Flaw-Abiding Citizen (The Worst Detective Ever Book 6)

by Christy Barritt

  “I found the source of the smell.” Jackson lowered his gun as he joined me.

  My head felt woozy as I waited for him to finish.

  “Some meat was left in the sink.”

  My shoulders slumped with relief. It wasn’t my dad’s corpse or anything equally as dreadful. Thank you. “That’s good. Great. Fantastic. Best news I’ve heard all day.”

  “You don’t want to look in the sink. The meat . . . the flies got to it.”

  Visions of Amityville Horror filled my mind. I tried to push those scenes away. What was it with me and creepy movies today?

  “Say no more.” I swallowed the good news and braced myself for whatever might come next. “Anything else of note?”

  “No one’s here,” Jackson said. “My guess is that no one has been here for a while.”

  “But . . .” If that was true, why had someone sent me this address? It was never without purpose. These stalker dudes were playing a twisted game with me, complete with a bounty for information like this. They wouldn’t lead me astray. Right?

  Then again, one of them had escaped from jail and could be anywhere by now. What if this was some kind of trap? I shivered.

  It didn’t matter. I would push ahead, no matter what. I would figure out, one way or another, why someone had led me here.

  Which meant I needed to take a look at this place myself.

  Chapter Two

  I stepped forward, almost hesitantly. Which wasn’t like me. I was usually headstrong and foolhardy—quite the combination.

  The whole place reeked. And smelled stale. And rotting.

  Like nothing good could have ever happened here. Ever.

  Had I mentioned that yet?

  I walked the perimeter of the dank, dated living room. The olive-green carpet at my feet felt matted and sticky.

  I passed a tweed orange-and-yellow sofa. A mustard-colored armchair. An espresso-colored coffee table that had more nicks and scratches than I could count.

  Nothing here remotely caught my eye.

  I reached the kitchen next. The smell emanating from the room made my stomach revolt, and nausea churned inside me, threatening to materialize. More flies swarmed, irritating me with their buzzing. With how they used my skin as a landing pad. With how they acted annoyed at me for invading their space.

  Breathe through your mouth, girl. Breathe through your mouth.

  I sensed Jackson behind me and relaxed ever so slightly. He was my rock, the man who had exceeded every expectation I had about men—other than my father.

  I was so glad he was with me now.

  “Anything stand out to you?” Jackson moved close enough that I could feel his body heat on my arm.

  Being near him made me feel strong, kind of like sunlight made Superman more powerful. The truth was that I’d been surrounded by men who were more like Kryptonite for a long time, so this change was refreshing, to say the least.

  “Not yet.” I tried to quell my desperation for answers.

  Jackson and I should be celebrating right now. Talking about our future together. Reveling in unexpected outcomes.

  But you know what they said about the best-laid plans. They never worked out, did they? Hopefully, that wasn’t an omen as to what was to come in our relationship.

  Jackson opened the fridge—it still had power, which seemed like an important detail to note—and pulled out an old carton of milk. “The expiration date on this is from eight months ago.”

  “So someone was here in the fall.” That was right around the time my dad disappeared.

  My pulse quickened. Maybe there was something to this visit.

  “Anything else in there?” I asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “Just the milk. There were some canned goods in the cabinet as well.”

  I skirted back into the living room and walked down the opposite hallway. “How many bedrooms?”

  “Just one. This was probably a fishing cabin at one point.”

  Jackson pushed a door open for me, as if he sensed my hesitation. The bedroom stared back, the outdated, musty décor fitting the rest of the house.

  I stepped inside. Opened each dresser drawer.

  They were empty.

  I checked the closet.

  There was nothing.

  “Looks like another dead end,” I muttered. “Unless we missed something. We have to be missing something, Jackson.”

  “I agree that someone probably didn’t lead us here for no reason. A wild goose chase doesn’t fit your stalker’s MO.”

  As I attempted to leave the bedroom, my hip hit the side of the dresser. I rubbed the spot, wondering why I had to be so klutzy.

  Then my eye caught something.

  Something that had been carved into the wood paneling behind the dresser. It was a message.

  A message for me.

  Where the tail end of the creek and the trail meet.

  A dull throb started in my ears. “Jackson—”

  He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I see it.”

  “Did my dad leave it?” I could hardly breathe as the question left my lips.

  His jaw hardened as he examined the words. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I touched the wall, imagining my dad kneeling here to carve this. An ache pulsed through me at the thought of it. He would have been desperate to do something like that. My dad wasn’t a whimsical—or desperate—type of guy.

  No, Dad had been self-reliant and strong and private. A quiet blue-collar worker who liked to fish and who doted on his only daughter. Until I’d ruined things between us by getting upset with him. Our last conversation had been tense. I’d said things I regretted, and I desperately needed to take them back.

  I feared it might be too late.

  Something on the floor just below the dresser caught my eye. A photo.

  I leaned closer, though I already knew the truth.

  It was a picture of me. I was sixteen years old and sitting on my new bicycle Dad had given me for my birthday. It was a bright-pink beach cruiser that I’d been wanting but I’d thought was unobtainable with my family’s budget at the time.

  My dad used to carry this photo in his wallet.

  A cry escaped from me.

  “He was here, Jackson,” I said. “He was here. And he’s trying to send me a message.”

  I almost sank to the floor—my legs had turned to gel—but Jackson wrapped his arms around me, holding me up.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Jackson said. “One way or another, we’ll figure out what happened.”

  I was still dazed and shaken when I left the house an hour later. Jackson had called in the local sheriff to access the scene by checking for fingerprints or anything else that had been missed.

  Now the two of us were on our way back down a lonely stretch of highway between Hatteras and Nags Head. I’d forgone the comfy window side view and settled in the middle of the bench seat beside Jackson instead.

  I’d thought I’d be elated or devastated on this drive back. Instead, I felt more confused than ever.

  I pulled my arms across my chest as my thoughts consumed me.

  I had to find my dad. The thought turned in my head over and over again. I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this. But what did those things in the house mean? How did they fit in the overall puzzle? And what had led my dad to this place?

  Jackson’s hand rested on my leg. I reached down and locked my fingers with his, so thankful he was with me right now. I wasn’t sure if I could get through all this alone.

  “I’m sorry, Joey,” he muttered. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “I just want my dad back, Jackson.” Was that asking too much? Had I already used up all my wishes in this life—wasting them on Hollywood and fame? I knew life didn’t work that way, but still. It felt like my luck was running out.

  “I know, sweetie.”

  I remembered that message behind the dresser. “Why would my da
d have carved a message in the wall?”

  “He wanted to make sure someone found it. The fact that he hid it behind a dresser . . .”

  “Indicates he needed to conceal it from someone,” I finished. “But who? Was he held there against his will?”

  “There’s no evidence of that. There were no binds or broken furniture or fractured doors. No evidence of a struggle or escape.”

  I leaned back. That was a good sign. As was the fact that . . . “There’s no evidence he was harmed either. No blood.”

  “Right. The sheriff deputies will look for trace evidence—anything not visible to the human eye.”

  “Right.” I sighed. “Let’s say he was hiding out. Why Salvo, of all places? If he was running, why not go far away?”

  “The cabin was pretty secluded. Your dad could have taken a boat back and forth to get wherever he needed to. Besides that, all the canned goods there could have sustained him awhile. Maybe my colleagues will be able to piece something together. Find a fingerprint or something we missed.”

  I appreciated his optimism, but I doubted that would happen. I felt like I was no further along now than I had been before. I wasn’t sure how any of this would ultimately help me find my dad unless I figured out what that clue meant.

  Where the tail end of the creek and the trail meet.

  It made zero sense. Trail? Creek? Was he talking about going hiking? Maybe something back closer to our old home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia? I had no idea.

  I closed my eyes and rested my head on Jackson’s shoulder. It had been a long day.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw a vehicle up ahead. As we got closer, I realized it was a car pulled over on the side of the road—nothing unusual for this area. People often decided to park on the scenic byway so they could look at the vast ocean on the other side of the dunes.

  But this time a woman waved her hands in the air at the edge of the road.

  “I bet she’s stuck in the sand,” I muttered.

  “Someone’s always stuck on this road. They think they can pull their sedan onto the sand and then drive back home. They can’t.” Jackson sighed. “You mind if I stop?”

  “Not at all.” He wouldn’t be Jackson if he didn’t help. Plus, the strangely deserted highway made me wonder if traffic was at a standstill because of bridge construction at the Oregon Inlet. Who knew when someone else would happen by to offer assistance?

  Jackson pulled over behind the woman—he had four-wheel drive, of course—and climbed out. My first inclination was to stay in the truck alone and let my thoughts torment me. Instead, I decided to stretch my legs and maybe help somehow.

  Like I had any idea how to get a car unstuck, except for calling a tow truck.

  I observed the woman as I approached. Thirtysomething, long black hair, pale skin, wearing jeans and a white tank top. She looked frazzled, to say the least, as she rubbed her hands together before jerking her limbs frantically to match her words.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.” The woman threw her hands in the air as Jackson approached. “I saw other people pulled over along this road, so I didn’t think anything of it. And now I can’t get out, and I need to get home to pick up my son at the sitter’s.”

  “Let’s see if some cardboard beneath the tires will work.” Jackson walked to the toolbox attached to his truck bed. “Otherwise, I have a jack.”

  The woman continued to blather. That was usually my role, but this time I stood back and listened. I had my own problems that I mentally blathered about to myself.

  “I can’t believe I was this stupid,” she continued. “I saw the ocean over these dunes, and I wanted to take a look at it. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s gorgeous.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Her pale skin gave her away, as did the dark lipstick. She just didn’t give off a beach vibe. Plus, I was pretty sure locals knew better than to pull off here.

  “No, I’m just visiting. How’d you guess?” She kicked her tire. “This stupid mistake, maybe. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  I looked down at her car. At her tires stuck in the sand. At least they weren’t buried deeply. That was the good news.

  In fact, now that I thought about it, it almost felt like there could be some old asphalt beneath my feet, buried deep beneath the sand.

  Something churned in my head as that realization fought for my attention.

  She wasn’t from this area, yet her son was at the sitter’s . . .

  What sense did that make?

  I twirled around, realizing that I’d either tuned the woman out, or she wasn’t talking anymore.

  That was when I saw her holding a gun, pointing it right at Jackson.

  “Don’t make a move or he dies,” she muttered.

  Chapter Three

  Jackson raised his hands and stepped out from behind the truck. “Don’t do anything rash.”

  Each of Jackson’s actions and words were measured and careful. His gaze remained steady on the woman, like a negotiator during a hostage crisis. Only he was the hostage this time. He was the innocent bystander instead of negotiator Bruce Willis.

  My gaze jerked back to the woman. To her gun. Her demeanor had changed from frantic to perfectly in control. Calculated.

  Professional.

  The word echoed in my head again.

  I wasn’t playing in the minor leagues right now. The thought didn’t comfort me.

  Had this woman just been waiting for Jackson and me to pass? Had she known we were coming this way? Perhaps she’d lured us out here to Hatteras Island instead of the super-stalker fan club.

  Because I was nearly certain she’d targeted us and that this was no random holdup.

  “Get in the car.” She nodded toward her own vehicle, her voice as cold as the ocean in winter.

  If there was one thing I knew, it was that getting in the car with a criminal was a surefire way to ensure that things ended in a worst-case scenario. That wasn’t to say I’d never done it before. But I had almost died in the process, so I considered myself an expert on these things.

  Jackson and I exchanged a look. Without any words, so much was said. Be careful. Stay calm. It will be okay.

  That was Jackson’s silent communication, at least.

  Mine was more like, Where’s the director when you need him to yell “Cut”?

  “Who are you?” Jackson moved slowly toward her vehicle, following her orders.

  “This isn’t the time to ask questions.” Psycho Out-of-Towner—I’d call her POT for short—grabbed his arm and shoved him forward.

  Or, she tried to shove Jackson, I should say. He was like a well-rooted tree and barely budged.

  “Maybe we should talk this out,” Jackson said, no sign of panic in his gaze.

  I loved that about him.

  “You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble if you do this,” Jackson continued. “I’m an officer of the law.”

  “I know. Now put your hands down!” POT growled as a car appeared on the horizon. “And don’t try anything stupid. I’m not afraid to use this gun. You’re nothing but baggage as far as I’m concerned.”

  Jackson lowered his hands.

  As I watched, I backed closer to the sand dune behind me, my thoughts scrambling for a solution.

  There had to be something I could do here besides act like an obedient little robot.

  But what if I did something and it got Jackson killed? I’d never forgive myself.

  A tremble raked through me, and my lungs tightened.

  That didn’t stop me from extending my arm behind me. My fingers reached out until they touched grit. I held my breath. Watched.

  POT hadn’t noticed me. Not yet.

  Careful to stay still, I grabbed as much sand as I could. Fisted it.

  And then I waited. Watched. Prayed.

  “Both of you would be dead if I had any say-so in this.” POT opened her door and sneered, as if she resented her assignment.

&nb
sp; The last thing we needed was anything else to fuel her anger.

  “Did Currie send you?” I asked, my throat feeling just as dry as the grains in my hand.

  Recognition flashed in her eyes.

  That was what I’d thought. This woman was a part of the Barracudas, the same deadly organization that my estranged mother was involved with. Though Mommy Dearest could call some of the shots, she obviously wasn’t calling them all.

  That was why a man named Currie had tried to kill me only a few days ago.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” POT muttered.

  “Currie didn’t die in that car crash, did he?” I asked, painfully aware of every movement, every passing second. I wanted to look at Jackson, but I didn’t dare pull my gaze away from her for fear she’d do something erratic.

  POT’s eyes narrowed, like I’d hit a sensitive area . . . or like she wanted to call the kettle black. “You mean, the one where you tried to kill him?”

  “They never found his body. I know what that usually means.” In TV language, that meant he’d gotten away. Every. Single. Time.

  Normally, I’d say that was crazy in real life. But these guys weren’t your run-of-the-mill criminals. I wouldn’t put it past them to have elaborate schemes and training and means. In fact, I was positive they did.

  “Just get in!” She took Jackson’s shirt and pushed him toward the car, briefly glancing at me. “You too!”

  “I’m coming.” I squeezed the sand and ignored the quake of anxiety in me. “I’m coming.”

  I glanced at Jackson again, and he offered a small nod.

  He’d seen what I’d done. I needed a distraction, and I didn’t have time to plan this out. I just had to act and pray for the best. That hardly ever worked in my favor though.

  If only this was scripted and I knew what was coming next.

  I gasped as loud and dramatically as I could and pointed across the street to a flock of birds. “Oh my word! It’s a piping plover!”

  The woman swung her head toward me. As she did, I flung sand in her face.

  She screeched. Blinked. Reached for her eyes.

  Jackson swung his leg up and kicked the gun out of her hands.