he hated almost everything.

  A glance toward the front of the line and he saw her. She was standing there with a large package, like she did every month. Sending off a care package to her brother who was stationed overseas. She never missed a deadline.

  Shoulder-length, curly hair framed her round face and made her round, green eyes all the more vivid and bright. She wore jeans, with rhinestones on the back pockets, and a blouse that she’d unbuttoned to just above the curve of her breasts. Like a tease, she must have known that leaving just enough skin exposed would make any man look twice. He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, fastening and unfastening the button, trying to decide just how much was too much.

  Sweat dampened the back of his neck as he shifted his gaze to the box tucked under her arm and hugged close to her narrow waist. He didn’t need to see in the box to know what was in it. From the small camera planted in her house, he’d watched as she carefully placed socks, gum, coffee, magazines, and photos. She took great care and pride.

  He tapped his finger on the edge of his letter. His assignment today had been simple. Make contact with her. Nothing too big or splashy so that, when the time came, she could look into his eyes and know he’d been in her life not just for hours but days and weeks. He’d tried to approach her before she’d entered the package-delivery office but had lost his nerve. He’d watched her get in line and the people pile in behind her. He’d paced outside, nervous and angry that he’d been such a wimp.

  Ford counted the number of people in line. Ten. And the number of clerks behind the counter. One. The clock ticked. He couldn’t lose his shit job but his assignment had been clear. Make contact. Show her you’re in control. She is the pawn. Not you.

  Tightening his grip on his package, he skirted around the line and moved right in front of her. Fear and excitement buzzed in his nerves as he waited for her to respond. She would have to notice him now.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m next in line. You just can’t butt in line.”

  “I’m in a rush,” he said. “I got to get back to work.”

  He could feel her gaze on him, seething. He’d busted into her regular day and taken control. “We all have to get back to work, pal. Get to the back of the line.”

  A guy behind her swor
e. “Do what the lady says, pal. Get to the back of the line.”

  “I’m in a rush.” Mentally, he braced. This wasn’t going to be easy for him but she wasn’t going to be having any fun either.

  He expected the next assault to come from the angry man in line but it came from her.

  “Get out of line, pal! I’m not putting up with your bullshit.” She shoved his arm. “Move!”

  Inwardly, he cringed. Her words chipped at his fragile confidence. “I’m not moving. I need to mail this package.”

  She looked past him as if he didn’t matter to the postal clerk. “Are you going to allow this!” Others in line grumbled as the clerk waved to someone out of sight.

  Shit. He’d meant to upset her. He’d thought she’d crumble at the dominance and let him have his way. But she’d come out swinging. He did not want this kind of trouble.

  Clutching his letter close, he leaned toward her. “You’re a bitch.”

  Those wide, green eyes narrowed. “Asshole.”

  He balled fingers into a fist and if he thought he could risk it, he’d have punched her. Knocked her flat. But he didn’t have the time for trouble. He had to get back to work and bus tables.

  Ford allowed a hint of pleasure as he thought about the cameras in her house and how he really was the one with control and soon would prove it to her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, August 21, 8 A.M.

  Jenna was poised to paint the last brushstroke on the bride’s portrait when the phone rang. She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on the brush. Since the Susan Martinez report had aired on the Lost Girl Friday at noon, six, and eleven, her phone had not stopped ringing. She’d turned off the phone and spent the weekend hiding out.

  The first phone calls had appeared to be legitimate portrait clients. But the conversation had quickly degraded. She’d gotten questions about her past. Did she remember Ronnie? How had it felt to be held hostage? Had she been sexually assaulted?

  She’d hung up and put the phone on silence. She’d finished the bride’s portrait, not wholly satisfied by the eyes, which conveyed a bit too much confidence to reflect the woman.

  Whatever life she’d cobbled together in the last twenty-five years was unraveling because she’d pulled the first thread when she’d moved back to Nashville.

  This morning, she’d turned her phone back on expecting a call from her bride. It had started ringing an hour ago. By her count, she’d had seven calls.

  Jenna glanced at the phone and when she saw Unknown Caller she rose and moved outside to her deck. She breathed in a lungful of fresh air. Though business could end up booming as a result of the television news piece, she would never allow a profit to be made off a child’s death.

  The phone stopped ringing and she released a deep breath. “Leave me alone. I don’t need this.”

  Her front bell rang and she cursed, deciding she would not answer. When the bell rang again she got annoyed. “Jenna, it’s Detective Morgan.”

  She hesitated. She couldn’t blame him for this mess. She’d made the choice to go public. She moved to the door and opened it. He stood there dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. No sign of his dog. “Detective. You’re rather dapper. Headed to court this morning?”

  He straightened. “How’d you know?”

  “Every cop has their going-to-court suit. Since that’s the nicest I’ve seen you dressed, I’m guessing court.”

  “You would be right.” He frowned. “Are you saying my other suits aren’t as nice?”

  She cocked her head, pleased that her teasing had gotten under his skin. “I wouldn’t wear my best to a murder scene. Most scenes aren’t clean and pretty.”

  “No, they aren’t. But maybe I could step up my game a little.”

  “Why?”

  “I have an image.”

  That made her laugh. “Really?”

  “It’s the Morgan family legend.”

  “Ah, that’s right. The homicide legacy or something like that.”

  “Exactly.”

  The phone vibrated, humming against a tabletop, and she cringed. “Another admirer.”

  The good humor softening his gaze vanished. Cold steel replaced it. “Anyone giving you a hard time?”

  Ignoring the phone, she nodded for him to come inside. “Nothing I can’t handle. A news report like that always brings the nuts out of the trees.” The phone went silent. “So what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “Just checking on you. I didn’t like the way that newscast went down. And I’m surprised you didn’t say something to me before the interview.”

  “Like what? Not the kind of thing that comes up easily in a conversation, is it? Besides, my aunt taught me early on to keep that note from my past secret. She said no good would come of talking about it.”

  “Didn’t you need professional help when you were a kid?”

  “It probably wouldn’t have hurt but my aunt wasn’t the most trusting soul when it came to shrinks. She decided the best therapy was a pad and pencil and told me to draw my troubles. When I did, we’d burn them in the backyard and she’d tell me they were gone. We did that a lot in the beginning but, after a while, the nightmares faded.”

  “You kept drawing.”

  “Maybe finding other people’s demons was my way of working through it.”

  “Your missing persons file came across my desk when we were trying to identify the Lost Girl. Bishop didn’t realize it was you until after the interview.”

  “So you see, my case is closed.” Her flippant tone didn’t quite measure up to her feelings. “I have no boogeyman to worry about.”

  He studied her a long beat. “But there’s something that bothers you about this.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, forgetting for a moment that he was a homicide cop and good at digging to the truth below. “What makes you say that?”

  He shook his head. “There is something . . . those eyes you draw.”

  She wagged her finger at him. “I’m not one of your suspects and there is no deeper truth to be found. My story was terrible but, in the end, justice was served.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Sure.” No. Not really. The perpetrator might be dead but her family was dead and she was left with an irrational fear of small spaces, insomnia, and a host of other quirks.

  He rested his hand on his hip and, for a moment, didn’t say much. “I was a grown man when I was shot. I was a cop doing his job who understood the risks. You’d think I could handle trauma but I still have nightmares.”

  She resisted sharing her laundry list of quirks. “No one gets out of life unscarred.”

  “Aren’t we the pair?” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper and she knew the admission cost him a measure of pride.

  She didn’t want to like or care about Rick. Soon she’d leave Nashville. “Yeah.”

  Silence settled between them. “Jenna, if you need anything, call me. You helped me out and I want you to know I’m here.”

  Her tangled past was her problem. She’d never dumped her burdens on anyone else before and she’d not start now. “Thanks. And thanks for stopping by but I’m fine and can handle a few kooks.”

  A slight cock of his head telegraphed disbelief. “You sure?”

  She coupled a grin with an exaggerated shrug. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

  He slid his hand into his pocket and rattled change. “Okay. But promise you’ll call if you have trouble.”

  “Sure. I’ll call.”

  But she wouldn’t. She never called for help.

  Ford left work early because he’d been so angry. His boss had threatened to fire him but Ford had cut the conversation short when he’d quit. He’d had it with the bullshit and couldn’t take the talk, talk, talk knowing that she’d humiliated him at the package-delivery office.

  His phone rang as he moved toward his car, a beat-up Ford wagon that rattled when he drove. “Yeah.”

&nbs
p; “You sound upset.”

  The familiar voice calmed him instantly. “I am. Everything is a mess.”

  Silence. “Tell me.”

  Ford hated screwing things up. He’d messed everything up in his life and now here he was again with another screwup. “I went to see her.”

  Silence. “Not the waitress.”

  “No.”

  “You went to see her.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. I just want to do this so bad.”

  More silence. “What happened?”

  He recounted what happened. “It was a mess. I can’t do this without you.”

  Through the line he heard the faint jingle of bells. “This isn’t good.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I screwed up. What do I do?”

  A door closed. “Do you remember the place we discussed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to do it tonight.”

  Relief and excitement rushed over him. He thought he’d totally screwed up his chances. “Why?”

  “Because I want it as well. Don’t be late.” The line went dead.

  Ford got in his truck and drove through Nashville, crossing the Cumberland River until he reached a small, deserted gas station. He got out of his truck in time to see the nondescript, green four-door pull up.

  Ford waited in his truck as instructed until his mentor slid into the passenger seat.

  In the dim light, he felt the sharp eyes staring as if trying to read his mind.

  “I feel like a fool,” Ford said.

  “No reason to feel like a fool, Ford. In the long run, this might be a good thing.”

  Ford gently pounded his fist on the steering wheel as if the action would tamp out the memory. “She made fun of me in public.”

  Even, white teeth flashed. “Don’t worry about that. It’s easy for her to be brave when there’re people around. She wouldn’t be so brave if it were just the two of you.”

  Simple words soothed his wounded soul. “Thank you.”