by Mary Burton
She stood back, knowing the killer had linked these murders for a reason. Based on these images, he preferred young women with light-colored hair. He did not sexually abuse his victims, took untraceable pictures of their faces, which he mutilated postmortem. The sections of skin, along with the pictures, were souvenirs.
“Why these women?” she asked.
Her doorbell rang. Stiffening, Ann rose and moved to her front window. Carefully, she drew back the curtain and searched her porch. No one was there.
Strain crept up her back, banding around her scalp. She hesitated and then unhooked the security chain and opened the door. She looked left, right, around the curb, and then toward her mat. But there was nothing. No Elijah. No Paul. Not even Clarke’s ghost.
She rubbed her arms and closed the door, hooking the chain and throwing the dead bolt.
As she stepped away from the door, her phone chimed with a text. Startled, she was relieved to see Bryce’s name.
Bryce: I have financials for Sarah Cameron and Dana Riley.
Ann: What did he buy?
Bryce: Gasoline. Fast food. Rang up tabs at grocery stores. Reaching out to stores now for surveillance footage.
Ann: Any leads on Jane Doe’s identity?
Bryce: Searched surrounding towns and counties for missing-person reports. No hits.
But there was a missing woman. Her family might not realize it yet, but Jane Doe was never coming home.
Ann: What about women who were supposed to be on vacation or a business trip? Departure expected, but they are late returning.
Bryce: Will alert surrounding jurisdictions.
There was a pause, and then the text bubbles rolled: Go to bed.
Ann: Back at you.
Bryce: What are you doing tomorrow?
Ann: Looking over financials with you?
Bryce: See you in Missoula at 11:00 a.m.
Theoretically, they both could get enough shut-eye during what remained of the night. He might be able to function on little to no sleep, but she could not. At this rate, she was going to develop double vision and start bumping into walls.
Ann: My house. Will have coffee.
Bryce: Roger.
Under Jane Doe she wrote: Killer still in Missoula?
I do not like to hurt people, but I really do enjoy screwing around with them. Amazing how the little things freak people out. A note on a windshield. A planter that has been moved. The ring of a doorbell.
If I ever get caught, which I never will, I will call it harmless fun. A joke. A prank. No harm, no foul.
But I know what these little tricks really mean. They are a warm-up for the main event that is coming soon.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, August 22
6:15 a.m.
Ann woke early, rising before the sun. She rolled onto her side, noted the time, and groaned. She pulled the covers up, willing herself to sleep a couple more hours, but her brain quickly revved to fifth gear.
Frustrated, she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower’s hot spray. When she stepped under the water, she moaned as heat beaded against her chest. She tipped her face toward the nozzle.
Out of the shower, she dressed, properly dried her hair, and put on makeup. The simple routine was followed by a good cup of coffee. She started to put away her books, but found herself reading or thumbing through each, as if reacquainting herself with old friends.
When her doorbell rang, she had barely put a dent in the first box of books. Bryce was early. Rising, she pursed her lips and ran her fingers through her hair before she reached for the doorknob.
Smiling, she yanked it open and found Paul Thompson on her front porch. Her smile vanished. “What do you want, Mr. Thompson?”
He raised two smooth hands more suited for a keyboard than manual work. “I should have called first, but I wanted to give you another chance.”
“For what?”
“To talk to me. I felt like we got off on the wrong foot. It’s important that my story has your perspective.”
“We didn’t get off on any foot, Mr. Thompson. I’m not going to sit for an interview or have any kind of discussion with you.”
“I’ll steer clear of any questions you don’t want me to ask. I’ll talk to you whenever or wherever is convenient for you. This can all be on your terms.”
“No.” She began to shut the door.
“Do you think Clarke Mead knew the truth?” he rushed to say.
She stilled. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“You’re being vague and not giving me any hard facts.”
He studied her a moment, like a poker player trying to decide whether he should show his hand.
“I can read your expression,” she said. “Overplay and she’ll slam the door in my face. But if I don’t lay it all out, she’ll still slam the door in my face. Basically, you have nothing to lose.” Her heartbeat jacked up a notch; she hoped this was simply a bluff.
“It’s about your son,” he said, dropping his voice.
“My son?” A swift chill swept over her, freezing her muscles, her lungs, her heart. “What about him?”
“I didn’t bring this up the last time because I don’t want to have this conversation on a porch,” he said. “This is going to be awkward for both of us.”
Ann raised her chin, did her best to look annoyed, and hoped the expression did not betray the fear clawing at her insides. “What is so awkward for us?”
Again, in a hushed tone: “Did your late husband know Nate was not his biological son?”
“Who told you something like that?” she said quietly.
He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder. “I’ve interviewed several of the Fireflies.”
“Fireflies.” Her laugh was mirthless. “Elijah Weston’s groupies.”
“Yeah.”
“What do any of them know about my son or me?” She shook her head, forcing her gaze to challenge him.
“More than you realize.”
“Honestly, Mr. Thompson, it takes balls to knock on a woman’s door and accuse her of cheating on her dead husband.”
“The boy was born seven months after you and Clarke married.”
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. “So? Clarke and I dated our senior year.”
“You testified at Elijah’s trial. I read the transcripts. You and Clarke were broken up at the time of the fire.”
Her eyes narrowed as she clung to her bravado. “This feels like a fishing expedition, Mr. Thompson.”
“The Fireflies believe Elijah Weston is the boy’s father. If they saw the resemblance, then Clarke must have known it. I’ve seen pictures of your late husband. He doesn’t look anything like the boy.”
As her stare locked on his green eyes, whatever words she had assembled scrambled away. Her skin puckered with an uneasiness as she thought about crazy groupies discussing her son.
A dark SUV pulled up in front of her house, and Bryce got out, holding a manila file. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, boots, and a hat. His service weapon was holstered at his side. Mirrored sunglasses hid Bryce’s eyes as he approached, but his lips flattened, and his jaw tensed as he looked from her to Paul Thompson.
“Dr. Bailey,” Bryce said carefully. “There any trouble here?”
Thompson took a step back, his gaze still locked on Ann. “No trouble. We were having a conversation.”
“Judging by Dr. Bailey’s expression,” Bryce said, “she’s not liking what you’re saying.”
“It’s fine,” Ann said. “Mr. Thompson is producing a podcast about Elijah Weston, and he wants my input. I’ve declined, but he’s trying to sway me.”
“No means no, pal,” Bryce said.
Thompson removed a card from his pocket and handed it to Ann. “In case you lost the other one. I’m in town now for another week. Call me anytime.”
She accepted the card. “Have a nice day, Mr. Thomps
on.”
“You as well, Dr. Bailey.” Thompson turned, his long strides eating up the distance to the gray four-door rental car.
When Thompson drove off, Bryce’s gaze still lingered on the street as he spoke. “What did he want?”
“He’s like all the others.” Weariness dusted the words. “He wants an interview.”
“You’ve had requests before. Whatever he said rattled you.”
“I’m a little sleep deprived.” It wasn’t far from the truth.
Bryce shifted his gaze to her, his mirrored glasses tossing back her own reflection. Silent, he regarded her.
“Is that how you look at suspects?” Her attempt to flip this back on him fell flat.
He nodded slowly. “It’s a warm-up.”
“It’s not working.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to interrogate you, Ann. But I can see that the man upset you. And after the last year, that’s saying something. If you need to talk to me, you can trust me.”
Oddly, she believed him. “I wasn’t expecting him. He caught me off guard.” She stepped back. “Come on inside. Murder is far more interesting than me.”
He hesitated another beat and then crossed the porch into the house. Removing his hat and glasses, he kept the file tucked under his arm as he surveyed the living room, which was more cluttered than when he had last seen it. “How’s the unpacking going?”
“Slow. And Hurricane Nate will be home tomorrow night, so I’m running out of time. School starts next week, and then life really gets crazy, and yet here I stand in chaos.”
“Couple of days’ work should take care of all this.”
“But it’s finding the desire to unpack.” Shaking her head, she tried to summon a smile.
He traced the silver buckle on the leather hatband as he walked toward the stacks of books. Most of the books were about all manner of death and crime. There were a couple of fiction ones, and those were murder mysteries. “What would you be avoiding, Dr. Bailey?”
“The rest of my life?” she asked lightly. “It scares the hell out of me.”
A half smile tweaked his lips, as if he were familiar with the feeling. “You can try to hide from it, but either way, it’s going to keep coming toward you like a stampeding herd of horses.”
She flicked the edge of Thompson’s card. “I know.”
“Can I help? I’m handy with assembling bookcases.”
Silence settled, and normally she used it to her advantage. Students often rushed to fill the quiet, and when they did, she always learned important tidbits. However, now the stillness coiled around her nerves. Paul Thompson’s words had rattled her, and Bryce knew something was off. She did not care what people might say about her, but she worried about Nate losing the last pillar of his shattered family.
Ann looked at Bryce, wanting to confess all this to him so he could point her toward the clear path. But finding the words was her problem. “You can help me drink the pot of fresh coffee I made. I did promise you coffee.”
He considered her. “Yes, you did.”
“This way.” She guided him past more boxes and into the small galley-style kitchen sequestered from the dining area by a small island. The preset coffee machine gurgled, and the coffee cups were set out, along with sugar and milk.
“Just black,” he said.
She poured him a cup and set it on the island, not trusting her composure if her fingers touched his. It might be that small contact that rattled open the lock that kept her secrets and desires boxed. She poured her own cup.
“Thanks.” Long fingers wrapped around the mug, unmindful of the heat.
“Let’s go back to my office,” she said. “I put up a grid that I’ve been filling out slowly but surely.”
“I’d like to see it.”
He followed her down the hallway, and as soon as he stepped into her office, his gaze was drawn to the timeline that she had stretched across the long blank wall.
“The good thing about not being unpacked is that you have plenty of blank walls,” she said. “The clutter that life brings has yet to really take over.”
He sipped his coffee, nodding his appreciation, and then set it down on the edge of her desk. He opened the manila file to the top page, covered with his own scrawled notes.
“I traced the postmortem purchases made on Dana Riley’s card all the way to Missoula. The last one was made six days ago.”
She scrolled through Dana’s social media feed. “What did she buy?”
“Gas, food, and there was a single purchase for $825.14.”
On D. Riley’s feed, Ann discovered a picture of blue snakeskin boots sitting on a rock overlooking Missoula. The setting sun dipped toward the mountainous horizon, painting the land in fiery reds, startling oranges, and vibrant yellows.
She turned the phone toward him. “Maybe the killer bought a very expensive pair of boots?”
He took the phone and enlarged the image. “That’s taken here in town?”
“Yes. What was the name of the vendor?”
“The Classy Cat.”
“They don’t sell anything on the cheap.” She searched for the name, found the website, and clicked on the store hours. “They’re closed today.”
“Then we’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“Why expensive boots?”
“A present for a woman?” he offered.
“But it’s such an extravagance.”
“Best bait is not cheap.”
“Feels more like showing off.”
Her gaze wandered from the fiery colors in the post to the grainy picture of smiling Jane Doe, and then her mind wandered back to the autopsy. “Shifting directions to the burning of bodies.”
“Okay.”
“It’s more than destruction of evidence. This killer is not just destroying evidence of the victim’s identities, but he’s communicating with someone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s no purpose to the fires. They may delay identification for a brief period, but anyone who watches TV knows about DNA and dental records. If anything, the fires increased the killer’s chances of being caught.”
“Another arsonist would notice that the fires had been set.”
“Exactly.”
“Elijah Weston?”
“Maybe. He’s certainly been in the news this last year. And he has a fair number of groupies.”
Bryce studied her closely, as if peeling back the layers. “Did Thompson mention Elijah’s groupies?”
“He did. He asked me about the Fireflies.”
“Elijah’s groupies.”
“Yes.” How many times had her brother said that coincidences associated with crimes were rare? “What if this is all connected to Elijah?”
“How?”
“Dana told folks she was here to see a man who’d been released from prison.”
“Elijah.”
“Maybe. And remember one of Elijah’s Fireflies was killed last year.”
“Lana Long, I remember.”
“She died by fire, and her death was widely covered, and Elijah attended her funeral.” She had been shell-shocked at the time and too busy protecting Nate and unraveling the web of lies Clarke had spun. “Maybe the fires are more than simply getting Elijah’s attention. Maybe the crimes are more personal.”
“How?”
“What if the victims are all Fireflies?”
Bryce’s frown deepened as he considered her theory. “We haven’t confirmed that.”
She glanced at Thompson’s card. “Could you check with the prison and determine if Sarah Cameron and Dana Riley wrote Elijah? If they were both Fireflies, it would be our first link between the women.”
His gaze shifted back to the chart on the wall. “I’ll get a complete list of the Fireflies tomorrow.”
“If Sarah’s and Dana’s names are on it, then you can track down the women and figure out who’s missing.”
“What’s the m
otive for killing these women? Would Elijah order a hit on them? Pit one against the rest? Clean up loose ends?”
“I don’t know. Elijah is brilliant. He’s a master chess player who thinks a dozen moves ahead.” She rubbed her fingers against her temples, reminding herself to take an aspirin soon. “Also search for social media accounts for these women.”
“Done. Ann, is all this taking a toll on you?” Bryce asked.
“I can handle it.” She slid her phone into her back pocket along with the business card.
“When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” he asked.
She held up her cup. “I’m having coffee right now.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s doing the trick.”
“You have any food in this house?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I stocked up yesterday, knowing my son, who never stops eating, will be home tomorrow. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”
“You show me the supplies, and I’ll make us both a meal.”
“It’s been a while since anyone cooked for me.” Clarke had scrambled eggs for her when she was pregnant, and her mother relied on frozen food and takeout these days.
She led him to the kitchen, and all she had to do was point to the food in the pantry and refrigerator, and he ordered her to pour herself another cup of coffee and sit. He got to work, carefully setting out paper plates, bread slices, and all the cheeses and meats that went between them. He moved with an exact precision she found endearing.
“So neat and careful,” she teased. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever had to slap together a dozen sandwiches for a den of Cub Scouts?”
“I’ve fed as many hungry soldiers. And I’ll bet you they eat more.”
“You got me there.”
He cut each sandwich on a sharp diagonal, indicating to her he liked, maybe craved, accuracy.
“You’re a man of many talents,” she said as he set the plate in front of her.
“I like to eat. I learned to cook.”
“What about your brother? Is he a good cook as well?”
“Can make the best chow a dog would ever want. I wouldn’t recommend you eat anything he makes.”
