Our Daughter's Bones: An absolutely gripping crime fiction novel (Detective Mackenzie Price Book 1)

by Ruhi Choudhary

  “Don’t!” She fidgeted, speaking through gritted teeth. “You have no idea how many people have given me the same damn lecture and offered me their help. No one helps. No one really cares.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  She faltered. She had never told this to anyone. If she had, then she knew her mother would have become a suspect in her father’s disappearance. “My mother was beaten.”

  “Look, I appreciate this. But nothing can be done.”

  “I know you’re scared, but––”

  “It’s not about me!” She licked her lips and took a shaky breath. “He always gets away with a lot of shit. I thought when he was arrested, he would go away for a while, but he got community service. The second time only nine months. It’s a joke. Fix your system first. Give me a guarantee that you can make sure he’ll stay away from me if I speak up against him. Until then, don’t make my life harder.”

  Mackenzie eyed Eddy. His fist curled in his pocket. The tick in his jaw. His arms flexed. She felt her stomach turn. “Clara, flip me the bird before you walk away, and look mad.”

  “What?”

  “Do it.”

  Clara did just that. Eddy leered and visibly relaxed. He kissed the top of her head when she joined him.

  As Mackenzie walked away from the house, she found some solace in the fact that he wouldn’t hit her because of their conversation.

  “There’s no way to confirm if he was telling the truth or not,” Nick said, looking back at the house as he kicked the engine.

  In the side mirror, she spotted Eddy looking at them through the window. His image dwindled smaller. He never left.

  Clara’s words repeated in her mind.

  How did a junkie living in a dump get so damn lucky in court?

  Thirty-One

  The light from the lamp cast a dim glow in the room. Mackenzie could hear the faint music playing in the kitchen. Beethoven. Sterling was cooking. She checked the time on her phone. It was eleven in the evening.

  That meant he was stressed. He coped by cooking, even if it was at odd hours of the night. One time she had woken up at three in the morning to the smell of shrimp.

  She considered going downstairs and talking to him, but instead settled on the case file sitting on her bed.

  The meeting with Eddy had left her unsettled.

  Was he telling the truth about Abby? He could have been. She couldn’t think of anything else that someone like Eddy could want from someone like Abby. Their worlds were too distinct and far apart.

  Unless Eddy had lied about backing off. He could have just gone after her. Perhaps she rejected him, and his bruised ego couldn’t handle it.

  Too many what ifs.

  She had enough reason to grind her jaw until her bones felt chafed. Picking up Erica’s case file, she skimmed through it again. She re-read whatever could be salvaged from Bruce’s notes, statements from friends and family, Becky and Anthony’s reports, and crime scene pictures. Her hand froze on a page with pictures of the remains.

  Erica was reduced to bones and rotting tissue. Her yearbook picture was clipped to the top of the page. In that picture, she looked human; someone who loved, had dreams, nuances, and flaws. But underneath, everyone was just flesh and bones. The realization always made Mackenzie’s stomach roll.

  If Robert’s remains were ever discovered, they would not look very different. It was odd that, on the inside, someone as innocent and kind as Erica was virtually the same as her vile father.

  She turned the page to the pictures of Erica’s room. Nothing looked like it was out of place. There were posters of musicians on the walls. Teenage clutter. Normal, unlike Abby’s pristine, considered space. As her eyes scanned the scene, Mackenzie realized that Erica didn’t keep many pictures of her and Abby. There were a few, but not as many as in Abby’s room.

  On the side table, there was a framed picture turned away from the bed. Like Erica didn’t want to look at it anymore.

  Mackenzie fished out a magnifying glass from her drawer. Erica and Quinn were smiling at the camera, with Quinn kissing her on the cheek.

  A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. Young love.

  But her smile dissolved into a deep frown. Her lips parted. On the floor, there was a paper napkin, almost hidden under the side table. There was something printed on it. With the magnifying glass, Mackenzie could make out the design. It looked like a custom logo. Below it was a number.

  9

  1

  6

  The wheels in her brain whirled at full speed, accessing every file in her brain one by one. She held the magnifying glass in a tight grip.

  She had seen the number carved inside Abby’s locker, faintly scratched on the blue metal. She had seen the number scribbled in Abby’s journal. It had looked like random doodling, one perhaps a meaningless copy of the other. But now the number 916 had appeared in three places, and was linked to both girls.

  “Nine, one, six,” Mackenzie whispered.

  Goosebumps sprang up on her arms. Her heart pounded. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father sitting on the bed next to her. Wearing a red flowery shirt and brown pants, he turned a glass of Scotch in his hand.

  “Coincidences don’t exist, Micky.”

  Thirty-Two

  September 19

  “It has been eight days since Abigail Correia, an eighteen-year-old senior at Lakemore High, disappeared without a trace,” the news anchor said. “The police are being tight-lipped about the course of this investigation, but we’re joined by Vincent Hawkins, no doubt a familiar face to many viewers, who has some information.”

  The screen shifted to display a middle-aged man. His long brown hair was shaped like a wave breaking over his small head. A thin mustache capped his slim lips. When he spoke, deep lines carved into his cheeks. “Thanks, Debbie. The word is that the police have found a tangible connection between Erica Perez’s homicide and Abigail Correia’s disappearance. As of now, the two investigations have been officially combined. What that piece of evidence is? It’s being strictly kept under wraps with only the family members of the victims being notified.”

  The screen divided into sections with the anchor on the left and Hawkins on the right. “Vincent, your article on how the Lakemore PD has been handling the case has garnered a lot of attention.”

  “Well, Deb, I speak the truth.” He smirked. “I stand by every single word I wrote. If Lakemore PD had dealt with the case correctly when Erica went missing, maybe Abby would still be with us. There is a lot of politics involved in this case. And a lot of people are not happy.”

  The anchor raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Would you care to share who you are talking about?”

  Hawkins snorted like a bull. “Are you tricking me, Deb? Well, I’ll only reveal one person, because she’s allowed me to speak on her behalf. I spoke to Hannah Correia, Abby’s mother. She’s fuming at how biased the media has been in their reporting—focusing more on Erica, instead of on Abby, who frankly deserves more attention, because she is missing and could still be alive. But politics!”

  The anchor let out a forced chuckle. “Well, I can’t speak for others, but I feel we are fair in our reporting. But what do you mean by ‘politics’?”

  Hawkins tilted his head and showed his pearly white teeth in a Cheshire cat smile. “Isn’t your station owned by Nathaniel Jones? Best friend of Samuel Perez, Erica’s father?”

  Debbie was stumped. She blinked furiously and appeared to rearrange the papers on her desk. “Thank you for joining us, Vincent.” His face vanished from the screen. “Sports news now, and the Lakemore Sharks will face the Jefferson Frogs of Spokane tonight! Be sure to tune in for an exclusive interview with Sharks Head Coach, Bill ‘the Monster’—”

  The television turned off, and Mackenzie jerked. She turned around to find Sully with the remote. “What was that about?”

  “He’s dissing us. I don’t want the morale in this office to be down because of his ne
gativity.”

  Mackenzie looked around the vacant cubicles surrounding them. It was just the two of them. Sully followed her gaze and pouted. “Talk to Hannah. Explain to her that we’re doing everything we can and not to talk to any reporter. I don’t want this thing spinning out of control.”

  “Okay.”

  “I told Murphy and Peck that Quinn Jones lied to Bruce and Nick about his last contact with Erica, and that we need to talk to him again. They’re sure it’s a misunderstanding, but Murphy has personally arranged for you both to have an informal few words with Quinn after the game tonight.”

  “Do we need to take some kind of thank-you gift?”

  “Tread lightly, Mack. Nick has his kid after school and said he’d pick you up after he drops her off at her mom’s. Traffic’s a bitch on game night though, so I said you’d meet them on the way. Save him crisscrossing town. You know his kid, right?”

  Mackenzie strained to keep her face neutral. “Yep.”

  “Good. Damn Hawkins. Has he ever taken a bullet? No,” Sully grumbled, walking away.

  “At least he’s got the guts to call people out!” Mackenzie called after him right before he closed the door. She picked up her badge and jacket and headed to the property room, where the evidence was stored.

  The property room was always under lock and key, situated next to the custodian’s office. As Mackenzie climbed down the stairs to the basement, a musty smell greeted her. Bare bulbs, dangling from the low ceiling, emitted circles of light on the floor. It was the only section of the building that hadn’t been renovated, due to “structural foundations.”

  She walked past the crudely built rooms of timber and drywall.

  “Sean?” She peeked inside.

  Sean Dobbs, the evidence room clerk, looked up from his computer. “Detective Price. How’s it going?”

  “Good, good.” She entered the stuffy, windowless room. “I wanted to inspect some evidence on the Perez case.”

  “Do you want to check any out?”

  “No. I want to take a picture. You know which locker has the contents of her room, right?”

  “Yep.” He stood up and picked one of the keys hanging on the wall. “Just fill out the register.”

  Mackenzie found the page. She was about to write her name when she saw “Daniel St. Clair” was the latest entry. The time code was yesterday afternoon at 4:47, right after their meeting in Sully’s office. “Agent St. Clair was in yesterday?”

  “Yes, he wanted to just look over some things. He didn’t take anything.”

  What was Daniel doing accessing the evidence store? He was just a consultant. Did Nick know about this?

  Sean led Mackenzie into the room full of lockers. He unlocked the relevant one and stood to one side as she sifted through for the printed paper napkin. Once she found it inside a plastic bag, she turned it around to inspect it. It was plain white, with dark blue ink running along the border. On the top right corner was the logo—printed in blue.

  There were two Xs wedged between two straight lines running parallel above and below the letters. Between the Xs, there was a circle. Inside the circle, there were two wavy lines—one horizontal and one vertical—intersecting each other right in the center. There were diagonal lines extending upwards and towards each other from the end points of the top line, but the paper napkin was torn at the end.

  Mackenzie frowned. The symbol was incomplete. It looked like there could be a triangle there, forming the top of the logo? The base of it would be the line above the Xs. But she wasn’t sure. Below the bottom line, under the letters, was printed the number “916.”

  “Does this mean anything to you?” She showed it to Sean.

  Sean shrugged.

  Mackenzie snapped several shots of it with her phone. On her way back to the office, she stared at the picture. She had never seen this symbol before. It had to be a custom design, rather than a stock image. The shapes were precise. This wasn’t a steak house with a cow on its napkins; a hair salon with a pair of scissors on its price list. The shapes looked like they meant more.

  She walked into someone. “Ouch.”

  “Sorry,” Daniel grinned. “You okay? You looked engrossed in your phone.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Gum?” When Mackenzie shook her head, he put it in his mouth. “What’s up? I heard that Eddy was a dead end.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I still got people keeping an eye on him though. Just in case. What were you up to yesterday evening?”

  “Wasn’t feeling great.” He patted his flat tummy. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been eating takeout. In fact, I’m going to go grocery shopping today and start cooking like an adult.”

  “Oh, too bad. So, you just went home after Clint’s update?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Just curious.” She shrugged and pretended to fiddle with her phone, staying casual.

  Daniel narrowed his eyes and then recoiled. “Oh, I did pop down to the evidence room first. I just wanted to see everything in person. I don’t like just seeing pictures, you know?”

  She gave him an easy smile. The gentleness of his face was a useful weapon. She bet it had lured several into a confession. “Sure. Actually, I needed your help.” She showed him the picture. “This logo was on a paper napkin in Erica’s room. I don’t know what it is. But I think it belongs to some club? Could be a lead? It’s a long shot, but I know the FBI has a better database for image-based matching. Maybe this symbol’s on there? Think you can check this for me?”

  “It will take a few days.” He glowered at the image on her phone, suddenly nervous. “Just send this to me, yeah? What do you think this means?”

  “No idea. But the number turned up in Abby’s journal and locker. Feels like a bit of a stretch, but we can use anything at this point.”

  Daniel’s smile wavered. “Sure. Anyway, Murphy wants to see me, so I’ll see you later.”

  He didn’t wait for Mackenzie to reply. He walked away, loosening his tie and fanning his neck.

  Thirty-Three

  A Frank Sinatra song crooned from the speakers. All the booths were empty. Two construction workers sat at the counter at the other end of the restaurant, eating hot dogs. Richard, the old but sturdy owner, cleaned the glassware behind the counter and watched the game on the television.

  Mackenzie stared at a dirty spot on the checkered tablecloth. She couldn’t scrape it off with her nails—this had to be washed. But the brown spot made her queasy. She deftly moved the saltshaker to cover the blunder. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, the waitress placed an order of eggs in front of her. And Mackenzie ricocheted untethered down another memory lane.

  A pan of overcooked eggs sat on the grimy counter. The pungent smell exploded and flooded Mackenzie’s senses. Now it hung in the compact kitchen. Her throat constricted as she inhaled. She cupped her hand over her mouth to hide her squeak.

  Her father stood at the stove, giving her his back. His flowery shirt was loose; his light brown hair was disheveled and unevenly grown out.

  “How was school?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “What’s your favorite class?”

  She fumbled. Her father was never interested in her schoolwork. Did he even know what grade she was in? “I like Math.”

  “Math?” he snorted. “You definitely aren’t like me.”

  Thank God.

  “What did you learn today?”

  “Three-digit multiplication.”

  “Hmm.”

  What was he trying to do? She had questions—but she was scared of interrupting the delicate and rare moment. What if he got angry?

  What if he hits me like he hits Mom? She curled her tiny hands into fists. Robert had never laid a finger on her. His words were his weapon—they had sent her to her room crying several times.

  “What are you making?”

  “Eggs.” His tone was clipped.

  Did she say something w
rong? She looked at the clock on the lime-green wall of the kitchen. Where was Melody?

  He stood fiddling with the pan for too long. She bent to look over and saw the eggs were beginning to overcook. She bit her tongue. The house was going to reek.

  “Should I open a window?”

  Robert spun and glared at her. “Why?”

  She plastered her back to the chair. He didn’t tear away his gaze as the eggs continued to burn, infusing the air with their stinking odor.

  “I-I was feeling hot.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes at her. That’s when it hit her—the fear. It was like being smothered by a pillow. There was just enough room for her to draw scraps of breath, but it was crippling and devastating. It dawned on her that she was alone in the house with him.

  Mom, please…

  “You think that I can’t cook for you?” he sneered.

  “I-I didn’t say that.”

  “I know exactly what you meant!” His voice boomed, and he threw the spatula across the room. It bounced against the pantry door and dropped to the floor with a clang. Mackenzie’s bones began to rattle.

  Run. Run. Run.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  The redness in his face began to fade. His bulging eyes softened as he placed his hands on his waist and looked away.

  “It’s okay, Micky. It’s your mother’s fault. Not yours. She puts ideas in your head about me. She is the problem. Not me. She has done nothing but bring me down and ruin my damn life. And where is she now? Do you know? Her ten-year-old daughter comes home from school, and her mother isn’t here to receive her and make her food!” He grasped the top of the chair across from her. “I bet she’s out there screwing someone. Your mother is a whore. Do you know what that means, Micky?”

  She shook her head. Tears tickled the back of her throat. The corners of her mouth were pulled down, as if by fishhooks.

  “It means a woman who doesn’t respect her husband, doesn’t obey him and goes around screwing other men.” A vein on his forehead visibly throbbed. “I don’t want you to be like that. Don’t listen to your mother. Do you want to be a whore, Micky?”