Wishing Quint was at her side, she got out and strode to the sidewalk. When she climbed the steps to the stoop, she found a note taped to the door. “Don’t ring the freaking doorbell.” Horrible penmanship for a girl who’d gone to the best schools money could afford. Rolling her eyes, she tried the knob, found it unlocked and stepped inside. “Maura? It’s JJ.”
Her voice echoed faintly in the empty rooms. After a beat, Maura answered. “Back here.”
JJ’s boots echoed, too, as she followed the hall into the kitchen. Maura was standing next to the island, an e-cigarette dangling between her lips, her gaze fixed on the phone, where she was texting so fast that her fingers were a blur.
Though the room smelled of pizza, cigarette smoke and weed, Maura herself looked better than JJ had seen her on this trip. She was clean, her hair was styled, her dress was snug and flattering, and her makeup was expertly applied. She wore a pendant with an ornate E of glittering diamonds set in brilliant rubies—a hand-me-down from an 1800s-era Evans—a delicate watch, an even more delicate necklace and a stunner of a yellow diamond ring.
After a moment, she set down her phone. “I don’t suppose you saw Zander out there. I’ve been texting him for twenty minutes, and he hasn’t answered.”
JJ smiled. “He could be busy.”
“Or he could be in jail.” She huffed, folded an empty pizza carton in half and shoved it into the trash can in a small closet. JJ was impressed. Maura didn’t appear to have learned a lot in five years, but she’d figured out garbage didn’t get in the can by itself.
“Dating a bad boy—that would have driven your parents crazy, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, they expected—” Maura broke off, her forehead wrinkling before finishing. “They expected me to be a good girl, to marry someone just like Daddy and to grow up to be just like Mom.”
“They just wanted you to be happy.”
Maura gave her a disdainful look. “If that was true, they would have given my money to me, not Winchester. Do you know what it’s like to have to ask for something that belongs to you in the first place? Like a little kid saying, ‘Please, can I have a candy bar?’” Then her gaze shifted from JJ’s hair, down her clothes to her feet and back up again. “Of course you don’t. You don’t have any money.”
“I’m not exactly poor,” JJ said drily, “and what I have, I spend responsibly. You know, I live within my means. Your means are a whole lot grander than mine, and you still don’t manage to do that.”
Maura raised one hand as if to comb it through her hair but stopped before mussing it. “I’m not having this discussion.” She picked up the cell and fired off another text before laying it on the island and spreading her hands flat on the countertop.
JJ silently acceded by changing the subject. “I remember that ring.”
The look Maura gave it was careless, as if she’d forgotten which dazzler she was wearing. “It was my mother’s.”
“Your grandmother’s. On your father’s side. His sisters wanted it buried with her, but she went behind their backs and put it in the lawyer’s care to be given to you when you turned twenty.” JJ tried not to roll her eyes again, this time at herself. Yep, she was a small-town cop. She knew those kinds of stories about half the people in Evanston.
“Whatever.”
Whatever, especially in that tone, was JJ’s least favorite word in the world. To hide her annoyance, she bent closer to study the ring. The central stone was a large marquise cut, nestled in a mass of smaller round stones. The Evans family had owned bigger diamonds—and emeralds, rubies and sapphires—but this yellow was gorgeous.
And not quite right.
JJ’s stomach knotted, and she forced in a breath that smelled of Maura’s apple-and-cinnamon vaping liquid. The ring was on the middle finger of her right hand. The perfectly shaped middle finger, long, slender and straight, tipped with a coppery-hued nail. Right next to the perfectly shaped ring finger.
The last time JJ had seen those fingers, they’d crooked to the right at the middle knuckle. Considering that Tako had outweighed ten-year-old Maura by twenty-five pounds or more, the Evanses had decreed that two slightly crooked fingers were an outcome they could live with. Maura had used that splint to twist everyone in the household around her uninjured little finger even more than usual, including JJ, who’d felt so guilty that she’d suffered the fractures in the first place.
The crookedness had still been noticeable at her parents’ funeral. Barely so, but for someone who knew it was there, who knew where to look, easily identified.
A motorcycle engine roared outside, causing both of them to jump. Maura was delighted with Zander’s return. JJ just felt sick. Before he could interrupt, she quickly asked, “Hey, Maura, the other day you said you spent a whole winter at ice hotels in Switzerland.”
The younger woman was too busy anticipating his arrival to care how odd the statement was. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought that bit of snow the other day would freeze me solid.”
Like the ice hotels Maura had stayed at in Norway. JJ had seen multiple references to the winter wonderland vacation in Mr. Winchester’s files. She’d even pulled up pictures on the hotel websites to see for herself what lengths people were willing to go for a new experience. The photos of the ice dishes had made her shiver, and the ice-block beds had left her in need of a steaming-hot bath.
She had thought she’d considered every possibility for the changes in Maura’s behavior over the last few months, but one had never crossed her mind.
That this woman wasn’t Maura.
Oh God.
A crash came from down the hall—presumably Zander’s helmet landing wherever he’d thrown it—then faded beneath the clomps of his boots as he strode into the kitchen. He stopped so suddenly that his upper body actually moved forward a few inches while the expensive black imperial-forces-in-outer-space motorcycle boots planted on the stone. His head swiveled from her to Maura, back to her, back to Maura, and a sneer curled his lip. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“I told you we were having lunch.”
“And I told you not to go.”
He stepped forward and grabbed Maura’s—Mel’s—arm, but she jerked away. “You’re not my boss, Zander. Where have you been? I’ve been texting you forever. Why didn’t you answer?”
“You’re not my boss, either. I don’t have to tell you—”
JJ drew a calming breath, folded her arms across her middle and felt the satisfying presence of both her Taser and her pistol in their holsters. “Why don’t I wait in the living room? Give you some privacy?” Give her some privacy so she could text Quint to get the hell down here and bring all the backup he could get.
Zander’s gaze jerked back to her. “Why don’t you stay right where you are and shut the hell up? Come on, Maura.” He grabbed her arm, his grip just short of vicious, and pushed her ahead of him to the nearest French door. He slammed the door so hard behind him that the glass panes rattled, sending crazy reflections through the air.
JJ’s chest was tight, her breathing constricted. She knew deep inside what had Zander so rattled and why: the discovery of the body part. Because he or Mel or the two of them together were responsible for it.
They had killed Maura.
Sorrow rose, swift and powerful. JJ had felt a lot of things for Maura over the years: frustration, affection, amusement, annoyance, irritation, pity, sympathy and, recently, dislike. But no, that dislike was for Mel. Obnoxious, rude, low-class and brainless. The best things anyone had to say about her.
And murderer.
On the patio, Zander and Mel argued, both exuding anger, neither scared by the other. Mel was in his face, poking his chest, and color was rising up his throat into his cheeks. When she finished her rant, she gave him a shove that knocked him back a step and started to walk away, but he ca
ught hold of her again.
Sadly, despite all the emotion, their voices were nothing more than a murmur through the glass. JJ was torn between dashing out the front door to safety and tiptoeing over and easing the door open so she could hear. She settled for turning her back to hide her actions, took out her phone and began texting. At the same time, she casually strolled toward the hallway, focusing on giving the appearance of total nonconcern for the tension, the arguing or anything beyond having a nice lunch with Maura.
She’d made it two feet into the hall when a hand grabbed her hair and yanked it with enough force to make her stumble back. Frantically she fumbled with the cell, trying to hit the Send key even though her message was only half-written. The pain in her scalp brought tears to her eyes, and a muscle in her back spasmed as a second jerk bent her so far off balance that she fell to the floor.
Damn, she was too old for this physical crap, was her first irrational thought.
Damn, damn, damn, she was in trouble, was her second thought as the back of her head hit the stone, sending a shock of pain through her entire body. The hand that clenched her phone involuntarily released, and the cell hit the floor, skidding out of reach. Dear God, she hoped the text to Quint had gone through.
Before her vision cleared, before the desire to retch faded, someone shoved her sweater to each side and removed her weapons. She blinked rapidly, clearing her eyes, expecting to see Zander standing over her, holding her gun, but it was Mel. Obnoxious, rude and evil. So evil.
How had she missed it?
Was it now going to cost her her life?
Chapter 10
Quint wasn’t much of a fidgeter, but the longer he waited in the fast-food lot, the harder it got to sit still. It was twenty minutes past twelve, and there’d been no sign of JJ and Maura. She’d said it would probably be closer to one. He got that. Linny’s biggest flaw had been her inability to be on time for anything besides work.
It still made him antsy this time. Maybe because Zander had driven past five minutes ago in his usual bat-out-of-hell mode. He’d skidded around the corner at the nearest intersection, then cut across three lanes of traffic to turn onto Willow Street, avoiding three other vehicles with inches to spare, and gunned the bike onto its rear wheel before arrowing toward the Madison house.
Zander always made him antsy.
Realizing he had a tight grip on the steering wheel, Quint eased it and checked the time—12:21. He texted Sam about the leg and got back a terse reply: Definitely human. Dog digs along Cedar Creek. Starting to search north.
Mr. Latham’s house was about a mile south, though it was nearly twice that far navigating the streets that meandered with the creek. It crossed this street a half mile east, then angled to the northwest to form the property line for the Madison place.
Zander had been coming from the south.
No big deal. There were businesses, stores and restaurants down that way. Plenty of houses. Zander had a couple of buddies who lived near Two-Mile Park, where they used to hang out at night and drink—
Near Two-Mile Park. And Mr. Latham’s house.
Quint’s fingers nervously tapped the steering wheel. JJ was a cop. Maura wasn’t a threat to her. Zander might not like her, but he wasn’t stupid enough to hurt her. There was no reason for Quint to change the plan.
But he started the engine anyway. Backed out of the space. Turned onto Willow and drove the short distance to the house. The Challenger was parked in the driveway. Zander had left the motorcycle at the foot of the steps. When Quint climbed the steps, he saw that the door was open a few inches. Zander had been in too big a hurry to close it.
Every nerve inside Quint urged him to rush in, gun drawn, and get JJ safely out of there. But he didn’t know she wasn’t safe. She wouldn’t appreciate being rescued if she didn’t need it, and he couldn’t go in aggressively when all he had was a faint niggling in his gut.
Standing to the side, he pushed the door open. The entry, the hallway and the small portion he could see of the kitchen were empty. “Hello? Zander, Maura, it’s Quint Foster. I have a message for JJ.”
Stillness dropped over the house, broken soon by rustling in the back. A moment later, Maura walked into view, stopping at the island, her right arm resting on it, her fingers toying with the leather bag that sat there. She smiled seductively and poured on the Southern charm. “Hello, Officer Foster. Why is it I always get weak in the knees when I see you?”
I don’t think you’d like to hear my guesses. “Where is JJ?”
“She’s over there on the couch. Come and say hello, JJ.”
Quint had closed about half the distance to the kitchen when JJ stopped near Maura. She was smiling, too, but it looked... Wrong. Her expression was bland, her posture relaxed, her long sweater pushed back and her hands shoved into the pockets of her gray trousers. She looked fine but not fine. A shade too serious. A fraction too brittle.
“Hey, Quint.” Her tone was bland, too. “Who’s the message from?”
He’d stopped walking, he realized, when he saw her. Now he moved to take another step, but the tiniest shake of her head stopped him. “Chief Chadwick.” He worked hard at making his voice sound normal. “He’s been calling Sam, complaining that he can’t get in touch with you.”
She carefully turned her gaze to Maura, and a muscle twitched in her jaw, as if the action hurt. He searched but found no signs of injury. Her hair was mussed a little, but it was always a windy day in Cedar Creek. Her posture was good, though was her breathing a little shallow? And the hands in the pockets...he’d never seen her do that, but—
He stilled, did a double take. Aw, jeez, the holsters for both her Taser and her Glock were empty. Damn it to hell, how badly had they misjudged these people?
“You remember Chief Chadwick, don’t you, Maura?”
Bored, Maura shrugged. “Yeah. He was a friend of my parents.”
JJ smiled then, one brow lifted. Quint racked his brain, scanning through everything he knew about Bryan Chadwick. He was a dipstick. Had lived in North Carolina. Liked women in their place. Good ol’ boy. Bad-mouthed his own officers.
And he’d come to Evanston four years after the murders of Maura’s parents. He hadn’t been their friend, and she couldn’t have remembered him. So Maura was...a liar? Had indulged in too much booze and too many drugs to remember her past? Damn it, JJ was trying to show Quint something, but he couldn’t see it.
She offered another clue. “Speaking of memories, Maura, do you remember Tako?”
Tako’s not a respectable name for a sheepdog, he’d told her last night. But it was a memorable one. Especially when the dog had broken two of Maura’s fingers.
“Taco?” Maura put a world of annoyance into that one word. “What are you babbling about tacos?”
Cold spread through Quint. Hell and damnation. Maura wasn’t a liar. She hadn’t fried too many brain cells with her substance abuse. She just couldn’t remember the past JJ was bringing up. It made horrible sense: Maura cutting off contact with her friends at home. Her new hostility toward her godfather. Forgetting the anniversary of her parents’ deaths. Breaking off her tentative friendship with Miss Georgie. Not recognizing her childhood babysitter. Expecting to get her entire inheritance on her twenty-fifth birthday.
Maura hadn’t been herself the past three months because she wasn’t herself. This was Mel, Maura 2.0, pretending to be Maura, and the real Maura...
He thought bitterly, sorrowfully, of the body part the dog Angel had found.
The real Maura was dead.
And JJ was in the room with the woman who had killed her. Who’d stolen her life. Who’d stolen JJ’s weapons. Who had no intention of paying for her crimes.
He’d begun to feel sorry for Mel. Poor, needy Mel. Never had the opportunities Maura had been given. Picked up off the streets and shown a lifestyle she couldn’t even have dre
amed about. Given everything her heart desired as long as she let herself be remade into Maura’s image.
Let herself? He and JJ had assumed the whole makeover had been Maura’s idea, but they’d been wrong. Mel had taken advantage of their mutual resemblance, had seen an opportunity too good to pass up. She’d persuaded Maura, probably with flattery, to model her into another version of herself.
Too bad Mel’s heart had desired literally everything: Maura’s looks, her name, her status, her jewels, her money.
Her life.
He looked to JJ for confirmation and found it. She gave him a long, steady look, accompanied with a tiny smile and said, “Tell Sam I’ll call Chadwick later. You’d better get back out on patrol.”
Leave? Walk away? Without her? She must be crazy. Not when he’d just found her. Not ever. So Maur—Mel had her gun. Probably in or under that bag on the island that her fingers kept touching. He was a damn good shot. This was what he’d trained twenty years for: a fast draw and a double tap to center mass. Mel would be dead before her own weapon cleared the purse.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’ll tell Sam.” Let Mel think he was leaving, that he didn’t have a clue what was going on. In the seconds it took him to get to the bottom of the stairs, she would have shifted her attention back to JJ, and he would have the advantage of surprise.
But the surprise was his when he finally spun around to walk away: Zander, standing a few feet behind him, the baseball bat he held already on a path to collide with Quint’s head. The bone-jarring blow spun him back around, and agony dropped him to his knees, everything around him going fuzzy and distant except one thing.
JJ. Not whimpering, not screaming, but roaring like an enraged animal. JJ, in full-on protective mode.
That’s my girl.
* * *
For an instant, everything froze. JJ stared, her lungs tight as if starved of air even though her breaths came so quickly and deeply that they made her entire body tremble. Quint, dear God, sprawled on the floor, his head turned to one side, blood puddling on the tile. Zander, standing a few feet behind him, trembling even more than JJ, his face gone white, his eyes popped open wide with horror.
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