by Laura Scott
With only a slight shrug in response, she kept her gaze glued to the computer screen as she started with the female students at the beginning of the alphabet. Abbot, Carrie? Not a match. Abel, Rebecca? Not a match.
She knew exactly when Quinn left, the library door shutting quietly behind him.
Glancing back, she watched him through the glass door, fighting the urge to call him back. There was no need to keep dragging him into her problems. He should be with his family right now.
It would be in her best interest to remember that finding Skylar was her priority, not his.
Quinn drove west to the Life-Everlasting Chapel, the place his mother had chosen to handle Brady’s funeral arrangements.
As he drove, Shanna’s words about trusting God tumbled through his mind. For some odd reason, he was surprised to hear about her faith in God.
He hadn’t been inside a church in years, since before his parents’ marriage had crumbled. A happy memory from long ago crept into his mind. He’d been about four or five years old and had attended church with his parents. Afterward, they’d gone out for breakfast, and he remembered walking between them, holding each of their hands while they’d count to three and swing him up off the ground, making him laugh.
Good times that hadn’t lasted, he thought wryly. Within a year, his world had fallen apart when they’d first separated and then divorced. He could still remember the bitterness of their fights, especially because he happened to be at the center of each disagreement.
He’d gone back and forth between his parents’ homes for thirteen months, until his mother married James Wallace. Once she gave birth to Brady, Quinn began spending longer and longer time frames with his dad, rather than with his mother and her new family. Eventually, at the age of thirteen, he lived with his father full-time.
Quinn shook off the painful memories as he pulled up to the Life-Everlasting Chapel. Obviously, going to church as a family all those years ago hadn’t prevented his parents’ marriage from falling apart.
But then again, his father had chosen a path far from God, especially over the last few years of his life when he’d turned to alcohol for comfort. So maybe that wasn’t a surprise after all.
His mother, his stepfather and Ivy were already seated inside, talking to the funeral director when he walked in. The place reeked heavily of roses, to the point he had to fight back the urge to sneeze.
He approached the table where his family was seated, feeling invisible when they didn’t so much as glance in his direction after he took a seat across from them.
“Just wait here a few moments, and I’ll gather everything together for you, all right?” The middle-aged bald funeral director stood, and then when he caught sight of Quinn, quickly introduced himself. “Arthur Crandon,” he said in a low, respectfully hushed voice, even as he pulled a business card from his pocket.
“Quinn Murphy,” he said in response. “Brady was my half brother.”
“My condolences for your loss,” Arthur murmured.
“Thanks.”
When the funeral director left the room, his mother finally looked at him. “Well?” she demanded. “Do you have any news? Have the police found Brady’s killer?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” He glanced helplessly at his stepfather, James Wallace, who sat with a supportive arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I don’t have anything new to report right now, but the investigation is still ongoing. Hopefully we’ll know something soon.”
His mother’s expression grew angry. “Tell me this, Quinn. What good is it having you on the campus police force if you can’t keep my children safe?” she asked harshly.
Resentment swelled in his chest, but he wrestled it back with an effort. His mother’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, as were Ivy’s. The deep grooves in his stepfather’s face and the dark circles under his eyes made him look much older, too. Quinn had seen enough grieving families to know that they often lashed out in anger.
Yet listening to his mother lashing out at him personally hurt more than he’d expected.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn repeated. Time to change the subject. He looked at the paperwork Arthur had left on the table. “Is there something I can do? Do you need anything?”
“No, we’ve already made all the arrangements,” his mother said bitterly. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, since everything is on hold until after the autopsy.” She made the statement another accusation, glaring at him again, as if it were personally his fault that Brady’s autopsy wasn’t completed yet. And guiltily, he remembered promising her he’d follow up, but he hadn’t.
“I’ll make some phone calls, see what I can find out about the timeline for releasing Brady’s body for the funeral,” he said, standing up and reaching for his cell phone. The autopsy should be either in process or almost completed, and hopefully the detective assigned to the case would know the details.
His mother turned to his stepfather and Ivy, effectively dismissing him. For a moment he stood awkwardly, realizing he was only making his relationship with his mother worse by staying. By trying to be a part of the family.
Because he wasn’t part of the family. She’d made that clear over the years. Her new family, James, Brady and Ivy, had been the center of her world for a long time.
Once again, he suspected his mother would have preferred to be planning his funeral rather than Brady’s. She’d resented him from the very beginning of the divorce, arguing over the forced joint custody arrangements.
Obviously, nothing had changed since then.
“I’ll be in touch when I have news,” he murmured helplessly before turning and walking back outside.
Taking a deep breath of fresh air to clear the cloying scent of roses from his nasal passages, he tipped his head back to stare at the crescent-shaped moon surrounded by bright stars in the sky.
If there was a God, he could sure use some help from Him now, he thought idly.
He took another deep breath and glanced down at his phone. After punching in the number for Hank Nelson, he waited for the detective to answer his call.
But, of course, there was no response—from either God or Hank Nelson.
He snapped his phone shut and decided there was plenty of time to do a little investigating of his own before he needed to pick up Shanna. He knew a little about his younger brother, and that one of his favorite hangouts was a small coffee shop located not far from his house.
His mother deserved answers, and he was more determined than ever to get them for her.
It was the least he could do, after the way he’d messed up her life.
Shanna rubbed at her burning eyes and gave up, pushing away from the computer screen. The images were so blurry, she couldn’t trust herself to continue. What if she missed Skylar simply because of exhaustion and eyestrain?
No, better to head home and begin again tomorrow, when her vision would be fresh and crisp.
She stood and gathered her jacket and her purse. Spying her cell phone, she picked it up and then hesitated.
Should she call Quinn? Or not?
Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d been sitting in front of the computer reviewing photos for almost two hours. Was Quinn still busy making funeral arrangements? She had no idea how long something like that would take.
She glanced at the phone and scrolled through it. No missed text message or phone calls that she could see. So he hadn’t called her. The flash of disappointment was completely illogical. Quinn was likely still in the midst of planning his brother’s funeral.
There was no reason to bother him for something as simple and basic as a ride home when she could just as easily call for a cab. Quinn should be supporting his family during a difficult time like this.
She called for a cab and then went outside to wait for her ride. The crisp October air had turned cool and she burrowed down in her coat, seeking warmth. Just when she was about to go back inside the building to wait, her cab came around the corner and parke
d near the curb.
Glancing at her cell phone one last time to verify there were no calls from Quinn, she tucked it in her pocket and slid into the backseat of the cab. She gave the driver her address and then settled back for the short ride.
She lived on the southwest side of Chicago, and the ride from Carlyle University only took about fifteen minutes. She paid the driver in cash and climbed out of the cab.
Her house was completely dark, and Shanna realized she must have forgotten to leave the kitchen light on as she usually did. Was it only this morning that she’d found out about Skylar’s fingerprints? Seemed as if the phone call from Al had taken place twelve days ago.
She paused at the mailbox and opened it cautiously, hoping there wasn’t another mysteriously blank, threatening note inside. When she didn’t find anything but a handful of junk mail, her shoulders sagged in relief.
Thank You, Lord.
The whispered prayer felt good, felt right after not talking to God for so long. She couldn’t believe she’d given up on her faith. With a small smile, she tucked the junk mail under her arm and searched inside her purse for her house keys as she walked up to the front door.
Maybe it was time to try calling her father again. Not to tell him about Skylar—she wanted to have better news first. But she could keep trying to mend the rift between them. The crime scene she’d worked just after the Markoviack case was also related to a brutal murder. And the victim’s sister kept going on and on about how they hadn’t spoken in years, and now it was too late. She’d immediately gone home to call her father, leaving several messages, but her father hadn’t answered her calls. She’d even gone so far as to show up at his apartment, but he’d looked out the window, saw her and then refused to answer the door.
She knew her father blamed her for Skylar’s disappearance, but she’d hoped he’d eventually let go of his anger. Yet it was difficult to make amends when he wouldn’t even give her a chance to talk.
When the victim’s sister had confessed how they hadn’t spoken to each other in over a year, Shanna had been able to relate. Because her father hadn’t spoken to her in over ten years. And she was ashamed to admit she hadn’t tried to get in touch with him until recently.
Maybe mending their relationship was hopeless, but it wouldn’t be her decision to give up. Not this time. No matter what, she intended to keep trying.
With a sigh, she unlocked the front door and walked inside. She paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. A loud creak echoed through the house, and she froze in the act of reaching for the light switch.
Was someone inside?
Shanna stayed exactly where she was, straining to listen. But now, all she heard was silence.
Slowly, the tension in her muscles eased. The noise must have been her imagination. Or just the normal creaks and groans of an older home.
She swept her hand along the wall, searching for and finding the light switch. She flipped the lever up. Nothing.
With a frown, she flipped it on and off again. Still no light flashed on.
What were the odds that both lightbulbs in both lamps would go out at the exact same time?
Probably about the same as finding her missing sister’s fingerprints at a crime scene.
As she was about to make her way across the room, she smelled some sort of heavy aftershave just a fraction of a second before she heard another rustling sound.
Someone was inside! The stalker!
Instinctively she ducked to the side, toward the door, in a desperate move to escape.
But she was too late. She felt a hand clamp down onto her arm seconds before pain exploded in the back of her head.
FIVE
Quinn called Shanna’s cell phone for the fifth time, frowning when, once again, the call went unanswered. Hadn’t they agreed she’d wait for him? Granted, he’d stayed at the coffeehouse, which had been unusually packed with college kids for a Monday night, longer than he’d anticipated. But still, they’d had an agreement.
When he didn’t find Shanna in the computer library, his annoyance grew. Why wasn’t she answering his calls? The hour wasn’t that late—if she had gone home, she could have at least told him her plans. Or answer her phone.
She acted as if there was no reason to fear the weirdo guy leaving threatening messages.
The itch along the back of his neck wouldn’t go away, so Quinn headed to her house, on the southwest side of town. He pushed the speed limit, figuring he’d use his badge to get out of a ticket if he was stopped.
He pulled up in front of Shanna’s house, scowling when he noticed the place was completely dark. Was it possible she’d really gone to bed by eight-thirty at night?
Or hadn’t she gotten home yet?
He climbed out of his car and approached the front door, knowing that if she had gone to bed, she wouldn’t be thrilled to find him standing there.
He hesitated, but then shook his head. Too bad. He wasn’t leaving without talking to her. With a determined stride, he stepped up on the porch and knocked loudly on the door.
No answer. He knocked again, harder. When she still didn’t respond, he tried the door handle. To his surprise, it wasn’t locked. Warily, he pulled his weapon from his shoulder holster and flattened himself against the wall before pushing the front door open.
The door didn’t open all the way, and it took him a moment to realize there was something in the way. Pale skin, gleaming in the moonlight. An outstretched hand.
Shanna?
With his heart pounding in his chest, he quickly dialed 911, knowing he needed backup—and fast.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“I have an injured woman, and her attacker could still be on the premises,” he said urgently, keeping his voice as low as possible. He quickly rattled off her address. “Send the police and an ambulance. Hurry!”
The dispatcher told him to wait outside for the police, but he ignored her. Setting his phone on the ground to keep the connection, he decided there was no way he was going to sit there and do nothing when Shanna was hurt. He had no way of knowing if the intruder was still inside, so he eased through the narrow opening, keeping his back to the wall.
The house was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. The person could still be inside, waiting for him. Quinn swept his hand up for the light switch, and the itch on the back of his neck intensified when the lights didn’t come on.
Keeping his weapon ready, he slid down the wall and reached out to feel for a pulse. Overwhelming relief swept over him when his fingers found the faint beat of her heart.
Thank You, God.
The prayer flashing into his mind was a surprise, as was the calming sense of peace. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Instead, he continued to listen for any indication that the prowler was still around, knowing her house was an unsecured crime scene.
Every instinct he had screamed at him to get Shanna out of there. But he was afraid to move her. Keeping his weapon ready, he gently used his free hand to check for injuries.
Shanna was lying facedown, as if she’d tried to run for the door. And as he swept a hand over her hair, he found the sticky wetness at the base of her skull that could only be blood.
His stomach twisted with fear. Please, God, keep her safe. Wishing desperately for some light, he once again debated his options. Move her? Or wait for backup to arrive?
What could possibly be taking the ambulance so long to get here? And the police? Hadn’t those two cops promised to drive past Shanna’s house on a regular basis?
There were no indications anyone was still in the house, but the perpetrator could be hiding. Waiting. He wasn’t leaving Shanna’s side. Not until he knew for sure she was safe.
The wail of sirens finally reached his ears, but he didn’t relax until he could hear the thuds of police boots on the step.
“Quinn Murphy, campus police,” he said, announcing his presence. “I’m here be
side the injured victim, but I haven’t been able to confirm the house is secure.”
“Okay. The ambulance is here, but we’re going to do a sweep of the house first.”
Quinn understood the need for safety, and he continued his vigilance next to Shanna while the rest of the Chicago P.D. went through the house.
“Kitchen, clear!”
“Bathroom, clear!”
“Bedroom one, clear!”
“Master bedroom, clear!”
The officers went through the entire house, including the basement, and then suddenly, the living room lights came on. The bright light was so unexpected, Quinn winced and ducked his head, trying to blink away the sudden blindness.
Seeing Shanna in the light did not reassure him. Her hair was matted with blood. Too much blood.
“Someone turned the breaker off,” one of the officers said when he returned to the living room.
When the EMTs arrived, Quinn reluctantly moved out of the way, giving them room to work. Shanna groaned when they gently logrolled her onto a backboard, and then lifted her up onto the stretcher.
“What happened?” she asked, wincing as she raised a hand to her head.
“You tell us,” Quinn said, taking her hand in his, needing the connection. He could hardly relax; adrenaline still rushed through his bloodstream a million miles a minute. “Looks like someone hit you on the back of the head.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her blue eyes clinging to his. “Someone was in my house. I tried to get away…” her voice trailed off.
“It’s okay,” he said reassuringly. He was just so glad to see her awake. And talking, in spite of the copious amount of blood. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be okay.”
“Quinn, I’m sorry,” she said, as her eyelids fluttered closed. “I should have waited.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said again. This wasn’t the time to argue. Not when her face was still so pale, and the tension around her mouth and eyes indicated she was in pain. All that mattered right now was knowing she’d be okay.