by Robin Caroll
Why couldn’t she sleep?
She checked the clock—3:00 a.m. Unfortunately this was becoming a habit for her. She turned to her side and punched her pillow. Too much adrenaline for the day.
She tossed onto her back and stared at the ceiling, remembering Jasmine’s anger and pain. Too much emotion raged through Riley. Flipping over to her stomach, she pinched her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep. It remained evasive as before.
She peeked at the clock again—3:06. She let out a groan. This was ridiculous. Riley kicked off the covers and swung her legs to the side of the bed. She needed to move. Needed to clear her head, organize her feelings and thoughts. Needed fresh air.
She’d noticed earlier that there wasn’t an alarm system on the house. Odd, considering Hayden was a cop. Rafe had installed systems in both Maddie’s and her places. But maybe Hopewell didn’t have much crime. Probably didn’t have much of any excitement.
Grabbing her cell, she eased open the door to the covered patio, conveniently located off the den, and slipped outside. A soft light shone down the path toward the water’s edge. A tree frog croaked louder. Crickets answered. Low clouds hid the moon and stars. The April night held a chill.
Riley shivered and tightened the robe around her. She sat on one of the wrought-iron patio chairs, blinking. How could it be so dark? If it weren’t for the low light by the path, she’d be sitting in total and complete darkness. Funny how she’d never noticed how much city streetlights illuminated the night.
She pushed a button on her cell. The backlight lit up, like a flashlight. Smiling over her silliness from a second ago, she glanced at the main screen. A missed call. From Jeremy. Her heart kicked into overdrive. The voice mail icon blazed in the night.
She forgot about the tree frogs, the crickets, and the lack of moon and stars. All that mattered was Jeremy had called her back. Riley chewed her bottom lip. Good news or bad?
Surely he wouldn’t call if he thought her series idea was a bust or he hated her article. Would he? Unless he planned to fire her. Would he do that over the phone? Probably. He’d sure yelled at her in front of her colleagues—why wouldn’t he fire her over the phone?
Despite the chill, sweat slicked her palms. Might as well get it over with. Knowing was better than wondering. She pressed the button to check her messages and stared into the night. She’d soon know the status of her job—no, her career—because if Jeremy fired her, chances are no one in the industry would touch her.
“First message, received today, 9:04 p.m. from Jeremy Curry.” The automated voice went silent, a click sounded, then Jeremy’s voice thundered against her ear. “Hey, Riley. Got your message. And your e-mail. I have to say . . . I’m impressed. I love the angle and your writing is the best I’ve seen since I hired you.”
A pause, just enough for her exhale.
“I’m running the article in Monday’s edition. Congratulations.”
Another pause.
“But I don’t have to tell you not to blow this series. It’s not just me paying attention. Gus is evaluating all the staff writers. So keep up the good work.”
Gus was evaluating the writers? Gus Phizer owned Life in the South. He would be reading her series and determining . . . what?
Nerves and excitement mingled with the sweaty palms as she saved the message—who knew when she’d need a boost and the praise of the message would lift her. Obviously, with a little too much force, as the phone slipped from her grasp. The light went out as the cover popped off and the battery bounced over the paver stones. Plunged back into darkness, Riley dropped to her hands and knees on the hard patio and felt around for the phone and battery. Maybe after she found them, she could find the cover.
She crawled around, feeling with her hands and fumbling over the rough stones. The cold seeped through the robe and pajamas, snaking down her spine. Her fingertips grazed against something. She gripped it tight—her phone. Now to find the battery and cover.
Inching. Reaching farther. Stretching. There, she curled her fingers around the . . . um . . . battery and pulled it toward her.
Something furry brushed against her arm.
Hisssss!
She jerked backward and banged her head against the wrought-iron table. Something bumped her back. Something alive.
Riley sprung to her feet and, with shaking hands, struggled to shove the battery into the cell phone.
A snarl, couldn’t be more than a foot from her, bounced off the patio’s roof.
She fumbled with the battery.
A growl, no more than six inches.
Battery in. She powered on the phone.
The light pierced the darkness and reflected off two yellow, beady eyes. Right in front of her.
Riley screamed and dropped her phone again.
“Morning, Hayden. How was church?” Bob Travis was a good man, to be sure, but he wasn’t a Christian.
But Hayden refused to give up on his friend. “Enlightening and inspiring. Want to come with me next week?”
“Appreciate the offer, but not interested.” Same response given at least once a month for the last decade. “Guess I half expected you to show up despite it being Sunday and you supposed to be off all weekend.”
“Not with such a murder on our hands.” Hayden leaned against the filing cabinet. “Anything?”
“Lee sent us the prints, and we sent them on to IAFIS. Nothing.”
Of course not. Why would he think the national fingerprint database would snag a hit? Hayden shook his head. Why would anything be easy about this case? “What else did Lee have to say?”
Bob passed him a folder. “Already did the autopsy. Said you’d probably need it sooner rather than later.”
Impressive. He flipped through the report, scanning.
AUTOPSY NUMBER: BRP00009221989
DECEDENT: John Doe
Fifty-six-year-old white male, 71 inches long and 184 pounds with hazel eyes and brown hair.
Bob continued. “Lee sent John Doe’s DNA to the lab. Should hear back from NDIS next week. I requested a rush if at all possible.”
Wouldn’t matter. In Hayden’s experience, the National DNA Index system ran in its own sweet time. He nodded as he read more.
Well-developed, well-nourished male with multiple contusions on his face and neck. Multiple lacerations and perforations with irregular edges are present on bilateral forearms. Matter found under his right fingernails has been sent for toxicology and identification.
Defensive wounds. So he had put up a fight with his killer. Had he seen the hook . . . known what was going to happen to him? Had fear caused him to panic? Had he hurt his killer? Scarred or marked him in some way? Hayden skipped over the gross description details before he read on.
CAUSE OF DEATH: Exsanguination
MANNER OF DEATH: Homicide
“Lee said time of death was between six and eight, Saturday morning.”
The normal two-hour window. Hayden closed the folder and plopped it back on Bob’s desk, then sat on the edge of the empty desk in the cubicle. “Forensics come back with anything?”
“Still processing.”
Yeah, it was a weekend and the full team didn’t work on Sundays. But this was one nasty murder. Hayden hadn’t been able to wipe the image of the man hanging upside down on that hook from his mind.
“Have you run the MO through the system?”
Bob nodded. “No hits. No crime scene even comes close.”
True. They were dealing with one messed-up killer. “Any matches from missing persons?”
“Nothing here. We’re waiting to hear back about Baton Rouge, Donaldsonville, and Lafayette.”
More often than not, when a person didn’t come home on a Saturday night, loved ones waited until Monday to file a report. Especially if the
missing person had a social life. Hayden never understood that logic until Emily came of age, then he understood all too well.
“We’re pretty much at a standstill until information comes back.”
He couldn’t just sit on his hands. “I’ll be in my office for a bit.” Hayden crossed the common area and opened the door to his office. He left the overhead light off and sunk into his chair behind the desk. Sometimes he did his best thinking alone in the dark.
His mind flipped through what they knew, which wasn’t much. More would come, in time, but something kept niggling at Hayden. There had to be a reason for the location. It wasn’t a place someone would just pass and see—it was too far off the beaten track. Yet Davis Ellington had stated he didn’t recognize the victim.
Could the location have been someplace special, personal to the killer?
Chapter Six
“When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.”
PROVERBS 21:15
“And this will run in your magazine tomorrow?” Mom passed the computer printout back to Ms. Baxter. The afternoon sun streamed through the shoddy kitchen window framed with bright gingham curtains. Even Mom’s decorating touches couldn’t hide how horrible living here was. Jasmine hated this trailer. Hated that she had to share a room with Mikey. Hated most of all that Daddy wasn’t here.
She just wanted to go home. To her old life. To her real life. Before Daddy got arrested and sent to jail.
“Yes.”
Mom reached for her hand across the table. “Are you really okay with this? All your friends at school can see it, know all this about you. You have to be sure.”
She’d be like, almost a celebrity. Kinda. Yeah, it would bite for everyone to know they’d lost their house and were broke—that part might cause a fight or two if people didn’t keep their mouths closed—but if the series did what Ms. Baxter said . . . “You think starting with me and how I feel about Daddy being in jail and what’s happened to us will make readers want to read more?”
Ms. Baxter nodded. Her pretty brown hair that looked so soft, like it belonged on a shampoo commercial, brushed against her shoulders. “The readers will read about you and be intrigued. They’ll care. And because they’ll feel invested in your story, they’ll read each installment, anxious to find out what happens.”
“You don’t have to be okay with this, Jaz.” Mom squeezed her shoulders. “You’re in high school, and we all know how difficult that is. This will just add stress on you.” She turned to Ms. Baxter. “I think this might all be a mistake. I didn’t want to talk with you, but she was so adamant. I don’t—”
“No, Mom. I want to do this. For Daddy.” If there was even the slightest chance this could help the legal system see how wrong it was for him to be in jail, she’d put up with more of the prison and convict jokes—the ones she never told Mom about.
Mom’s frown deepened, but she didn’t say anything. Mom was really a pretty lady. Once. Back before Daddy was arrested and his trial and then his going to prison, Mom used to have smoother skin. Brighter eyes. Less gray hair. And she used to wear makeup and fix her hair. Poor Mikey. If Daddy stayed in prison, her brother would never get to see how pretty Mom could be. Even in her best church dress she still wore from this morning’s service, she looked tired.
“Are you really sure, honey? It won’t hurt our feelings in the least if you’ve changed your mind.”
Jasmine needed to do this not only for her dad, but also for Mom. “I’m positive. This is what I want.” She held up her hand. “Seriously, Mom, I know what can happen, what people will say, and I’m okay with it. Our story needs to be told.” So maybe, just maybe, this would never happen to another family.
Ms. Baxter smiled. “It’s okay to be nervous. Even a little scared.”
“Do you ever get scared, Ms. Baxter?”
The composed and pretty woman shocked Jasmine by laughing. “All the time. Just last night, I couldn’t sleep so I went outside to sit. A raccoon came up and scared me so badly, I dropped my phone. Almost broke it.”
Jasmine grinned.
“I don’t know who was more startled: me or that varmint.” She winked at Jasmine, then turned to Mom. “I’ll write up what I have proposed for next week’s segment and run it by you tomorrow afternoon to look over, when I bring you a copy of Jasmine’s article. It will focus on your husband’s and your love story.”
If Mom only knew that would be more embarrassing than her article. None of Jasmine’s friends’ moms and dads were still together. Some of the kids were on their second or third set of stepparents.
“That should really get the readers invested in your story. Then I’ll go into the crime.” Ms. Baxter tapped her pen against the notebook. “I have the name of your husband’s attorney. Was there an investigator or anyone else who worked on the case that you can recall? I’d like to talk to as many people as possible.”
“I just don’t know.” Mom shook her head. “It’s been a while.”
Jasmine looked at Ms. Baxter. “Would a copy of the court thing help?”
Ms. Baxter’s eyes widened. “The transcript?”
“I guess. The whole trial written down?”
“You have a copy?”
“Yeah. The attorney got it right before he filed Daddy’s appeal. It’s in Mom’s room. I’ll grab it.”
It was right where she remembered. Right on the bookshelf, lying under one of the gazillion Bible study books Mom had. It didn’t make sense. Mom was such a devoted Christian, not just for show like some of the people she knew at church, yet all her prayers hadn’t stopped Daddy from being put behind bars. On her birthday, nonetheless. What kind of God did that? A lousy excuse for one, that’s who.
Jasmine shoved the Bible off the transcript, letting it shift sideways, and grabbed the heavy folder. She hurried back to the kitchen and handed it to Ms. Baxter. A sound, half cry–half groan, came from Mikey’s bedroom. Already standing, Jasmine put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll check on him.”
She headed to the room she shared with her brother. He lay on the floor, whimpering.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s wrong?”
“I’m hot.”
She knelt and laid a hand on his forehead. Heat transferred to her hand. She jerked back. “You’re burning up.” Jasmine jerked him into her arms and stood, then rushed back to the kitchen. “Mom, he’s got a fever again.”
“Let me see.” Mom took him from her. “Sweet boy, do your ears hurt?”
Mikey started crying. “A little.”
“What can I do to help?” Ms. Baxter asked.
“He gets ear infections a lot.” Jasmine ran a hand over his head. “Want me to see if we have any refills left on his last prescription?”
Mom shook her head. “That was the last one without us going back to the doctor.” She stood, holding the clinging and crying Mikey. “I’m going to take his temperature.” She made her way to the bathroom.
“Should we call the doctor?” Ms. Baxter asked.
Jasmine wished. “Not yet. Not unless Mom can’t get his fever to come down and we have to get a prescription for an antibiotic.” Which would cost more money than they had for the month. “He has chronic ear infections.”
Mikey let out a wail. It trailed down the hall, bouncing off the walls of the trailer. It rattled down Jasmine’s spine.
“They can’t do anything about them? If they’re chronic, they should consider doing something more permanent about it than antibiotics.”
Jasmine shrugged. “They’ve talked about putting tubes in, but . . .” If they couldn’t afford a doctor visit or antibiotics, they sure couldn’t afford a surgeon’s fee, hospital fee, and everything else.
Mikey cried out again, this time with a higher pitch.
Ms. Ba
xter cringed. “But what? They don’t think it’s the best idea? Are there other tests they need to run?”
“No. The surgery is so expensive.”
Now Ms. Baxter’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. “Insurance won’t cover the surgery?”
Jasmine couldn’t help herself—she gave a snort-laugh. “Our insurance is a joke, Ms. Baxter. We used to have it through Daddy’s job, but we couldn’t keep that. The grocery store’s policy is a joke. Every time the doctor recommends us going to an ears, nose, and throat specialist, the insurance claims they won’t cover the additional expense. So Mikey goes back to our regular doctor, who can only prescribe antibiotics.”
“What about a second opinion?”
Seriously? “I mean no disrespect, Ms. Baxter, but really? The insurance won’t cover a specialist, and they sure won’t cover a second opinion.”
The lady reporter blushed.
Mikey cried out again. Then Mom hollered, “Jaz, can you bring me some of the children’s ibuprofen?”
“Coming.” She opened the kitchen cabinet and grabbed the medicine. “I’m sorry, Ms. Baxter. We gotta take care of Mikey.” She moved to the hall, then froze. “But you’ll still come tomorrow, right?”
Ms. Baxter slipped her notebook and Daddy’s trial transcript into her black tote. “Yes. I have something I have to do in the morning, but I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon. After you get home from school.” She smiled. “I’ll bring you your own copy of the magazine.”
Wow. She would really be kinda like a celebrity.
“Jaz?”
Yeah. Sure. Right. A celebrity who was broke and needy.
“That was a delicious dinner, Mrs. Simpson.” Thomas Vince, the guy Emily had been seeing for the past couple of months, pushed his black-rimmed, round glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“You’re quite welcome, Thomas.” Ardy took a final drink of her iced tea. “So, tell me more about your store. I do love antiques.”
The man explained, in detail, how he scoured area estate sales and flea markets to get the best antiques. Riley had watched Emily and the antique-shop owner interact all evening. It fascinated her because had she just met Thomas on the street, she’d have sworn he was—what was the word everyone was using these days?—metrosexual? But Hayden’s sister was practically gushing over him, so a platonic relationship didn’t seem possible.