by Lisa Gardner
Rainie was anxious, nerves on edge. On the one hand, she believed what she’d told Sharlah—her daughter didn’t need to worry about Telly. That was Rainie and Quincy’s job. On the other hand, Rainie’s own experience in life was that the worst could happen and often did. Truthfully, the closer they got to adopting Sharlah, to finally making her their own, the worse Rainie’s anxiety had become.
Happily-ever-afters, loving families. Those were things that happened to other people, she often thought. For herself, such gifts remained just out of reach.
Which wasn’t true, she had to remind herself now. She had Quincy and Sharlah and Luka. She had a great job, a beautiful house, a successful life. She simply had demons as well. To fight every day, to conquer every day. Such was the life of an addict.
Which is why she’d fallen desperately in love the first time she’d met Sharlah. She’d looked into her foster daughter’s eyes and she’d known her. Just . . . known her. Sharlah’s fears, anxieties, fragile hope, bone-deep strength. Rainie saw all of her daughter. And she loved her, not in spite of her weaknesses, but because of them. Sharlah was a fighter. Just like Rainie and Quincy.
And there was no way in hell Rainie was going to let some estranged, homicidal older brother mess with her family now.
Her phone rang. She glanced down, expecting it to be Brenda Leavitt, calling back. Instead, it was the sheriff, Shelly Atkins.
“We have a development in the case,” Shelly said without preamble. Rainie and Quincy had worked with Shelly going back to her first stint as sheriff. None of them were much for small talk.
“We recovered Telly’s phone. On it, we found some photos of Sharlah. Dated five days ago.”
Rainie stopped pacing. She felt her heart jolt in her chest, her hands fist instinctively. She took a deep breath, forced herself to sit down at the kitchen table.
“Five days ago,” she said. She was trying to think; what had they been doing five days ago? Were they home? Out and about? And how had she, a trained member of law enforcement, not noticed some teenage hoodlum snapping photos of her daughter?
“Photos aren’t good quality. Taken with the cell phone, probably zoomed in. Dan Mitchell will be e-mailing you copies. He recognized one of the buildings in the background as the library.”
That’s right, five days ago, Rainie had taken Luka and Sharlah to the Bakersville County Library. Luka was part of the summer reading program—kids reading to canines. The program encouraged children with challenges to read out loud to a dog audience, which was more fun for the kids while also being less stressful.
“Okay,” Rainie said.
“You talked to Sharlah about her brother?”
“She’s had no contact with him since the night he killed their parents. Furthermore, she doesn’t even remember him that well. Sharlah would’ve been only five when they were separated.”
“What about e-mail, texts? Something you couldn’t see?”
Rainie smiled. “Sharlah’s phone account is attached to mine—I receive copies of all her texts. And we routinely screen her e-mails. Welcome to parenting in the modern age.”
“Rainie . . . I don’t know what this means, but Telly Ray Nash’s phone. He’d cleaned it up—erased the browser history, deleted the photo stream. Except for the pictures of Sharlah. It’s like he wanted us to see them. He wanted us to know he’d been watching.”
Rainie stilled. Her heart was leaping in her chest again. She could feel the spike of adrenaline, the instinctive fight-or-flight reflex. Her anxiety had been right all along—the worst was happening.
Another deep breath. Think like Quincy. At times like this, his relentless logic was as soothing as it could be frustrating.
“Do you have any more information on Telly Ray Nash’s whereabouts?” Rainie asked. Her voice sounded reasonably strong. Another steadying breath. Then she got up from the table, made her way down the hall to Quincy’s office, which held their gun safe.
“A tracker, Cal Noonan, has picked up the boy’s trail heading north from the EZ Gas parking lot. It appears Telly headed into a residential area—few homes, a lot of acreage. They’re searching that now.”
Rainie nodded, removing the picture of Quincy’s oldest daughter from the wall, then holding up her index finger to the exposed biometric reader. The door of the gun safe swung open. Rainie’s personal weapon was a Glock 42. The size of the handgun, however, would make it highly noticeable to carry given Rainie’s summer wardrobe. Instead, she selected her backup twenty-two. Quincy carried his in an ankle holster. Rainie preferred to tuck hers in the small of her back. More accessible, she thought.
“It’s been more than four hours since the gas station shooting,” she said now.
“Yes.”
“And still no sign of the suspect? No hits on the BOLO or hotline?”
“No.”
“In other words, he might still be on foot, wandering this neighborhood. Or he could’ve stolen another vehicle, hooked up with a friend. He could be anywhere at all.”
“Yes.” The advantage of one law enforcement officer talking to another. Neither of them had to lie. “I can assign an officer protective detail,” the sheriff offered now.
“And reduce the manpower looking for an armed fugitive? No thank you. We’re well situated here.” And Rainie didn’t just mean because she was now carrying a handgun, or that she had a trained police dog at her daughter’s side. She meant because Quincy had built this house with just these kinds of situations in mind. The positioning of the windows provided clear lines of sight, while the gravel driveway was its own kind of instant alert system.
Rainie had her fears and demons. Quincy had his.
“I spoke with Sharlah’s caseworker,” Rainie said now. “Sharlah claims she doesn’t remember much about her parents or her older brother. To be honest, we’ve never asked a lot of questions about Telly or why he’s no longer part of Sharlah’s life. Given this morning’s developments . . .”
Rainie didn’t have to be able to see the sheriff to know she was nodding over the phone.
“According to Brenda Leavitt, Sharlah defended Telly’s actions that night. Furthermore, the DA, Tim Egan, had a forensic psychologist evaluate both children. Her assessment was that Telly had taken on the caretaking role of his sister. He made her breakfast, got them both off to school, that sort of thing.”
“He loved Sharlah?”
“According to the forensic eval, yes. But this is where things get interesting. As the assigned caseworker, Brenda Leavitt conducted her own interview of Sharlah while Sharlah was recuperating in the hospital. Given that Telly had also attacked Sharlah with the baseball bat—in the heat of the moment, the forensic psychologist theorized—Brenda wanted to make sure Sharlah was still comfortable living with her brother. The state rarely breaks up siblings and generally will only do so if the kids are considered better off apart.”
“Okay.”
“Every time Brenda asked Sharlah about her brother, she became very agitated. ‘He hates me,’ she’d say again and again. In the end, Brenda had concerns that Sharlah was afraid of Telly. Thought he might hurt her again. Hence the recommendation to place the kids separately.”
“So Sharlah was the one to end the relationship, so to speak,” Shelly said.
“Yes. Though how much Telly knew about that . . . He was only nine at the time and processing trauma of his own.”
“Still. You could argue from Telly’s perspective, he killed his own parents to save his sister’s life, only to have her say she never wanted to see him again.”
“You could say that,” Rainie said. “Plus, according to the forensic psychologist’s report, after all the time and effort Telly made to take care of and protect Sharlah . . .”
“Her rejection would be that much harder to take. In fact, probably really pissed him off.”
“Yes,�
�� Rainie said quietly. “Brenda is going to get me a list of all of Telly’s previous foster families, but it doesn’t sound good. Since losing his own family, he’s bounced around all over the place. Antisocial tendencies, oppositional defiant disorder. He’s a very troubled teenager.”
Shelly sighed heavily. “Is this gonna be one of those cases where all the neighbors appear on the news—‘I knew that kid was no good,’ et cetera, et cetera?”
“Possibly. Brenda knew the foster family before the Duvalls. The wife struggled with Telly. She thought he was too quiet. He’d do what they told him to do . . . but she never really trusted him. In her own words, she worried he’d kill them in their sleep.”
“Great.”
“They removed Telly over allegations of theft—some small items around the house went missing. Telly never argued. His probation officer came to get him and he left. I guess to go to the Duvalls’? Months later, however, the family found the missing items. They had four foster kids. Turned out a different one had been taking things, hoarding them, really. They found everything in a box under the boy’s bed. They felt bad for blaming Telly but not bad enough to request his return.”
“So pissed-off, too-quiet teenager who grew up in a violent household, killed his own parents when he was nine, and was rejected by presumably the only person he ever cared about, his baby sister, then not given a chance by the rest of the world.”
“Rampage shooters often have hit lists,” Rainie said. “Everyone who’s ever wronged them.”
“I’m sending over an officer. Seriously.”
“And you’ll send one to every foster family that ever rejected Telly as well? What about the principal who suspended him or the classmates who teased him? In the people-who’ve-done-him-wrong department, Telly’s list is too long; you’ll never have enough officers. Find him. That’s what we need. Pinpoint Telly’s location. Make an arrest.”
“Got a tracking team on his trail now. Next up, I’m interviewing Aly Sanchez, Telly’s PO. Gonna see what she can tell us about Telly’s state of mind, plus background on the Duvalls. If Telly’s the type to hold a grudge, God only knows what they did to set him off.”
“Can Quincy join you for that conversation? I would like to, but I need to stay with Sharlah.”
“I never mind a profiler’s insight. Especially in a case where it feels we have way more questions than answers.”
“Send me the photos.”
“On it now.”
Rainie walked back into the kitchen. She paused long enough to listen for the sound of Luka’s toenails. Then, when she didn’t hear it . . .
“Sharlah?” she called out sharply.
“Yeah?” Her daughter appeared, coming around from the kitchen counter, holding a glass of lemonade. Luka was at her side.
And once more, Rainie willed her heartbeat to steady, unclenched her hand on the phone.
“Sharlah,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 15
QUINCY WAS ON EDGE. And what Rainie was telling him on the other end of the phone didn’t help.
“Telly has pictures of Sharlah on his cell phone?”
“Half a dozen shots, taken in the past five days. Quincy, most are of Sharlah and Luka walking to the library. But the last photo. It’s our front porch. He’s been to our home.”
“I think you and Sharlah need to go on a trip. Drive to Seattle. Canada. Somewhere.”
“I understand. I’m talking to Sharlah now. She still swears she hasn’t had any contact with her brother. And never noticed anyone taking her picture. Why leave us those photos, Quincy? Why clear his cell phone of everything but that? Shelly thinks it’s a message—or maybe a warning. But why?”
Quincy wasn’t sure what to say. “He’s angry? Sharlah rejected him once. Now he wants her to know he can find her anytime he likes.”
“Then why not find her? Why not drive here after killing the Duvalls and be done with it? Why head north and kill two strangers instead? If the photos are a warning . . .”
“I don’t know,” Quincy said at last.
“Everything I’m hearing about Telly—he’s textbook. Quiet, troubled, loner. Grew up in a bad household. Was driven to kill his own parents at nine. Has been lost ever since. It’s everything you’d expect in a spree shooter. Yet somehow, I feel we don’t know him at all.”
“Because you know Sharlah. You love her. And loving her, you can’t imagine her brother would be someone that bad.”
“Maybe. He took care of her. Her first thought when she thinks of her brother is Cheerios. He fed her breakfast, Quincy. Surely that kind of connection . . . it has to mean something.”
“He was bonded with his sister,” Quincy supplied. “Which in theory is a good thing. A child who can bond once can bond again.” Hence their getting Sharlah a dog. “When that bond was severed, however . . . It’s a very real possibility he feels betrayed by his sister. He has a kernel of rage, which he’s been nursing for years. And now that he’s exploded . . .”
“All bets are off,” Rainie said quietly.
“You and Sharlah should go on a trip.”
“I know. Let me get some things together. And you? You’ll join Shelly to talk to Telly’s PO?”
“I’m headed to the mobile command center now.”
“We need to understand him, Quincy. And not just because Telly’s a threat, but because he is Sharlah’s brother. She’s going to need answers. I mean, first her father tries to kill the whole family and now her brother’s a mass murderer. It’s going to make her wonder about her own future. How could it not?”
“I know. We’re going to figure this out, Rainie. We’re going to catch this suspect, just like we’ve always done. Sharlah will be safe, life will return to normal.”
“And you, are you doing okay?”
The question was spoken softly, by his wife and partner who knew him well. And understood he’d already lost one daughter to a killer.
“I would like you and Sharlah to go on a trip,” he said again.
And because Rainie knew him, truly knew him, she said, “Sharlah is not Mandy. You’re right. We are going to find Telly, and Sharlah will be safe again. We’ll do this, Quincy. We will.”
—
HE DROVE UP TO MOBILE command.
Telly’s PO, Aly Sanchez, was already there, squeezed in beside Sheriff Atkins in the narrow space.
At first glance, it would’ve been easy to confuse Aly with one of her charges. Petite. Long dark hair. A face that looked closer to fourteen than forty. Currently, she sat cross-legged on a chair in a position Quincy wouldn’t have thought possible. Dressed in shorts and a loose-fitting flowered peasant top, she took in his conservative navy blue shirt and tan slacks with a smile.
“You must be the profiler.”
“Guilty as charged.” He crowded forward long enough to shake Sanchez’s hand, then drifted back closer to the door. The space was small enough that where you stood wouldn’t affect whether you were heard.
“As I was just saying to the sheriff, I’ve known Telly for the past year. He was first assigned to me at sixteen. Kid has an explosive temper—someone said or did something wrong, and Telly ended up trashing a school locker. That got him a charge of disorderly conduct. He was also expelled for five days, except being Telly, he showed up two days later in defiance of the principal’s order. Another showdown in the halls, then the principal called the police to forcefully remove Telly from the property. Let’s just say Telly didn’t exit gracefully, earning him a charge for resisting arrest, as well as a file in my office. And around and around we’ve been going ever since.”
“Drugs, alcohol?” Shelly asked now.
“As part of his probation, Telly is subject to random drug tests. I’ve administered four in the past year. To date, he’s passed them all.”
“Do you believe th
ose results?” Quincy asked, because experienced addicts knew many ways of defeating such tests.
“Actually, I do. Not that I’m saying Telly’s a saint. But of all his problems, I don’t think drugs are one of them. In fact, I get the impression, based on his experience with his parents, that Telly is quite antidrug.”
“Different,” Quincy observed, as children of addicts were much more likely to become addicts themselves.
“Oh, Telly is different. One of my still-waters-run-deep charges. Do I like him? Yeah, I do. Would I have ever guessed I’d be questioned for his involvement in a mass shooting? No. Then again, still waters do run deep. And I’ve only been meeting with Telly off and on for less than a year. There’s more about him I don’t know than I do. Plus his temper . . . Telly’s too quiet. Meaning once he gets triggered . . .”
“All bets are off,” Shelly filled in.
“He didn’t remember what he did to the school lockers,” Sanchez provided. “He watched the hall cam video as surprised as anyone, though the blood dripping from his fists was probably a hint.”
Sanchez leaned forward. “Part of probation is to work on coping strategies. I’m not just monitoring Telly due to prior bad deeds, I’m trying to work with him to develop new approaches to avoid such acts in the future. In his case, Telly has several key challenges. First, he can’t sleep. Trauma, overexposure to violence, anxiety, take your pick. So he rarely sleeps for more than an hour or two at night, which, as you can imagine, makes school, focus, that much more challenging.”
Living with two insomniacs himself, Quincy could imagine it.
“Sandra Duvall had been doing some research on the subject,” Sanchez continued. “Sleeping pills had an adverse effect on Telly. But last time we met, she’d started him on melatonin, a natural supplement, to see if that would make a difference.”
