Twisted Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Thanks, Tory. I owe you one.”

  “You really do.”

  “I’ll look for your email in the morning. When you get into the office, keep an eye out for an email from a gentleman named Jim Shore with the Cumberland County Bureau of Justice.”

  “Will do. I’ll get in early to compare the results to my samples. Let’s plan to put our heads together at eight o’clock. That way, if we need to go to Saul, we can catch him before the office starts buzzing.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And Bodhi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I will.” He was touched by her concern.

  “Good. Because if you drive off the road and kill yourself, I’ll be stuck holding the bag for your harebrained idea.”

  He was still laughing when she hung up.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hope slept well, better than she’d slept in weeks, and woke early, feeling refreshed and determined. She showered, packed a weekend bag and all the cash she had on hand, and went downstairs to rummage around in the refrigerator for a fast breakfast. She grabbed a container of yogurt.

  She sat at the breakfast bar and ate quickly. After she rinsed the empty container and tossed it into the recycling bin, she washed and dried the spoon. Then she turned out the kitchen light and opened the door to the basement, leaving the door ajar behind her.

  Her heart hammered in her chest and her legs felt like they were encased in cement as she clomped down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she reached up and yanked on the chain to illuminate the bare bulb hanging above her head.

  Then she crossed the earth floor and stood in front of her mother’s trunk. She pressed her lips shut and folded her hands together to still their shaking. Once she was sure her emotions were contained, she lifted the hinged lid and crouched by the side of the trunk.

  She moved aside the blankets and removed the pile of photo albums. She selected the bottom album and flipped it open to a picture of her as a five-year-old. She was wearing a leotard and tutu and clutched a bouquet of flowers to her chest with a proud smile. She remembered how excited she was for her first ballet recital. She reached behind the photograph and removed her old driver’s license from the plastic sleeve. She slipped the ID into the pocket of her jeans and closed the picture album, resisting the urge to flip through its pages.

  There’s no time. You need to take care of things now.

  She stacked the albums back in the trunk and replaced the blankets on top. Then she reached for one of the quilted circular boxes that occupied the other side of the trunk. She unzipped the lid and peeked inside. It was her pixie-cut wig. The short, dark black one.

  Good enough. But better take at least one more in case you need to change your appearance again.

  She never thought she’d be thankful that she’d lost her hair during chemotherapy. But, she had an entire wardrobe of hairstyles and colors at her fingertips. She lifted two more wig boxes from the trunk and looped the handles over her wrist without looking inside. It didn’t matter. She rezipped the pixie wig box and closed the trunk. She pounded up the stairs as fast as she could run and went straight into the attached garage to load the boxes and her bag into her car before she lost her nerve.

  She returned to the kitchen one last time to confirm she hadn’t forgotten anything. Then she checked the time. Almost seven o’clock. If she left now, she’d be there when visiting hours started.

  She looked down at the Bible on the counter. Should she take it? Or leave it?

  Her hand hovered over it while she debated. After a moment, she pulled her hand back. That book had caused her nothing but grief.

  “Goodbye, Hope,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Burton was only one-third of the way through his first coffee of the morning when his cell phone rang.

  “Gilbert,” he growled into the phone.

  “Are you awake?” Chrys Martin asked.

  She sounded entirely too chipper for the hour—and the weather. Then he remembered she lived in a condo.

  “No, I’m still sleeping. Hey, does your condominium handle snow removal?”

  “Well, yeah. Why?”

  He padded to the front window and eyed his snow-covered driveway and sidewalk balefully. “Just wondering. What’s up?”

  “I got back from my run—”

  “You went for a run? Outside? This morning?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t hide her amusement. “Can I go on?”

  “Sure.”

  “When I got back, I had a text from Olivia Scott. She sent a link to download a photo album from one of those cloud storage sites. I’m going to email it to you. Hang on.”

  He sipped his coffee and powered up his home computer while she hummed under her breath.

  “Okay. It’s on its way.”

  “This couldn’t have waited until we got into the office?”

  “After Dr. King called yesterday about the Noors’ neighbor, I left word with the shift commander to send Vitanni out to re-interview the Remmy woman first thing this morning. I was wondering if we should call in and tell her to wait until we can get a set of photos printed so she can show them to Mrs. Remmy, ask if she ever saw this woman lurking around. If Anastasia Kessler did pay Tenley to kill Noor’s first wife, maybe she paid someone to kill the professor. Maybe Hope Noor’s in danger. I don’t know.”

  “What about the DNA?”

  Chrys sighed. “I don’t know, Burton. Maybe the crime lab screwed it up. We can’t do anything about the DNA results, but we might as well chase the leads we do have.”

  “You’re right. And good call … to have Meredith Vitanni go back out and re-interview Mrs. Remmy. That was good thinking.”

  “Thanks.”

  He could hear the surprise in her voice. Maybe he should be less sparing with his praise.

  His musings about his supervisory style were interrupted by a chiming sound that announced his ancient desktop had completed the startup process and successfully avoided consignment to the electronics recycling program for another day. He opened his email program and clicked on the message from Chrys.

  He hovered his mouse over the link in the body of the message. “Am I gonna have to sign up with this storage site to view these pictures?”

  “No, stop your grousing. She made the link unsecured. Just click it.”

  He clicked it. He drank his coffee and waited for the internet to work its magic. He drained the mug and rested it on top of a pile of unopened mail as a row of icons appeared on the computer monitor.

  “I’m in.”

  He scanned the pictures. There were eight. Five of them were of Olivia Scott and another young woman. Judging by the odd camera angle and the pursed duck lips, the pair of friends had been fond of taking selfies. The remaining three photos were of the other woman by herself—sitting on a blanket on the college campus green; raising a red Solo cup in a toast at what appeared to be a fraternity party; and the last one, looking pale and drained as she reclined on a sofa, wrapped up in a blanket.

  “She must’ve lost her hair during chemo. She’s clearly wearing a wig in some of these,” Chrys remarked.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He studied the pictures, paying particular attention to Anastasia Kessler’s delicate bone structure, her large, almond-shaped brown eyes, and her bee-stung lips. He ignored the hairstyle. Decades of detective work and life as a man in society had taught him that a woman could entirely change her appearance by cutting or coloring her hair or wearing it up versus down, straight versus curly. He imagined Anastasia with long, wavy blonde hair.

  “Well? Should I have the tech guys print out an array and send them with Vitanni? I hope she hasn’t left.”

  He enlarged the final picture—Anastasia resting, looking frail and vulnerable—and stared at it. His pulse raced, and his blood pounded in his ears.

  “Burt? Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you
. No, don’t bother.”

  “Are you sure? What if Hope Noor’s in danger from this woman?”

  “She’s not.”

  “How can you—?”

  “Anastasia Kessler’s not going to harm Hope Noor. She is Hope Noor.”

  “What?”

  “The woman in these photographs was in my office on Tuesday crying about her murdered husband. And I told her Tenley’s DNA was at the scene. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’ve been played.”

  “Son of a …”

  “Call dispatch and find out where Vitanni is. Have them send her out to sit on the Noor residence. I’ll call Meghan Ford and have her call a meeting and then shovel my damn driveway. We need to talk to the entire team. Don’t go to the station. Go straight to the DA’s office. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Will do. Wait.”

  “What?” he huffed, anxious to get moving.

  “About the district attorney. I’m pretty sure Meghan leaked the Tenley story herself.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well I got to thinking, who looks bad as a result of the leak?”

  “The medical examiner, mainly.”

  “Right. And if the whole story comes out, about how the DNA was critically important in the first trial because the box of money and the towel weren’t admissible because—”

  “Because we screwed up by not getting a search warrant. Then we also look bad.”

  “But the district attorney’s office comes out of it smelling like a rose.”

  He thought for a moment. “You’re probably right. At her core, she’s a politician, no different from any other elected official. It’s all about the spin. But we can’t worry about it now. We have to deal with Hope Noor or Anastasia Kessler or whatever her name is.”

  “Sure. I’m just saying, be careful what you tell the DA. Unless you want to hear it on Maisy Farley’s morning segment.”

  “I gotcha. Now, go make your call. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Damon was sitting in his cell after breakfast. Just sitting and staring at the wall.

  Officer O’Hagen rapped the bars with his baton. “Morning, Tenley.”

  He popped to his feet. “Good morning, Officer O’Hagen.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He flashed the guard a mildly curious look. “Where?”

  “Looks like you hit the jailhouse jackpot. Visiting hours just started, and guess who has the very first visitor of the day?”

  Damon wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Oh. Yeah. My lawyer said she was sending an investigator out to talk to me. But he’s supposed to come in the afternoon.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to shuffle all my other important appointments around on my calendar.”

  O’Hagen rewarded him with a laugh, but then he shook his head. “Pretty sure this isn’t the investigator.”

  “It must be. I don’t get any visitors.”

  “Well you got one today. I saw her myself. Short dark hair. Big eyes. Tight body. Miss Anastasia Kessler is here to see you.”

  Anastasia? Here?

  Damon’s knees wobbled, and he sank back onto the bed.

  “Tenley, up! I don’t have all day.” O’Hagen’s voice cracked like a whip.

  Damon tried to return to his feet, but his legs didn’t cooperate. He pressed his palms down hard against the mattress, hoping O’Hagen wouldn’t notice the tremble in his hands.

  A jumble of emotions bumped against each other, warring for primacy. Excitement that the day was here—a day he’d imagined so many times but never really believed would come. Fierce worry that this was no place for her: Anastasia shouldn’t spend even one minute in this hellhole. And a frisson of fear that prickled under his skin. What did she want?

  “Tenley.” O’Hagen’s voice held a warning.

  “I’m sorry, officer. I … I’m a little woozy.”

  O’Hagen’s irritation slipped for a moment. “You need to go to the infirmary?”

  Damon shook his head and forced back the bile that rose in his throat. “No. I’ll be okay. I don’t want to forfeit my visit.” He pushed himself up off the bed.

  Hope’s mouth was dry. Her throat was even drier. Too dry to cough. The best she could manage was a soft choking sound. As she waited for the guards to bring Damon into the visiting room, she tried, without success, to work up some saliva and told herself there was no reason to be so anxious.

  Damon adored her. He always had and always would.

  Her parents had told her the story every year on her birthday. The day they’d brought her home from the hospital, he’d taken one look at her and fallen in love.

  “Damon, meet your sister,” her mother had said, gently placing Hope in his chubby five-year-old arms. “This is Anastasia Hope. She’s our baby.”

  And Damon had gazed down at the bundled newborn for a long moment before raising his head and locking eyes with each of her parents in turn.

  “No,” he’d corrected them in a fierce voice, “she’s my baby. I’m the big brother.”

  And from that moment on, Damon Tenley would have done anything for her.

  She’d tested his loyalty over and over growing up. He lied to keep her out of trouble, took the blame when she misbehaved, and saved his money to buy her candy and stickers and dolls—and, later, makeup and clothes and beer.

  When they were little, he was her constant playmate and her personal cheering section. And, as they grew up, he became her protector and her confidante. Even after he left home to join the army, he told anyone who would listen that his little sister was his world.

  He’d proved it twice as an adult. Once, by saving her life. The healthy stem cells harvested from Damon’s bone marrow replaced her depleted and destroyed cells after she’d gone through several courses of high-dose chemotherapy and radiation treatments. The second time, well … he just wanted her to be happy.

  Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when she heard Damon’s name being called. She hurried to her feet and walked down a long, narrow hallway where she was met by a female corrections officer.

  “Um … I’m Anastasia Kessler,” she croaked.

  “Hand.”

  Hope blinked at the woman then stuck out her right hand as if they were about to shake.

  The corrections officer quirked her mouth. “Other hand, honey. I need to check your X.”

  Anastasia blushed and held out her left hand, palm down, to display the X that the last officer had stamped on her skin.

  “Sorry. I guess I’m nervous. It’s my first time visiting my brother. I’m not sure how things work.”

  The guard’s face softened. “You were smart to come out early, then, before it gets crowded. I just need to pass this ultraviolet light over your mark.” She moved the wand over Hope’s hand. “Good. You have the slip they gave you?”

  Hope removed the piece of paper from her jeans pocket and held it up. “Yes.”

  “Go through those doors right in front of you and give that to the CO at the desk in the front of the room. Your brother will come in through a door on the other side of the desk. You’ll have at least an hour to visit with him.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “You can give him a hug or whatever when you see him, but don’t get too touchy-feely. I know, I know, you’re his sister. But you don’t want to imagine some of the things I’ve seen.” She paused to give a dramatic shudder. “If you purchased tokens out front, you can give them to him and he can get whatever he wants from the vending machines. Nobody else is here yet, but the room fills up fast, so pick an out-of-the-way table if you want to be able to talk semi-privately.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Have a good visit.”

  Hope pushed open the door to the visiting room.

  The room was nothing like she’d imagined. She’d expected to see rows of Plexiglas booths, like in the movies. Instead, she stepped into what appeared to be a school cafet
eria. Rows of long tables ran the length of the room. A bank of vending machines lined the back wall. There was even a mural painted in a small alcove that held some child-sized tables and chairs.

  The ordinariness of the room was disorienting and, ironically, almost surreal. Her mind swam, off-balance and racing, as she handed the paper to the guard at the desk.

  Damon walked through the door to the visiting room and spotted Anastasia passing a slip of paper to the corrections officer at the desk. She was wearing her hair short. It looked like she’d dyed it a dark, chestnut color, closer to black than to brown. She looked sturdier and stronger than she had the last time he’d seen her. But, of course she would. It had been more than six years, and she’d been so frail then.

  He crossed the room and stood awkwardly in front of her, his arms hanging limply by his sides. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She glanced at the guard. Then she darted closer to Damon and gave him a quick embrace.

  By the time he realized she was hugging him, she’d already stepped back.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She smiled uncertainly and gestured toward the rows of empty tables. “Sure. Why don’t we sit down and talk?”

  He nodded and followed her to a table pushed into the far right corner of the room. He let her choose her seat first, and took the chair across from her. He leaned forward and studied her face.

  “Is that one of your cancer wigs?” He gestured toward her head.

  She blinked, startled. “Uh, yeah. Actually.”

  His heart hit his stomach. “Is the leukemia back?”

  During the walk across the prison campus, he’d managed to convince himself that she was here to tell him a mix-up with the DNA evidence meant he might be able to get out of here. He hadn’t imagined she could be bringing him bad news.

  If Anastasia’s blood cancer was back, who would take care of her?

  He fisted his hands and dug them into his thighs to brace himself against the wave of helplessness that threatened to wash him away.