Ivy knew Sheriff Dunst was visiting some of the outlying area, inquiring as to whether anyone knew Gabriella or could identify her. What leads could Joel possibly have?
“The piano, downstairs.” Ivy spun around to explain to Joel, but her sleeve caught on the windowsill. The rip of her cuff stilted her turn. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, and inspected her dress.
Joel pushed up against her, and she jerked her head up in surprise at his close proximity. But his attention wasn’t on her. He reached for the jagged edge on the windowsill, the wood beginning to rot from moisture and age. When he pulled his hand back, there was a small piece of material in his fingertips, no larger than a penny.
“Here.” Joel handed it to her as if she would be able to piece it back onto her dress.
Ivy frowned and reached for it, but her fingers stilled as they reached his. “That’s not mine.”
Joel looked closely at the scrap of material in his hand, then gave her dress a cursory glance. The faded gray calico was nowhere near the same shade as her serviceable blue.
A thousand prickles met her skin again, but this time they had nothing to do with Joel. Ivy carefully took the calico from him and pressed it into her palm, lifting it so they could both see. There it was. The tiny piece of material. Proof that Gabriella had been in Foster Hill House.
“It’s Gabriella’s. This is from the dress she was wearing when she was found.”
Joel’s voice dropped a few bars. “You’re certain? No doubts?”
“None.” Ivy couldn’t help the slight upturn of her mouth as she locked eyes with Joel. Gabriella had been one of the secrets the house on Foster Hill concealed. A definitive starting point was identified. It was one painfully small step toward finding out who Gabriella was and, most important of all, what had happened to the little baby she had birthed only weeks before her death.
Chapter 9
Kaine
He was here. He had followed her. Kaine’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. She should have told her sister, but Leah would have insisted Kaine come home. And why couldn’t she? Because she didn’t want to. The memories, the grief, not to mention the most blaring reason: Her leaving San Diego was to get away from this terror.
She braked as she rounded a corner in her Jetta, casting a glance at the picture of Danny that lay on the passenger seat where she’d tossed it. The picture that had been sitting in the middle of the barren floor was an 8-by-10 print from a color ink-jet printer, stolen from one of her online photo galleries. She’d thought she deleted them all, but apparently not. Danny’s smile ripped into Kaine’s heart. She stifled a sob and adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead.
Who was this dedicated to playing such horrific psychological games? Why had they taken Danny’s life? Now they were pilfering pictures of him off the internet? Kaine needed to find a coffee shop with Wi-Fi and do a Google search of her name again to find which online photos still existed in cyberspace. She’d already changed her email, ditched her original cellphone for a new one, and erased her Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter accounts.
Oak trees whisked by her car in straight lines, like soldiers. Had her stalker driven past them? Kaine was no stranger to stalkers. Her entire career as a social worker for abused women had her shielding, defending, and helping women escape the beasts in their lives. Some of the women were victims of sex trafficking, bound to a pimp who valued their worth only in a monetary sense. Escape was never easy and too often ended badly. Kaine’s fervor to save had ended abruptly with Danny’s death. Her life was surrounded by violence, and she’d reached the end of her tolerance for it.
“God, please.” She begged the Lord through clenched teeth as she rounded a corner. Why would this elusive unknown follow her across country? She’d been more than happy to dismiss the daffodil on day one as Joy’s daughter’s accidental token of greeting. But now? Kaine blew out a puff of air. She hadn’t been paranoid after all. Once again, circumstances proved to her she wasn’t suffering from PTSD any more than Elvis was actually alive.
Her car brought her into view of downtown Oakwood. Her phone GPS called out her next turn, and she rounded the corner to pull into her destination. Tilting her head, Kaine peered through the windshield at the Oakwood Police Department building—a tan brick structure with a glass door and two windows on either side. Not at all like the San Diego precinct.
She closed her eyes. The memories of past police interviews filtered through her mind. The doubt written across the detective’s face, his reminder that she had just lost her husband in an accident, and the implication that her stress caused her to forget she had moved the items, not some stalker. Kaine squeezed the steering wheel. If the San Diego Police Department didn’t believe her and couldn’t find substantial evidence to support her claims of break-ins, then what would the Oakwood Police do? In a rinky-dink town whose worst crime in the last fifty years was probably an elementary student stealing bubblegum from the local grocery store.
Still. Why take chances?
Within minutes, Kaine pulled open the station door, Danny’s copy-paper picture clutched in her hand.
A window of plexiglass separated Kaine from the officer at the desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to file a report.” Kaine prepared herself for the all-too familiar barrage of questions. Soon she was seated across from a robust detective holding a spiral-bound notebook and clicking a pen against his teeth.
“Detective Carter.”
“Kaine Prescott.” She wanted to scream. Her foot tapped a nervous cadence against the leg of the wooden chair. Detective Carter glanced at it. Kaine stopped.
“So, you experienced a break-in?” he inquired.
“Yes.” Kaine explained the location, the circumstances, and ended by placing Danny’s picture on the desktop. She had to avoid looking at it. His grin lit up the room from the paper and drove the knife of guilt deeper into her soul. He’d died not knowing how much she really did love him. “This picture was left in an upstairs bedroom. It’s of my husband, who died two years ago.”
“And there was no vandalism?”
“Not that I could tell.” But really, it was Foster Hill House. Someone could bust down a door, and unless Kaine had made mental note of it standing, she’d venture it matched the rest of the dilapidated structure.
“Huh,” the detective said. “Do you know anyone in the area? Anyone who would think leaving a picture of your husband would be . . . a bad joke?”
A bad joke? “No.”
“And your husband, how did he pass away?”
What did she say? Her husband was murdered two years ago? The nice detective would contact the San Diego Police and find out it’d been an “accident.” She was being stalked? Oh, yes, the police would identify her as exhibiting symptoms of an anxiety disorder and tell him she’d been warned she could be charged with making false claims.
“He was in a car accident. In San Diego. The case was closed as an accident, but—” Kaine stopped and picked at a fingernail.
“But what?”
She lifted her eyes and met the detective’s. What could it hurt? “I never thought it was an accident.”
He frowned and tapped the photo. “Why’s that?”
Kaine noticed he had a line of dirt under his fingernail that kept poking at Danny’s face. “They said it was drug-induced, only Danny was never a user. And afterward, things like this—the picture—kept happening. But, no one could explain it to me.”
A long moment passed while the officer contemplated her words. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll send a dispatch out to check over the place,” Detective Carter assured her. He lifted Danny’s picture. “May I keep this?”
“Absolutely.” He was taking her seriously. Kaine would do anything for the man.
“I’ll touch base with the precinct you worked with. Familiarize myself with your case. But, frankly, outside of this, there’s not much to go on. We can
run the paper for fingerprints and see if anything comes back. While I’m sorry about your husband, you have to know if there was no credible evidence for your husband’s death being a murder, there’s nothing I can do here.”
His eyebrow rose. There it was. The familiar, unspoken warning that she would end up walking the line of being accused of making false claims. She was starting all over again. Square one.
Kaine stood and reached back to tighten her ponytail. “Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say.
Detective Carter filled in the awkward silence. “Ma’am, Foster Hill House always has strange things happening. Kids break in all the time and have parties and whatnot. It may be some kid got on the internet and read your story and is playing a prank.”
Kaine nodded. Certainly. That was it. A prank.
She politely shook hands with the detective and left the station. Now she had two police files in two states with records of the strange occurrences. At least this time she had something tangible, Danny’s picture, to leave with them.
Defeated, Kaine drove around the city square. Not even the quaint village shops inspired her, yet she had no desire to return to Foster Hill House. Not alone.
To the right of the road sat a medium-sized building with vinyl siding inside dark brown metal fencing, and a sign boasting a picture of a dog and a cat. Remembering her impulsive promise to herself, Kaine followed the whim and swung into the parking lot. If she was going to be alone, she was definitely getting a dog.
Crawling out of the car, she tugged her shirt over her hips and strolled to the front door. The idea of a cuddly dog warmed her, but she hoped it would also boast fangs. When she pushed open the door, a cat scampered past her feet and across the linoleum floor. The distinct smell of fur and animal shampoo tickled her nose. The entryway was empty. A lone counter that apparently served as a receptionist desk stretched in front of her, a vacant chair behind it. A small empty kennel was in the corner, its door open. A beat-up leather chair sat in the middle of the room, like it was awaiting an occupant in an interrogation room.
“Hello?” Kaine ventured down the hallway in the direction the cat had fled. The sound of barking dogs greeted her as she pushed open a door. The kennels. Two employees wearing jeans and blue polos stood in the room, and one of them raised his head.
Well then.
Grant Jesse’s welcoming expression froze on his face for a second before it transformed into a grin that reached the corners of his eyes. So he worked in an animal shelter?
“Kaine, what brings you here?”
“I need a dog.” Kaine heard the fear in her own voice, and for a moment she got the feeling Grant recognized it too. No one who met her now would ever guess that only five years ago she’d been a caring, effervescent person.
“A dog?” He jammed his hands in his pockets. He tended to do that, Kaine noted.
“Yeah. I . . .” She was tired of trying to explain herself. Detective Carter had sucked out her will to explain herself ever again.
“Foster Hill House is pretty creepy.” Grant offered up his own suggestion, and Kaine latched on to it.
Thank God. Yes, blame it on the stupid house. She mustered a smile to try to look friendlier than she felt. “It gets lonely there. I’d like some company and I’ve had dogs in the past. I had a golden retriever when I was a teenager.”
The light of interest that flickered in Grant’s eye wasn’t what she’d intended. She just wanted to convince him she was capable of being a responsible dog owner. He ran a hand over his day-old scruff, then shoved his fingers through his light brown hair.
“Sure. I get that. What kind are you looking for?”
“A pit bull,” Kaine offered without hesitation. They were the brutes, right? The ones who attacked to kill and never let go?
Grant choked, laughed, and cocked his head to the left. “Well, that’s a great breed of dog. They’re very loyal, faithful, gentle. . . .” He went on to extol the virtues of the pit bull. By the time he was finished, Kaine was convinced it was the cuddly animal she’d been hoping for. But what about lion-toothed defenders?
“Aren’t they fighters? Killers?” she interrupted, adjusting her purse on her shoulder.
Grant’s eyebrows went up. “You need a killer dog?”
Kaine averted her eyes, fighting an instinctual attraction that just felt wrong. She was married—or she had been. And for all she knew, he was married with four kids. “Well, a guard dog would be nice,” she finally said.
“They are very loyal dogs, and protective. But contrary to popular belief, pit bulls are killers only when trained, and usually they’re abused in the process.”
There it was again. Abuse.
Kaine was so tired of how that word followed her.
“Maybe I don’t want a pit bull.” At this point, Kaine wondered if an ankle-biter dog would be more effective. One of those little rats that ran around and yipped at a frequency so high it could shatter crystal.
Grant waved his hand toward the kennels. “We actually don’t have many dogs here right now. We just had a free giveaway in order to place most of them in homes. We do a lot of rescues from the big-city shelters that put an expiration date on their lives. You see, we don’t euthanize here.”
“That’s nice.” And it was. But Kaine didn’t even know where to go with this education. She just wanted a dog. Company. An animal smart enough to alert her if there was a stranger on the premises. If she ever went back to Foster Hill House, that is.
“Here.” Grant grabbed her hand as if they were old friends.
Goodness, he was touchy-feely, but Kaine didn’t pull away. His hand was strong and comforting—and not wearing a wedding ring.
Grant steered Kaine down a row of empty kennels to the one at the very end. The soulful brown eyes of a black lab stared back at her. The muzzle was peppered with gray, the dog’s hips lumpy with aged muscles, and the ears drooped around the furry face. It blinked at Kaine, then lowered its muzzle between its paws. Resigned. Knowing that Kaine wouldn’t adopt, wouldn’t save, wouldn’t rescue.
But the dog needed her.
Kaine was surprised by the return of her innate urge to rescue. She saw something in the dog’s eyes she connected with. The dog was alone. Like her.
Grant was speaking. “She’s the only dog we couldn’t place. Olive is eight years old and a lot of folks don’t want an older dog. Not to mention, she was abused, so she’s shy of male strangers.”
Not exactly a killer, but if she didn’t like strange men, maybe she would at least bark.
“Olive. That’s a cute name.”
“Sure. Black olives. Black lab.” Grant gazed down at Kaine as if waiting for her response. When she didn’t give one, he opened the kennel door. “You’ll want to go slow. Olive doesn’t respond well to fast motions.”
Kaine knew all about that. The same thing could be said of abused women, or women with stalkers. She crouched by Olive and extended her hand, palm down. The dog sniffed it, withdrew, then returned to nudge her.
“She likes you.” Grant’s affirmation brought a tiny flicker of hope to Kaine’s raw emotions.
“I’ll take her.” The words escaped Kaine’s mouth before she had time to consider any further.
Grant snapped the leash onto Olive and scratched the dog behind her ears. “Well, girl, you’ve got a new home.” He gave Kaine a sideways glance, accompanied by a lopsided grin. “Not every dog’s dream to live at Foster Hill House, though.”
Kaine offered a tiny smile back as she passed him, using her key remote to unlock her blue Jetta. She pulled the door open, and Grant knelt beside Olive, her haunches quivering.
“She’s a bit afraid of vehicles,” he explained to Kaine.
“I see that.” Poor thing. Kaine’s hands had only just stopped shaking from the morning’s discovery. She could relate.
Grant lifted Olive and carefully placed her in the back seat of the car. Kaine tried not to notice the way his biceps strained aga
inst his shirt. The dog scrambled to get out, so Grant slid in next to her. With a calming hand, he stroked Olive’s black fur.
Kaine leaned against the car and peeked in. “Is she going to be all right?”
“She might get some comfort if you have a blanket or something she can make her own.” Grant scratched behind Olive’s ear. “I’ll just sit here for a minute.”
“I might have one in the trunk.” Kaine spun on her heel and popped the trunk with her key fob. What was she doing? A dog? She wasn’t prepared for this, but her impulsive need for companionship and security wasn’t something she could go back on now. Nor was she certain she wanted to. She pulled out a few boxes of belongings from California and stacked them. A flash of fuzzy navy blue caught her eye. Reaching for the familiar blanket she’d always curled up with in front of the TV back in San Diego, Kaine paused at the quilt beneath it. Leah’s gift. Great-Great-Grandmother Ivy’s quilt. Kaine had forgotten about it in the terror of the day.
She pulled the fuzzy blanket from the trunk and shut the lid.
“Will this work?” Kaine handed the blue blanket to Grant as she hung Ivy’s quilt over her left forearm.
Grant reached out and took the blanket. “Perfect.” His smile revealed a small crease in his left cheek. Kaine looked away from him. She listened to him crooning to Olive as she unfolded the quilt from Leah. It was pieced together with varying squares of material and, while quaint, not particularly beautiful.
“Hey.” The surprise in Grant’s voice drew Kaine’s eyes back to his. Olive nuzzled the blanket on the car seat and then plopped onto it with an oomph. Grant slid from the car, an unspoken question bending his brows. He pushed his glasses up his nose with an index finger as he tipped his head toward the quilt in Kaine’s hands. “That’s, um, some quilt you got there.”
“Oh.” Kaine glanced down at it. “Yeah, it was my great-great-grandmother’s quilt. My sister gave it to me when I left San Diego.”
The House on Foster Hill Page 7