“Oh, don’t worry. We’re more of acquaintances than friends. I work at Kincaid’s Wood World next door to her office. We share a mailbox and I noticed her mail was piling up.” His voice softened. “Have the cops made any headway?”
Sophia cocked her head to the side, confused. As far as she knew the general public had been left in the dark about the women’s disappearances. Less panic meant more uninterrupted investigating. Nathanial caught on and explained before she could voice the question.
“This is a small town, Sophia. Word travels even when you don’t want it to,” he said with a sympathetic smile. She couldn’t disagree with that.
“They may have found something this morning, so we’re hopeful about that.” She decided gossiping to a stranger about Trixie’s death wouldn’t hurt anyone.
“I suppose all we can do is pray for the best.” Sophia nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you alone for now. Try not to worry too much, Sophia. It’ll all work out in the end.”
“Thank you, for these. When Lisa comes back I’ll tell her you brought them.”
Nathanial grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
She scanned each envelope to make sure there wasn’t some kind of ransom letter or runaway note in the pile. Every piece had a return address. She dropped the mail on the counter, fully intending to sort through it later just in case. Privacy, be damned. She grabbed a plate of muffins for Officer Murphy. She would invite the officer inside if he told her what she wanted to know. If not, outside he would stay, she decided.
The Florida heat was back, making her regret the choice to wear jeans. The short walk across the yard to the cruiser was already activating her sweat glands. There was a forecast of potential rain later in the day, but that seemed like a long shot—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. For the past two days the only thing Culpepper seemed to revolve around was the shining sun, leaving sweat-inducing heat and hair-frizzing humidity. A drop in the temperature would be welcome at this point.
Officer Murphy had his head leaned back, eyes closed shut. She didn’t blame him one bit. Watching a house would be boring to her, too, especially when operating on a lot less sleep. A part of her wanted to leave him be but a bigger part wanted some insider information.
“Officer Murphy?” Sophia knocked on the glass, the sound loud against the silence of the street. The man didn’t budge. She knocked again. Nothing happened. He was really out cold, she thought with a smile. She wondered for a moment if she should give him some privacy and let the man sleep a little longer, but a quick gauge of her patience squashed that idea. She rapped against the glass once more before putting her hand on the door handle. “I’m going to open the door so please don’t shoot me,” she said more to herself than him. It wasn’t locked, which she found odd. If you were trying to nap in a car, wouldn’t you lock it? Especially if said car housed guns and the like? She pulled the door open wide and bent over a little to look at the man. He seemed peaceful enough—his face slack, head resting against the seat. “Officer Murphy?” she said gently, yet loud enough to actually wake him. The man remained as still as a statue. Sophia took a breath and prayed the man wouldn’t shoot her. Being killed before Lisa was found just wasn’t an option to her at this point. She moved a fraction closer and prodded his shoulder.
What had seemed like such an easy task—give a man some muffins in exchange for information—took a frightening turn. Around the man’s neck were ugly red marks. Frozen, she looked at his chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. However, the only movement within the car was from her. Sophia’s heart raced. With a shaky hand, she placed her fingers against the man’s neck.
The plate of muffins crashed against the asphalt.
“Oh, my God.”
Officer Murphy was dead.
Chapter Eight
This time Sophia had no problem locking herself in the bedroom. In fact, she ran there already dialing Detective Thatcher’s number. All the while fighting the bizarre urge to clean up the broken dish left against the curb.
“Officer Murphy is dead!” she practically yelled when the detective answered. “I think someone strangled him! There are red marks around his neck and he isn’t breathing!” There was no hesitation in Thatcher’s reaction.
“Sophia, I want you to go lock yourself in the—”
“I’m already locked in the bedroom!” she said, cutting him off. “Officer Murphy is still in his car out front. I—I didn’t know what to do with him.”
“I want you to stay where you are and don’t let anyone in or come out until I get there, you got that?” She chalked up his lack of surprise to his profession that called for calm and order in extreme situations. He was all business now. Normally, his orders would have rubbed against her stubborn side but she found herself agreeing adamantly. “I don’t want to hang up but I need to make some calls. I’ll be there before you know it. Call me if anything else happens.”
He disconnected, leaving Sophia with her back against the wall, staring at the door. Someone had to be either incredibly stupid or incredibly reckless to kill a cop. Whoever had killed Officer Murphy wouldn’t bat an eye at killing her. Once they did that, there was no going back.
“Two dead bodies in one day,” she mumbled. “I hate this town. I really do.”
Sophia couldn’t describe the relief she felt when sometime later she heard footsteps against the hardwood, followed by Detective Thatcher’s voice. Belatedly she realized that in her rush to feel safe she had managed to skip the very important step of locking the front door. In hindsight it was a mistake that could have ended horribly but now all she could do was be thankful Thatcher was there.
“Sophia?” he called through the house.
“In here!” She undid the lock and opened the door wide.
“Are you okay?” There was no mistaking the worry in his voice. His eyes pierced into her as he closed the space between them. For a moment she thought he was going to embrace her—to fold her into his arms—but something stopped him. He took a slight step back. She tried to ignore the sting of the movement.
“I’m okay, just shaken up,” she said, letting out a long breath, trying to calm down. “Did you see Officer Murphy? Is he really, you know, dead?”
He hung his head, a mixture of sadness and anger written plainly across his face. “Yes. Tom is out there with him. I need you to tell me what happened.”
“Well, I hadn’t heard from you when I woke up. I saw that he was still out there and thought that maybe he might know something. I was going to give him some muffins to try and loosen him up.” She paused. It sounded silly when she said it out loud. “I went out there and thought he was asleep, but he just wouldn’t wake up. I saw the red marks around his neck, felt for a pulse and freaked out. That’s when I called you.”
“You didn’t see anyone or hear anything strange?”
“No, I woke up around ten then jumped in the shower. The only person I even talked to—” Her eyes widened. She had talked to someone. “There was a man who came by to drop off some of Lisa’s work mail.” Thatcher’s body tensed so visibly she almost stopped talking. “He said he works at Kincaid’s. You know, the wood shop next door to Details.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Yes. It was Nathanial.”
Thatcher grabbed her arm, a little too roughly.
“What did he look like?”
Sophia described the man, showing height and width with her hands. It was the second time the detective had an odd reaction to a piece of news. When she was done, he let go of her and took a few steps back. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her but instead opened his cell phone to dial a number. “I want you to pack a bag,” he ordered, the phone ringing.
“What? Why?”
; “You aren’t staying here anymore.”
“Where are we—” He put the phone to his ear to cut her off.
“Go pack,” he said with such resolution that Sophia didn’t have the nerve to question him any further. He walked off as the person on the other end of the line answered. “It’s Nathanial,” she heard him say. “It’s Nathanial. He’s here in Culpepper.”
That didn’t sound good.
It wasn’t a hard task to pack in a hurry—most of her things were still in her bag. Thatcher’s urgency had also lit a large fire under her bottom. She shoveled in her toiletries, plus a few she borrowed from Lisa’s stash, and paused to look around the room. Sadness lurched across her heart. The death of Officer Murphy had, in a way, tainted the warmth of the house. His death felt like an omen—a great foreshadowing—of what was to come, though, Sophia hoped and prayed that the killing would cease.
The front door opened and closed, breaking through the dismal cloud that had spread around her. Without thinking, she grabbed the picture frame from Lisa’s nightstand and put it in her bag. It was an old Polaroid of them as kids—a reminder of their bond before childish arguments had frayed it. With one last look at the brightly colored room and its equally loud pillows, Sophia turned off the light and started to go outside.
“How are you holding up?” Detective Langdon asked as soon as she cleared the door.
“I’m okay.” The man patted her on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile. All in all Tom seemed to be a pleasant man. “I’m sorry about Officer Murphy.”
“Thank you,” he said, though his smile faded. “He was a good man. He was a friend.” The moment could have turned into another wave of sadness but Tom soldiered on. “Where’s the mail that Nathanial gave you?”
“On the counter. I glanced through the pile but didn’t open anything. I’m sure my fingerprints are all over them, too.”
“That’s fine.” He started to walk off but Sophia wanted an answer.
“Detective, it was Nathanial who killed Officer Murphy, wasn’t it?” she asked, though she had already jumped to that conclusion herself based on Thatcher’s reaction.
Tom didn’t hesitate.
“We believe so.”
Fear pulsed through her again.
“Then why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?” If Officer Murphy was already dead when he gave her the mail, then there was nothing stopping him from doing what he pleased. Why had she been spared when the cop was not?
“That’s what we’re wondering, too,” he replied.
“Oh,” she said, unsure how to respond.
“But we’re glad you’re okay,” Tom tacked on. It made her smile but the expression didn’t last.
“Tom, who is Nathanial?” Like Thatcher, his whole body visibly tensed. He looked at her with sympathy when he answered.
“Let Braydon tell you.”
Tom ended the conversation without another comment and went to collect the mail. Sophia, having nothing more to do, settled into the front seat of Thatcher’s truck.
Thatcher.
Sophia realized she had been referring to Braydon by his last name while she had no problem calling his partner by his first. It wasn’t that she disliked the detective, in fact, it was the opposite that kept her from saying his name she realized. Somehow calling him Braydon felt more intimate and that was a feeling she needed to distance herself from. Thatcher was the detective on her sister’s case. That was a fact she needed to respect, no matter how much the man intrigued her.
Two more cop cars and an ambulance showed up before he joined her. The sidewalks were filling up with Pebblebrook residents. Soon the gossip mill would be turning full circle, at its core Sophia and the deceased officer. One of the cops kept yelling at the bystanders to back up, but it wasn’t hard to see that there was a body in the cruiser. Braydon kept quiet as he navigated around the ambulance and out of Pebblebrook. Sophia had so many questions. She didn’t know which to ask first.
“What the hell is going on?” That would have to do for now. The direct question didn’t unlock his lips. He was stuck on a cycle of checking his rearview mirror, a look of concentration on his face. “You’re scared of him, aren’t you? Nathanial.”
This got a reaction. He laughed. It was unkind.
“I’m not afraid of that man,” he said, slowing down for a stop sign. He met her gaze for a moment. “But I am afraid of what he’ll do.”
“He seemed nice enough when we talked.”
“He was lying to you,” he snapped.
“How do you know?”
“Because Nathanial has never worked a day in his life at Kincaid’s. He also hasn’t lived in Culpepper for almost eleven years.”
“So you do know him.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“But how? Who is he?” Sophia was tired of all the unknowns from the past few days. She wanted certainty. She wanted answers.
“It’s a long story.” He stalled. “Just know he’s a—”
“No, sir!” she interrupted, raising her voice. “I don’t want this runaround you’re giving me. My sister has been missing for almost six days, I’ve barely slept during three of those and in the span of less than twelve hours I have seen two dead bodies. I’m not stupid, Detective. I know that finding Trixie, the second woman to go missing, doesn’t bode well for Lisa. I’m trying to find hope here. So when I ask a legitimate question, I don’t need you to patronize me just because ‘it’s a long story.’ You need to tell me what’s going on, starting with this Nathanial person.” She could feel herself blush as she said it, but she meant each word, along with the heated persistence behind her appeal.
A silence filled the cab. It sent a chill down her spine.
“You’re right.” Thatcher’s voice had softened. Another quiet settled—a bloated hesitation that hid an elusive truth. “You deserve to know, but before I tell you who he is, I need to tell you why he hates me.”
* * *
BRAYDON DIDN’T WANT to tell this story. Hell, he didn’t even like thinking about it. He could keep her in the dark if he wanted to, but if Nathanial was back, then he needed to tell her. She was now involved and he needed Sophia to understand the lengths that the man had already gone to and would attempt to go to ensure Braydon’s misery. He needed to warn her to keep her safe.
“I was a bad teenager,” he began, looking straight ahead. “I drank and partied, acted recklessly, stole, did drugs, and had a short fuse and a big temper. I was eighteen and thought I was invincible and no one could tell me differently. My parents tried, though. They tried to reach the sensible side of me, show me the error of my ways, but I was just a selfish kid. I didn’t care about them or anyone else, except for one person. Her name was Amelia. She was my sister.” He smiled. It was involuntary—a normal gesture that happened when he thought of his sister before the incident. “You talk about smart and beautiful with a good heart, that was Amelia. Though her jokes were lame.” He laughed as he said it, lost in the feeling of remembering. “She never seemed to be able to say the punch line right. One time she—” He stopped, remembering the purpose behind the story. It wasn’t a time to reminisce. He cleared his throat and continued. “Amelia could have had any guy she wanted but decided to date Terrance Williams. They were together all of junior year and seemed happy enough but one day Amelia came to my room and said she didn’t feel the same way about him anymore. She asked what she should do. I told her to break up with him—to end it. It didn’t make sense for her to be with him and be unhappy.”
He hit the steering wheel so hard it made her jump. “If I could take back that advice, if I could go back to that moment, I would.”
“What happened?” Sophia asked. It was a gentle prod to keep the story going but was also laced with true curiosity.
“She ended it, but
a few days later said they were going to meet up at what used to be ‘their’ spot. Just to talk, she assured me. I let her go with a nod and some teasing. An hour went by and I got a panicked call from Nathanial, Terrance’s older brother on break from college. He said his parents found a suicide letter that Terrance had written and their handgun was gone. I told him where they’d gone and jumped in the truck and raced off to the Bartlebees’ dock. Or, at least it was then. Now it belongs to the Alcasters. The Bartlebees traveled a lot so the kids used to use their dock to hang out around,” he explained as an aside, remembering Sophia didn’t know the local history. “I don’t remember getting there but I do know I didn’t once hit the brakes. I had the worst feeling sliding around my stomach—the feeling that something horrible had happened. I was right. I found Amelia’s body there, two bullets in her chest.” Braydon stopped, struggling with reliving the emotions. They dredged up anger so potent he could taste it. Sophia put her hand on his knee. The touch was enough to rein in the building rage and finish the story. “I looked around but couldn’t find Terrance. That’s when I noticed the tire tracks. He had gone back to Dolphin Lot. I followed, ready to kill the little bastard, but he had already done it for me. Found him parked in the field, dead in the backseat with a gun to his head.”
“Oh, my God, just like Trixie,” Sophia realized.
“Turns out Nathanial was a few minutes behind me the whole time. He saw his brother just as the cops came in.”
“So, what...he killed Trixie and set her up like that to send you a message? To taunt you?”
“Nathanial publicly blamed me and Amelia for everything. He said I had told Amelia that Terrance wasn’t good enough for her and that Amelia had poisoned Terrance’s mind, playing with it until he snapped. It was a big relief when the Williamses decided to leave town. Up until today, as far as I knew they haven’t been back since.” He sent her a significant look. “Other than the cops and coroner, Nathanial and I were the only ones who saw Terrance that day.”
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