by Sarah Sutton
“Shit.”
She had a spare, but she had only changed a tire once in her life when her father had taught her how to do so. She wasn’t sure if she knew how to do it again, but she had to try. She turned her car off, grabbed the key for the spare in the trunk, and then bent down on her hands and knees as she peered underneath. She could see her tire up under the back bumper. She popped open the key slot and stuck the key in, turning it, trying to lower the tire to the ground. But at each turn, the tire did not fall. She tried again and again, but it didn’t budge.
She sighed as she looked around the parking lot. There were only four cars. Three of them were owned by customers who were finishing their last drink at the bar before the restaurant officially closed, and the other car belonged to Craig. He was the manager, and there was no way Justine was going to ask him for a ride. It was common knowledge among the waitstaff that he was creepy, and to make matters worse, he had already asked her out on a date. There was no way she would sit through an awkward car ride with him. She knew her even asking for a ride would be seen as interest. It was how he seemed to view every gesture, if it came from a female.
She reached in her purse for her phone as she opened her car door and took a seat inside. She could call her roommate, she decided as she scanned through her contacts and dialed her roommate’s number. The phone rang and rang, but finally it went to voicemail. Justine tried again, but just like the last time, her roommate didn’t answer, and she sighed in frustration. She’s probably sleeping, Justine said to herself. Her roommate was known for always putting her phone on silent when she went to bed. It was something Justine had always warned her about. “What if there’s an emergency?” she would say, but her roommate was more concerned about getting an uninterrupted sleep.
Justine weighed her options. Her parents lived over two hours away. It didn’t make sense to call them, and she didn’t want to worry them either. She could call an Uber. She didn’t like the idea of renting one alone, especially with everything that had been on the news, but it was either that or asking for a ride from Craig. She opened the app on her phone and put in her locations. She waited for it to find the nearest Uber, and when the app finally did, Justine bubbled with frustration. It was over an hour away.
She shot her head backward, hitting the headrest. She was going to have to ask Craig. It was her only option. Her stomach twisted into a knot.
Suddenly, a knock on her window made her jump, and she spun her head. She wasn’t sure who she was expecting to see, but when she saw a familiar face, she relaxed. He smiled at her with his perfectly chiseled jaw and celebrity-white teeth.
She rolled down her window.
“Looks like you have a flat,” he said. He was a recurring customer that Justine had served many times. He was well known not only in the restaurant, but in the town as a whole, and he was loved by everyone he met. He was charismatic and charming, and Justine always looked forward to serving his table. He often sat alone at the bar, chatting with anyone who was there. But sometimes he’d come with friends and get a table. He gave good tips. He was kind and handsome.
“I know,” she admitted as she shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I tried to get my spare out, but it seems to be stuck.”
He ducked under the car as if taking a look himself and then moments later popped back up by her window. “It looks like it’s rusted over. That happens sometimes. You’ll probably need to take it somewhere.”
Justine let out another frustrated grunt.
“Do you have a ride?” he asked.
Justine shook her head. She wasn’t even going to count Craig as a possibility.
“If you don’t live too far, I can offer you one.”
Justine looked over at his BMW parked not too far away. She had always admired it when he rolled into the parking lot, and the thought of being driven in it excited her. She knew enough about him to know that he was trustworthy. No, she didn’t know him on much of a personal level, but he was well respected in the community. He was everyone’s friend. This was the exact gesture that would be expected of him, and with everything that had been reported on the news, Justine knew it was smarter to go with him than wait over an hour for an Uber.
“If you don’t mind,” she replied with a smile. And moments later he was leading her to his car.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Tara sat on the couch, staring at a blank TV as she drank her coffee. She had already been up for a few hours. After her nightmare, she had tossed and turned until she finally accepted that she wasn’t falling back asleep. Her mind was still focused on the case, on Ben Ford, and her feelings that he wasn’t the killer. It doesn’t make sense, she said to herself over and over again. Everything pointed to the fact that the girls willingly went with the killer, so why would they go with him? Where would he have taken them, if not to his home? And where is the location where Sofia had her picture taken? At each thought, her doubts grew stronger, and she remembered her dream. The girl in the water—it was her fear that another victim would be taken because she and Warren had made an error. Her heart stung at the thought.
But as her feelings grew stronger, the same fear of the night before came crawling back into her mind—what if I’m wrong? It was a thought that reminded her she couldn’t do anything rash. If she were to keep searching, she needed to do so without making it known and without doing anything that could be seen as remotely reckless.
Footsteps interrupted her train of thought as John entered the living room, and Tara spun around.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said as he appeared from the hallway. “Did you sleep on the couch?”
He scrunched his face in confusion as he stared at her. He was already dressed for the day in khakis, a fitted button-down shirt, and tie. His hair was already slicked back, and Tara was surprised she hadn’t even heard him get up or getting ready. She must’ve been too enthralled by her thoughts. His question somehow made her feel guilty. She was already feeling distant from him, yet here she was, not even sleeping in the same bed at night, creating a physical distance as well. She knew that part of her dream last night had just been a reiteration of the distance she felt, that she was too preoccupied with her family issues and her job to focus on John. But now wasn’t the time to bring it up.
Tara sighed. “I did. I guess I was just that tired.”
John only nodded as he walked into kitchen. She wasn’t sure what his thoughts were, if he was annoyed that she didn’t come to bed, or if he too felt the distance, and his silence only worried Tara more.
“Is everything all right?” he asked skeptically, but it was as if he were afraid of the answer. His back was still toward her as he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied.
She wasn’t going to burden him with her concerns with the case, and now wasn’t the time to bring up her feelings of distance. She needed to figure out her next move. She looked toward John as he placed the milk back in the fridge and continued to sip on his coffee, when a thought finally struck her—the coffee shop. It was where she and Warren had started. It was where Reese had worked regularly. If Tara’s theory was right, if the victims did know the killer, maybe he did visit her at the shop after all. Tara had already asked the owner questions about who visited or spoke to Reese, but she had never asked her about a photographer. At the realization, Tara jumped to her feet and John spun around. He looked at her questioningly.
“I just realized I have to do something for work,” she said to him as she briskly walked toward the hallway, her focus now only on the case.
“Tara,” she heard, her focus momentarily broken as she spun around to face him. He placed his mug down, pressing his hands onto the island counter. “I really would like to get dinner at some point. It seems like it’s been a while since we had some time together.”
Tara nodded. “I’d like that,” she replied, but his words only gave her an unsettling feeling. He felt the distanc
e too, it was clear to her now, and only she was to blame. But as much as she wanted to discuss it, she didn’t have time. If what she sensed was possibly right, another girl could be in danger. Tara pushed the case into the forefront her mind as she walked down the hall, leaving John behind her.
***
Tara pushed the door of the coffee shop open, causing a set of bells dangling from the entryway to jingle upon her entrance. A lanky teenage boy behind the counter looked toward her as he straightened up, preparing to take her order. It was still early, and only one person was in the store, waiting for their coffee to be made by a young female barista.
Tara walked up to the counter. The boy was about to ask what Tara wanted, but she stopped him with her words. “Is your manager here?” He looked confused and startled, as if he were afraid he had done something wrong, but he nodded.
“I’ll get her,” he responded and turned toward a set of double swinging doors, making eye contact with the barista as he went—the same concern reflecting in each other’s eyes—and then he disappeared. As Tara waited, the girl kept glancing over until she was done making the coffee. She handed it to the customer, who turned to the exit, and the girl’s eyes awkwardly moved to a TV hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room.
Moments later, and the same manager Tara had met with days early stood before her. “Ah, Agent Mills,” she said as she walked forward. “Surprised to see you in here again.” Her long hair, which was braided last time, was tied tightly in a bun.
The cashier and barista relaxed at their boss’s recognition, realizing that it had nothing to do with them, But Tara could still see them curiously watching from the corner of their eyes as they tried to make themselves busy by grabbing towels and wiping down the tables.
“I realized that there were a few more questions I didn’t get to ask you when I was here last,” Tara began. The manager looked at her curiously. “Did Reese ever speak of a photographer? Or did any photographer ever come in here while she was working?”
The manager tilted her head, contemplating the question. “No, not that I’m aware of.” She looked toward the two other workers, who looked up at the turn of her head. “Do you guys ever see a photographer come in here?” They both looked toward each other and shook their heads in unison.
The manager turned back to Tara. “Why do you ask?”
Tara didn’t want to tell her too much. Interviewing her without Warren being aware could already be seen as insubordinate. She didn’t want to stir this woman’s curiosity, especially with teenagers present, and have it echo through the community.
“We’re just covering our bases,” Tara answered. It was a vague response, but the manager accepted it and nodded.
Tara then looked toward the other two employees. “Did they work with Reese?”
The manager nodded. “Roy did for a while,” she replied, referring to the cashier. “Angela just started.”
Tara turned to face the cashier, who was still washing tables. “Did Reese ever mention someone that would visit her? Someone she seemed friendly with?”
The boy stopped scrubbing and looked up with a frown, shaking his head. “No one in particular. Just her boyfriend, Brian, once in a while.” It was a detail Tara was already aware of, and they had already ruled him out because of his broken arm. He also did not fit who Tara was looking for.
She prodded the boy for more. “Anyone else?” she asked, but he only shrugged.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replied.
Tara’s heart sank. She wasn’t getting anywhere, and she was beginning to wonder if this was a waste of time, if her inner voice was worth listening to. But she also knew she needed to see this through. She didn’t want to give up too easily, because if she were right and turned away, she’d be sick with guilt and regret.
She continued to ask them both a few more questions. If Reese ever spoke to anyone on her breaks, if a customer ever seemed to take interest in her, if she ever seemed afraid. They were all questions that she had asked the manager before, but not the boy. But as they both shook their heads at each question, Tara lost the small bit of hope she had left, and her heart sank.
She thanked them both for their time and was about to turn to the door when the manager spoke to her employees. “Oh, look,” she said, her eyes glued on the TV. “It’s Dan Asher.” A large grin filled her face as both employees turned their eyes to the TV.
Tara glanced at the screen. It was a reporter. He looked familiar, and Tara tried to place his face until it suddenly came to her in a rush. He had been at the crime scenes, reporting, and he was also one of the reporters at the medical examiner’s office, shoving a microphone in her face, and the one she made eye contact with at Fowler Beach.
Tara turned to the manager. “Do you know him?”
The woman nodded without her eyes moving from the TV. “He’s a regular customer. He comes in here quite a bit. He’s very nice. He’s their crime reporter.” She beamed. “Reese had a big crush on him, actually,” she giggled before sighing sadly.
But at her words a chill ran down Tara’s spine. She looked at the man on the screen again, his hair perfectly slicked back, his masculine, chiseled jaw and dark brown eyes. He was certainly handsome, and Tara assumed equally as charming. Her mind ran wild. He had a news background, he would most likely know a thing or two about how a crime case operates, and he was charming enough that he could lead a girl in his car without struggle. Tara stared at the screen, making a mental note of the station he worked for, and then turned to the door. He was always one of the first reporters at the scene, and at that realization, another chill ran cold through her.
***
Tara sat in her car as she googled the news station on her phone. Could she be on to something? A number popped up, and Tara dialed it. Within a few moments, someone picked up and she realized she wasn’t entirely sure how she would approach this. She knew he had been following the story. She could just say she wanted to speak to him about it.
An operator spoke. “How may I direct your call?”
Tara cleared her throat. “Can you please connect me to the news desk?” She had only called a news station a couple times in her life when she was a police officer, but she had remembered how to make sure her call got directed to the correct place.
“One moment,” she heard before being placed on hold. Seconds later, a different female voice sounded through the phone.
“This is WDITV. How can I help you?”
“Um yes,” Tara started. “I’m FBI Agent Tara Mills. I was hoping to speak with Dan Asher about a story he’s working on.”
The woman didn’t even hesitate. She placed Tara on a brief hold before returning moments later. “His shift just ended an hour ago, but he will be in tomorrow,” she said.
“Is there any way I can speak to him before that?” Tara did not intend to wait that long.
“I can give you his work cell number. He’s usually quick to respond.”
Tara thanked her. “Yes, that would be great,” she replied before she reached for a pen and paper in her glove box and the woman began reading off a series of numbers. When she was done, Tara quickly said goodbye.
Without a second to waste, she dialed Dan Asher’s number, but her finger hovered over the send button. She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. She still had no evidence to think that he could be the killer other than him knowing one of the victims and fitting a description that she only envisioned in her mind. But either way, she knew it could be worth talking to him. He had been covering the case. He knew Reese. Maybe he had observed something that would be useful.
Tara finally pressed send. Within moments, he picked up. “Dan Asher,” he said. His voice was lively and professional, the sound of a true reporter.
Tara introduced herself. “From my understanding, you’ve been working on the beach murders?”
“That’s right.” He waited for Tara to elaborate.
“And you knew Reese, I understand,
from the coffee shop?”
“Um, yes.” He seemed a bit taken back from the question. “I got coffee there often. I recognized her face as soon as I was shown her photo. Such a shame.” He paused as if letting his words sink in. “What can I help you with?” he asked, his voice bouncing back into its chipper tone.
“I was just wondering if I could pick your brain a bit.” She paused a moment. “Would we be able to meet somewhere?”
The phone fell silent, and an unsettled feeling flowed through Tara, but then again his voice bounced back. “I can give you my address,” he said abruptly. “I’m home now.”
Tara considered it a moment. She had no reason to believe that he was dangerous, but was this going too far? Was she digging too much on her own? Could she get in trouble? The questions rolled around in her head until another pushed its way forward. Was it also risky if she didn’t speak to him? Even if he wasn’t the killer, maybe he knew something valuable? He’s a crime scene reporter, she reminded herself. There’s nothing wrong with seeing what he knows. At that thought, Tara finally responded.
“Sure, I can head over now.” He gave her his address, she thanked him, and they were soon off the phone.
Tara entered the address into the GPS. I’ll have to tell Warren, she thought. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Someone was going to know where she was. This time, just in case, Warren would have the address. She would call him on the way, but as Tara pulled out of the parking lot, she wondered what Warren would think, and if once again she was going too far.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Justine awoke to a fluorescent light beaming in her eyes. Her head pounded, the light only intensifying it, and she groaned in pain as she turned her head away. Her vision was blurred. She did not know where she was. She didn’t remember how she had gotten there, but as she looked in front of her, she knew she was lying on a cold concrete floor. The floor was bare. It outstretched in front of her until meeting a cement wall that was just as bare. A musty smell wafted into her nose. I’m in a basement, she said to herself. Her clothes were damp, and so was the floor she lay on, a mix of sweat and moisture trapped in the room.