Always Look Twice

by Elizabeth Goddard

  Evelyn’s and Heath’s generosity and kindness might be the force that cracked open her strong and determined façade. She was trying to stay strong, especially for Emily, but she really wanted to crumble. Curl into a ball somewhere. Not give up, not completely. But she needed time to grieve and to fight the dark depression that threatened to close in on her. Maybe a few hours in that bed would be enough, but she didn’t think so.

  Before she tried the bed, she wanted to grab something to drink from the kitchen. Her mouth was parched.

  She reached for the door and heard a light knock, then someone said, “Harper?”

  Tension lurking in Heath’s tone set her on edge. She eased the door open and took in his guarded demeanor. “Is everything okay?”

  He tried to smile but failed and seemed to struggle for words.

  Her heart pitched. “Did something happen to Emily?”

  That strong wall she’d built around herself was about to collapse.

  “No. Detective Moffett is here.”

  She searched his face, looking for some hint as to why. “It’s not good news.”

  “She didn’t tell me why she’s here. My guess is to ask questions.” Heath stepped aside as if he would walk her to her interrogation.

  This can’t be happening.

  God, please don’t let her take me into town to the sheriff’s department for more questioning. I already told the detective everything at the hospital.

  Taking a few long breaths, she mentally prepared herself to face the detective.

  Stay calm. It’s going to be all right. You didn’t commit a crime. Answer the detective’s questions and let her discover you’re innocent. You’re the victim.

  Before they could leave the hallway and enter the great room, Heath slowed and turned to face her. “It’s going to be all right, Harper. Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.”

  He tried to reassure her, but his words only served to scare her more.

  “Let’s get this over with.” She pressed by him and found not only Moffett but also Sheriff Taggart. The detective paced the big room. Harper had seen that stance before—Moffett was confident, resolved. She wanted to nail Harper. To charge her, if she could.

  Harper mustered the last of her reserves to face the woman detective who had something to prove.

  “Detective Moffett. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re continuing to process the crime scene at the base of Granite Ridge.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” She hugged herself. “Whoever did this needs to be caught.”

  She hated how long the cogs of law enforcement processing could delay the tracking of a criminal. A murderer, in this case.

  “There were no skid marks, which means you didn’t even try to stop.”

  “Now hold on!” Heath’s voice rose as he stepped between Harper and the detective.

  “It’s all right, Heath.” She pressed a hand on his arm and urged him back to her side. Moffett hadn’t given her the Miranda warning, which she should only do if Harper was both under arrest and also being interrogated. Had the detective gotten ahead of herself? “I wasn’t driving, Detective. So it wasn’t me who drove through the guardrail. Do you plan to charge me? Do I need a lawyer?”

  Taggart’s cell rang, and he tugged it out before slipping to another part of the room to talk.

  “No,” Heath said, his arms crossed. “There isn’t enough evidence here.”

  “Yet.”

  The sheriff approached and lowered his cell. “Harper, your sister is awake.”

  A few seconds ticked by as Harper absorbed his words. Relief swelled in her heart.

  “Oh, thank God.” She covered her face to hide her tears of joy and turned right into Heath’s broad chest, lingering there a few moments until she could get her composure. Then she stepped away and gave him a tenuous smile. A silent thank-you for his support. For standing up for her. Since he was a deputy, would his actions cost him?

  “Is she all right?” Heath asked.

  Harper had been so exuberant about hearing Emily was awake, she hadn’t thought about the possibility of other complications.

  “Well enough to speak to the deputy guarding her against another attempt on her life—”

  “You mean by me. That’s why he wouldn’t let me see Emily.”

  Taggart gave a subtle nod. “That, and I wanted someone to interview her before you had a chance to speak with her. She corroborated your story. Said you were both locked in the camper and someone with malicious intentions drove off. You both had to escape through the emergency window, which is how she received the traumatic blow to her head.”

  “I need to see her. Are you done with me? Are you ready to look for the person behind this?”

  Detective Moffett appeared relieved, which surprised Harper. She thought the detective had been too eager to charge her with this crime. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re innocent. I was simply doing my job.”

  “No hard feelings. But now you can focus on finding the actual killer?”

  The detective frowned.

  Incredulity rolled through Harper.

  “Sheriff Taggart.” Strong and intimidating, Heath’s voice boomed through the great room. “I agree with Harper that we need to start looking for the real criminal behind this. Harper is the only witness to that shooting, and last night’s incident appears to be an attempt on her life. You must see that by now.”

  “I’ve been following all the leads, McKade.”

  “The wrong leads, if you ask me.”

  Taggart glared at Heath. “Since Ms. Reynolds has been targeted, I’m going to assign you to stay with her, McKade. Her and her sister. You’re their security while she remains here and in danger.” Then he turned his gaze on her. “You’re free to head home to Missouri, Ms. Reynolds, if you so choose. I’m happy to contact law enforcement there on your behalf for protection services, if needed. But while you’re here, McKade will stick with you.”

  Heath stiffened. His reaction surprised Harper. “I think we need to talk about that first. Maybe a safe house would be in order.”

  “Sure, we can talk, but you have your marching orders. Ms. Reynolds, I’m sorry for the undue stress my department put you under, but I hope you understand our reasons.”

  Harper eyed the sheriff. “By way of an apology, how would you feel about letting me process the scene from last night—after it’s been officially processed, that is?”

  “I don’t know what you think you’ll gain by that.”

  Harper didn’t allow the sheriff’s or detective’s intimidating postures to affect her next words. She had to bulldoze her way through if she was going to get anywhere. “Another set of eyes won’t hurt your efforts. I can help catch the man I witnessed murdering a woman, if you’ll let me.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Uh . . . Sheriff. Can I talk to you a minute?” Heath asked.

  Harper watched him. Did she hope he would persuade the sheriff to let her help with the investigation? He’d do what he could on that, but he had an entirely different reason for speaking to Taggart.

  “I need to get back,” Detective Moffett said. She let herself out the door.

  Harper remained where she stood. Heath had meant to talk to the sheriff in private. “Is she free to go, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I’ve already told her she is.”

  “Good. Make yourself at home, Harper. Get some rest. I’ll be back soon.” Heath ushered the sheriff out the door and onto the porch. He eyed the door. Maybe this was still too close. He didn’t want Harper to listen in on the conversation. “Let’s walk back to the cabin.”

  They stepped off the porch and started hiking. Taggart would need to head this direction anyway since his vehicle was parked near the cordoned-off area.

  “Spit it out, McKade.”

  “You assigned me to keep Harper safe. I can do anything you ask me, but I’m not t
he right man for that particular assignment.”

  Taggart stopped and fisted his hands on his hips. “Is that so? And why not?”

  Where did he even start? He was a deputy, for crying out loud. Sharing with Taggart all his perceived weaknesses or about how he thought he was such a screw-up wasn’t something the man wanted or needed to hear. But here went nothing. “I don’t have a great track record when it comes to protecting people.”

  Taggart arched a brow. “You’re talking about what happened a few months ago when you were shot.”

  Heath’s attempt at helping, fixing what was wrong, always seemed to be the catalyst that caused the incident he meant to prevent.

  Every time. “Assign me the mailboxes like you said earlier.”

  “Not with the bombing of your cabin. Those incidents could be related. As for protecting Harper, you’re the best man for the job, Heath.” Taggart took a step closer and squeezed Heath’s shoulder. “I don’t know how many times I’ve seen you put yourself in the line of fire for the sake of others.”

  “And you know how it all turned out.”

  Taggart nodded, his expression somber. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re a hero, Heath. Willing to put your life on the line for someone else—whether you know them or not. And in this case, I can tell that she matters to you. If anyone is going to keep her safe, it’s you. So you see, there’s nobody better.”

  The sheriff gave one last hearty squeeze, then hiked off and left Heath standing there, grappling with his words.

  Then he realized he’d all but forgotten about convincing Taggart to let Harper look at the camper and truck. He jogged to catch up to him.

  Looked like he wasn’t getting out of bodyguard duty. And if that was the case, then this time Heath had better get it right—he couldn’t bear it if something happened to Harper on his watch. He would have to suck it up, bolster himself with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  Heath would protect her at all costs.

  This time he couldn’t fail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  FRIDAY, 10:24 A.M.

  CRIME SCENE AT GRANITE RIDGE

  Harper hiked over to the wreckage at the bottom of Granite Ridge, her gut twisting into a thousand knots at the sight of the camper and truck, now broken lumps of blackened, crumpled metal.

  Her limbs shook, but she kept moving. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t collapse to her knees and sob.

  Evidence photography required emotional detachment. Impartiality. But that would be impossible.

  Detective Moffett and Heath hiked alongside her until they were at the scene of the accident—the crime scene—where they stood back and let Harper work, watching her every move. To Harper’s surprise, the county’s crime scene techs had finished up their work this morning and released the scene.

  As Harper studied the wreckage, she fought the nausea building in her stomach.

  God, please give me nerves of steel.

  She’d wanted this, after all. It wasn’t like the sheriff had hired her. He was simply allowing her to look for anything his investigators and techs might have missed. He had nothing to lose. Heath had been right about Taggart being a man who wanted the truth. Like her, he wanted to catch this killer and shut him down. The sooner that happened, the better for everyone.

  Detective Moffett was present to make sure that any evidence Harper found wasn’t contaminated or even planted—so there still remained that thread of suspicion, but she understood that this precaution was only meant to preserve Harper’s findings if they were used later in a trial. Harper wondered if part of Moffett hoped Harper found nothing at all. Finding something would put the detective’s and the techs’ skills into question. Still, they were a small, shorthanded operation.

  Harper had reservations, too many doubts about herself to count, but she ignored them. She didn’t have time for that. This killer had come after her personally and had included Emily in his death plans.

  Drawing in a few stabilizing breaths, Harper switched on her photographer’s brain, shutting down composition mode for the time being. This wasn’t artistic photography. Crime scene or evidence photographs required a different mind-set and focus.

  Fortunately, one of the techs had allowed her to use the department camera, tripod, and tools.

  “So what have you figured out so far?” Harper asked. “How did he lock us in? How did he get into my truck and start it?”

  Moffett’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. “With this old retro Airstream, blocking the door wouldn’t have been hard. I can detail a list of ways if you need that, but nailing that down with this mangle of materials is going to take time.”

  Heath stood next to Moffett. “The truck is easy. It’s an older model, so either he hot-wired it or one of you left the keys in the ignition.”

  “It would have been an oversight on my part. The truck is mine. Or I should say was. The Airstream was Emily’s.”

  Moffett pursed her lips. “An awful lot of trouble, if you ask me.”

  As Harper listened, she took pictures of the overall scene. “What do you mean?”

  “Easier ways to kill a person.”

  Harper didn’t respond, even though retorts erupted in her brain. Yeah, he could have simply locked them inside and burned down the camper or shot them in the head.

  “Not if he wanted it to look like Harper had been driving. That way it wouldn’t actually look like she’d been murdered. She and Emily would have been thrown from the camper as it broke apart, and with the twisted tangle of metal, investigators would not have been able to tell whether they had been in the camper or in the truck,” Heath said. “He hadn’t counted on them escaping.”

  “But the person responsible couldn’t have known for certain that the RV would break apart, so if that was the plan, it was flawed,” Harper said.

  Bile rose in her throat.

  The conversation was distracting her from her task, so she tuned them out while she focused. Normally she would take pictures of everything before anyone else had touched anything. Or had removed even the smallest piece of evidence. She wished she knew what they had taken, if anything.

  First, she started with the overview shots. Harper moved from the crumpled metal until she was a good distance away and set the Nikon D100 to capture the widest possible shots of the entire scene, including the ridge in the background. She walked around the scene and took the same wide shots from every possible angle. Done right, it could take hours, while processing a crime scene thoroughly could take days. But she would do her best with the time allotted because she might not get another chance.

  “I’ll need to take shots of this from the top of the ridge too, after I’ve taken pictures of that area.”

  Maybe she was pushing it and Moffett would rein her in, but she heard nothing from the detective. She took more shots to show the relation to the ridge and the surrounding area.

  Then she moved in closer to take the midrange images, which normally would focus on key pieces of evidence in situ and context, but unless the techs had missed something, Harper wouldn’t have anything to photograph, so forget about the closeup shots.

  But she would keep looking for something missed.

  Only an hour into taking the photographs and Moffett stood closer. Growing anxious? Was she trying to intimidate Harper? The sun was high in the sky, shining directly into the ravine next to the ridge. To her credit, the detective said nothing.

  “The witness said I was driving.”

  “Another deputy is asking him for clarification,” Moffett said. “It was dark. He must have gotten it wrong. So that you don’t ask and insult my intelligence, yes, we have checked for fingerprints in and on the vehicle and the camper, what’s left of them. We checked the footprints and tire tracks up at the campground and near the place where we suspect the perp hopped from the truck. That jump had to have hurt. You and your sister know that from experience. We’re still checking the local clinics and hospital
s for anyone reporting the kinds of injuries that could be sustained from a jump like that.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Good to know.

  Harper stared at what was left of the cab. Burned. Crushed. Except part of the seat had come dislodged and rested off to the side. She knelt down and took photographs. Zoomed in. Hoped for more evidence.

  “Did they already gather evidence from this seat?”

  “A few hairs and fibers. Yours and your sister’s probably.”

  Through the lens, Harper peered at one particular hair on the seat. “They missed one.”

  “Your hairs don’t mean anything.”

  “No. But a long hair that isn’t mine means something.” She lowered the camera and looked at the detective.

  Moffett stared at her. “Make your point.”

  “My hair isn’t this bright shade of red. Someone could have been wearing an old or cheap wig to make it look like I was driving. Take all the hairs, not some of them. Since I’m not official here, would you mind collecting, documenting, and packaging the evidence? Even better, take this whole seat to the lab.”

  “You think that hair is a synthetic fiber?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it isn’t mine.” Harper studied the hair. She’d been an evidence photographer, but she’d also worked as a tech and knew how to gather the evidence and document it. “Send all the hairs to the state crime lab to see if even one of them is synthetic. There’s a database of the types of wig hairs and the manufacturers. If it’s synthetic, that will tell us something.”

  “And what if he or she wore a wig but it was made with real hair?”

  “That won’t help us at all.” And would be impossible to track. Maybe Harper was trying too hard. “Unless the hair belongs to the perp. He could actually have long hair, for all we know. He could be a she.” Harper had believed the shooter had been behind the wheel of the truck, wanting to silence her—the witness to his crime—but maybe he had a partner in crime.

  Moffett blew out a breath. “I’ll go ahead and have them come back and get this entire seat to the lab.”