by Lynn Shannon
Her breath hitched. She scanned his face, finally meeting his gaze. “I never thought of it like that before.”
“Maybe you should.”
Ten
Debra Channing’s rental house was in a quiet neighborhood close to the university. The one-story would be classified as a fixer-upper in real estate terms. The shutters needed paint and weeds had taken over the flower beds. A broken tire swing dangled from a large oak tree in the front yard.
Avery dropped out of Weston’s truck. She took a deep breath of the crisp air. Their conversation from this morning lingered, slipping into her thoughts. Weston’s words had soothed a raw nerve. She’d been so busy berating herself over the relationship with Jeffrey, she hadn’t considered an alternate view. One in which her core values—those of kindness and grace—had been used against her.
Weston circled the vehicle, settling his Stetson over his dark hair. Paired with the cowboy boots and the badge pinned to his shirt, he was the quintessential image of a Texas Ranger. Avery had never had a thing for cowboys, but Weston made her second-guess everything about herself.
“Mike’s not here yet,” Weston observed, bringing her attention back to where it belonged. On the case.
Avery unzipped her jacket pocket and checked her phone. “He sent me a message saying we should go on ahead. He’s going to be a few minutes late. Do you have the code to the lockbox?”
Debra’s rental house had already been searched, relevant evidence taken, and fingerprints collected. The property had been turned back over to the owner.
Weston nodded. “I’ve got the code. The homeowner said Debra’s parents are coming next week to clear the house out. We can come back as often as we need until then. She’s not showing it to potential renters until next month.”
They started up the drive. The rumble of a mail truck turning the corner caught her attention. Avery lifted a hand to shield her gaze from the sun. The man sitting behind the driver’s seat was familiar. Mid-thirties with thinning blond hair and a gym rat’s physique. Tom Bevin. His route covered her house as well as the police station on campus.
“Hey, Weston, give me a second. I want to talk to the mailman.” She reversed course and Weston fell into step beside her. They were standing at the mailbox when the truck drove up. Avery greeted the man behind the wheel. “Hey there, Tom.”
“Hi, Avery.” He flashed her a bright smile before he seemed to realize which house she was standing in front of. His gaze flickered from her to Weston and then back again. “Suppose you want Debra Channing’s mail.”
“Figured I take it into the house.” She gestured to Weston standing next to her. “This is Texas Ranger Weston Donovan.”
“Pleasure.” Tom shook his hand, then dug in the box next to him for Debra’s mail. He handed the letters and a local grocery flyer to Avery. “I heard about the murder on the news. Shame what happened to Debra. She was a real nice lady.”
“Did you know her?”
“We hung out a time or two. Nothing serious, but she was very sweet. Baked some cookies for me at Christmas time.” He tapped a thumb against the steering wheel. “The family should put a stop hold on her mail. If you speak to them, could you mention it?”
“I will.” She flipped through the letters. Nothing but bills. “Ever notice anyone in the neighborhood that didn’t belong recently?”
Tom frowned. “No, but I spotted Debra’s ex-boyfriend a time or two in the neighborhood. Not at her house, just riding his motorcycle on the streets. His name is Victor Haas. I mentioned it to Debra because I know she was trying to stay away from him. He wasn’t a nice guy.”
Avery’s heart picked up speed. The thief at the university who’d shot at them escaped on a motorcycle. “What kind of motorcycle does Victor have?”
“A Kawasaki Ninja. Black with green trim.”
“Do you happen to know the license plate?”
“No, but you might check with Patrick Harpy, the owner of the gas station at the front of the neighborhood. I saw Victor filling up there…ummm, must’ve been Thursday afternoon.” Tom glanced at his watch. “Hey, I gotta finish my route.”
Avery stepped back. “Thanks for talking with us.”
“No problem. And please don’t forget to mention the stop mail to her family.” Tom put the truck into gear and kept moving down the street.
Avery waited until he was out of hearing range. “We need to get camera footage from the gas station. Maybe it’ll give us a plate number. If Victor does have a motorcycle, he could be the one who shot at us the other night.”
“Agreed. I’ll call Grady and have him pull it.” Weston squinted at the house. “Trouble is, that doesn’t tie Victor to the murders. And while he has motive for killing Debra—from all accounts, their relationship was abusive—I can’t see why he would murder Marianne Jenkins. Or target you.”
“Maybe he’s trying to hide the real motive for Debra’s murder?” Avery tapped the letters against her hand. “Victor’s had some run-ins with the law. He knows his way around the system, and he’s friendly with criminals. Killing Debra would immediately put him on the top of the suspect list. By staging the scene in the classroom, writing the notes, killing Marianne…that muddies the water and confuses the case.”
“That’s a lot of work just to create reasonable doubt. Far simpler to have an alibi. Still, it’s worth considering. We’ll keep following the evidence and have an open mind.”
Weston and Avery followed the walkway around to the backyard. The gate was unlocked. Patches of dead grass fluttered in the cold air. The lock box was hanging from a water spigot and hidden behind a bush. Weston keyed in the code to retrieve the key and unlocked the back door.
The kitchen was neat. Open blinds allowed in plenty of sunlight. There wasn’t a table, but two stools were tucked under the island. A water glass sat in the sink. Avery pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on. In case new evidence was uncovered, she didn’t want to taint it.
Weston pulled out his phone, presumably to call Grady about the motorcycle. Avery tuned out the conversation and opened the fridge. Half a loaf of bread. A gallon of milk. Condiments lined the door. Everything was neat and orderly.
She continued into the living room. It was sparsely furnished with a torn pleather couch and coffee table. No television, although there was a stand. Perhaps Debra had a TV in her bedroom. She wasn’t making much money as a janitor for the university. A couple of self-help books littered the coffee table. How to Gain Confidence, Getting the Love You Deserve, and Non-Abusive Communication. Avery’s heart ached reading the titles.
Several photographs had been hung on the wall. Debra posed with her younger sister and parents. Her smile was wide, her dark eyes sparkling. The ache in Avery’s chest grew. While Debra had made a mistake in her relationship with Victor, it was obvious she was trying to set her life right.
Had Victor killed her for it? Or had Debra come across her murderer in another way?
Avery touched the young woman’s face in the nearest photograph. “I’ll get to the truth. I promise.”
She continued down the short hallway. A tiny bathroom was on the right. To the left was an office. It smelled of furniture polish. Avery opened the last door and stepped into a bedroom. The blinds were lifted, allowing an unobstructed view into the backyard, and a sliding door led to a small porch. On the bed, a lavender quilt was tangled with the sheets. A takeaway food container and drink carton littered the carpet. Half hidden under the bed was an orange backpack.
Avery frowned. One of the items reportedly stolen from the university in recent weeks was a similar backpack. She stepped farther into the room.
Air whirled as a figure, hidden behind the bedroom door, rushed forward. Avery half-spun, her hand flying to her weapon, but something heavy slammed into the side of her head. Stars exploded across her vision. Her fingers went limp and her knees hit the carpet with a bone-jarring thump.
Someone shoved her face down and straddled her. Panic
welled, sending Avery’s heart rate into overdrive. She thrashed, but the person holding her down was too heavy. Her mouth opened and only a squeak came out. No air. She couldn’t pull enough oxygen into her lungs to scream. Out of the corner of her eye, the shadow of her assailant loomed above her. A man. But she couldn’t make out his features. Blood dripped into her eyes.
The unmistakable feeling of a gun barrel pushed against the back of her skull. Please. God, no. He leaned down close to her ear, his breath hot against her cheek. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you.”
His weight oozed the last of the air from her lungs and Avery feared she might pass out. The attacker’s hand went to her waist. He yanked the handcuffs from her belt. Avery tried to fight back, in her mind she was yelling for Weston, but the knock to her head had slowed her responses. He secured her hands behind her back with the cuffs. The cold steel dug into the delicate skin at her wrists.
The gun returned to her head.
Weston heard a muffled noise coming from the rear of the house. He pulled the cell phone away from his ear, ignoring Grady who was giving orders for a trooper to gather the camera footage from the gas station.
“Avery?” he called out.
Silence answered him. A pinprick of unease jabbed the back of his neck. Weston glanced at the back door, focusing in on the doorknob. The gold shine covering it was tarnished. Old. The owner hadn’t changed the locks.
And Debra had either let the killer in, or he’d had a key.
Weston’s hand went to his weapon even as he raised the phone back to his ear. “Grady, I think someone may be in Debra Channing’s house with us. I heard a sound and Avery isn’t answering.”
“You think, or you know?”
“I think. Avery may have fallen or she may not have heard me call her name.” He eased toward the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. “Detective Mike Steel is supposed to meet us here. Get him on the radio and warn him. Send backup as well.”
“Consider it done. I’m going to mute my side but leave the line open.”
“Okay.” Weston tucked the phone in his front shirt pocket. Keeping the line open enabled Grady to provide responding officers with vital information about what was happening in the house.
He peeked around the corner of the doorjamb. The living room was empty. Weston pulled his weapon from the holster but kept it pointed at the ground. If someone was in the house, there was a small chance the individual had every right to be there. He had no idea how many keys Debra had given out to friends or family. Weston and Avery might have startled or terrified the person.
He slipped into the living room, keeping his back along the wall. The windows faced the front of the house and the blinds were drawn tight. His boots whispered over the carpet. Weston’s heart was beating like a jackhammer, but the hands holding his weapon were steady.
“Moving into the hallway,” he whispered, for Grady’s benefit.
He stopped and listened for any sound. Nothing. There was no reason for Avery to be so quiet. Something was definitely wrong. He wanted to rush down the hallway and get to her as fast as possible but battled back the urge. Weston couldn’t be careless. He couldn’t help Avery if he was dead.
Instead, he slipped down the dark hall. The first door was a bathroom. He turned in, leading with his weapon, checking to make sure it was empty. Water droplets sat in the sink, indicating it’d recently been used.
The door to the next room was open. An office. Also empty. From the final bedroom, a muffled sound leaked out. It sounded like a suppressed scream. Weston’s hands tightened on his weapon, and he took a deep breath, purposefully loosening his grip. He closed off his emotions, only allowing himself to rely on his training. Feelings could come later.
The door was cocked open. Weston edged up to the doorframe. He strained his ears but couldn’t hear anything. With his boot, he kicked the door open. It banged against the wall. His breath caught as he raised his weapon.
Victor Haas was straddling Avery, holding a gun to her head. She was face down, her mouth smooshed against the carpet, preventing her from screaming. Blood coated the side of her face.
Victor flicked the gun in Weston’s direction. Wood splintered as a bullet slammed into the molding.
Weston twisted out of the way, using the wall as cover. “Let Avery go, Victor Haas. It’s over. The house is surrounded. You won’t be able to escape the master bedroom. There’s no place for you to go.”
His instructions weren’t just for Victor. They were for Grady too. By identifying the attacker, pinpointing their exact location in the house, and describing the hostage situation, it would aid backup officers. Weston prayed Grady could still hear him.
“You’re lying,” Victor shouted. “No one else is here.”
The sound of glass shattering followed his words. Weston peeked around the edge of the doorjamb. Victor had broken the sliding door leading out to the patio. Probably with the butt of his gun. He held Avery upright and was using her body as a shield. It appeared her hands were bound behind her.
Somewhere deep inside, rage boiled, but Weston had to keep his head clear. He calculated his options. There weren’t many. Best case scenario was stalling until backup arrived.
Weston ran into the bedroom, using a tall dresser for cover. “Victor, you won’t make it out of the backyard with her. Stop this now before it goes too far.”
“I’m not going back to jail.”
Weston’s gaze shot to the backpack on the floor. He remembered reading a report about the thefts on campus. A similar backpack had been taken.
He peeked around the dresser. Victor was dragging Avery out the door. His hair was unwashed and his eyes wild. Under the influence of drugs, maybe? Some street drugs were known to cause superhuman strength. Weston wouldn’t let Victor harm Avery more than he already had.
“Listen, stealing is small potatoes,” Weston said. “I’m sure we can work out a deal. You won’t have to go to prison. But if you hurt Avery, then things change. Everything is riding on the decision you make now.”
He nearly choked on the lies, but they were necessary to keep Victor from escalating. The focus had to be on saving Avery.
Weston peeked around the dresser again. Victor was still in the same place. Half in and half out of the busted sliding glass door. Avery, however, seemed to have recovered somewhat from her head wound. When she met Weston’s gaze, her eyes were clear.
She was calculating. Figuring out a move.
“Let Avery go, Victor, and we can talk some more.” Weston shifted to the balls of his feet. “We can fix this. I promise.”
The man wavered. Avery’s head dropped, and then she reared up, slamming her skull into Victor’s face. A resounding crack followed as Victor’s nose broke. The man howled, releasing his hold on Avery. She dropped to the ground.
Weston sprang forward, jumping over Avery, and tackled Victor. The two men flew into the backyard. Victor’s gun tumbled from his hand, landing somewhere in the grass. Weston vaguely registered Avery rushing over to the weapon as he wrestled Victor’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.
“Get off me!” Victor hollered. “This is police brutality.”
Weston had half a mind to shove Victor’s face in the grass, but hauled the man to his feet instead.
Detective Mike Steel raced around the corner of the house. “I’ve got him.”
Weston handed Victor over and hurried to find Avery. She was standing in the yard, leaning against the house. Smears of blood stained her hair and uniform. But she was alive. Emotion he couldn’t describe mingled with the adrenaline, and Weston had the insane temptation to gather her in his arms and never let go.
As he approached, Avery’s gaze slid from his. She turned and said, “Mind getting these off me?”
Handcuffs. Based on the empty spot on her utility belt, they were hers. Weston quickly undid them. “Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“Not yet.” Avery turned to face Weston. She
offered him a weak smile. “Nice tackle.”
“Nice headbutt.”
She lowered her forehead to his chest. Weston wrapped his arms around her. The yard filled with law enforcement. Dampness coated his shirt, and for a moment, he thought it was blood. Then Avery sniffled. She was crying.
He hugged her tighter, shielding her from anyone else’s prying eyes. Weston didn’t have to be told. He already knew Avery wouldn’t want others to see her weep. That’s why she hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital right away. She needed a moment. “I’ve got you, Avery. I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
Eleven
The HUPD break room smelled like a mixture of stale pizza and dirty socks. Avery’s nose wrinkled as she poured a cup of coffee. The sleeve of her uniform rode up. Red marks, left by the handcuffs, were embedded in her skin. It’d been twenty-four hours since Victor’s assault, but the echo of her fear lingered. It sat in the center of Avery’s chest, like a weight of cold granite.
Had Victor murdered Debra and Marianne? He’d demanded a lawyer after being arrested, which delayed questioning. She yanked down the sleeve of her uniform to cover the marks and doctored her coffee with hazelnut cream.
Jorge Garcia entered the room. His jumpsuit had his name embroidered on the pocket, and he pushed a large janitor’s cart. “Hi, Chief Madison.”
“Hello, Jorge.” She took in his pale complexion. It didn’t look like he was getting much sleep. Not surprising, considering his goddaughter had been murdered. “How are you?”
“I’m hanging in there. I heard about Victor’s attack on the news last night…” He closed his eyes as if pained. “I’m thankful you weren’t hurt badly.”
“Thank you. I appreciate all of the time you spent answering questions about Debra. I know it can be tedious, but it’s necessary.”
Jorge had spoken to investigators several times since their initial conversation about Debra and her friends. He removed some antibacterial wipes from his cart. “I don’t think I helped much. Debra didn’t tell me a lot, probably because she didn’t want anything to get back to her parents. Her mom and dad arrive in town tonight. I’ve arranged to take some time off to help them plan the funeral.”