I See You

by Burton, Mary

“Foster had a suitcase full of clothes in the trunk of the Lexus,” Spencer said.

  “He dumps Hadley’s body and then takes Skylar to a motel. He dopes her up, showers, changes, ditches the bloody clothes, and runs home. He has time to stab himself and call 911 by 7:00 a.m.”

  “Where’s the knife he stabbed himself with?” Spencer asked.

  “It has to be in the house close to where he was found,” Vaughan said.

  “Are Veronica Manchester’s or Galina Grant’s knife wounds similar to Foster’s?” Vaughan asked.

  “I can’t rule that out definitely,” Bud said. “I studied pictures of the wound patterns on both women. The knife used to kill them had a shorter and wider blade.”

  “Any DNA pulled from Veronica Manchester’s or Galina Grant’s bodies?” Vaughan asked.

  “Hair fibers. Semen samples. All of it’s been sent off for testing, but that could take weeks. Do you still think the two cases are linked to Hadley Foster’s murder?”

  “All the women had a very similar look, lived within twenty miles of each other, and two of the three knew Mark Foster,” Vaughan said.

  “It could be a coincidence,” Bud offered.

  Vaughan raised a brow. “How often do those really happen?”

  “Almost never.”

  Nikki parked in front of the nondescript trilevel home on the tree-lined Alexandria street. A FOR RENT sign was in the front yard, left worn and brittle by the August heat. As the AC blew against her skin, she felt oddly flushed as she stared at the house where the Princes had lived seventeen years ago.

  She grabbed her bag and got out of the car, wondering where the years had gone. She simply had not noticed the time zooming past until she had seen herself on tape and now. Shit. She felt old.

  Within seconds, the day’s heat made her perspire as she walked past the sign and up the brick sidewalk covered with weeds growing up through the cracks in the mortar. Her hand slid along the wrought iron railing as she climbed the stairs. Memories flashed as the day’s heat seemed to close in on her. There had been a tremendous amount of chaos and confusion when Marsha Prince had first gone missing. The area had been swarming with cops, and many of the neighbors had been terrified that their own children might be at risk. Many had not wanted to talk to her for fear their children would be targeted by the unseen assailant.

  A car door closed behind her, bringing her back to the present. She turned to see a trim young woman dressed in a bright-red dress and sensible heels with a flash of gold at her wrists and ears. The woman’s hair was swept into a practical ponytail.

  Nikki found a smile as she pulled back her shoulders. “Ms. Westwood?”

  Sure, quick heeled steps clicked over the cracked sidewalk. “Yes. Romi Westwood. I’m with the property-management company, and this house is one of my listings.” Green eyes narrowed. “You’re the reporter.”

  “I am.”

  “Weren’t you put on leave or something?”

  “I was.” She sidestepped any explanations or apologies. “I would like to see the house. Is that possible?”

  A frustrated sigh shuddered over her lips. “You aren’t interested in renting it, are you?”

  “I should have been more forthcoming on the phone, but no, I’m not interested in renting. I’m working a story about the Prince sisters.”

  Romi shook her head, her expression a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. “I knew it was too good to be true. This house has always been difficult to rent.”

  “With so many people coming and going from the Northern Virginia market, I’m surprised it’s an issue.”

  “You would think the house was cursed.” The young woman dropped her gaze to her phone.

  As Romi seemed to tune her out, Nikki said, “You heard I was the one who found Marsha Prince’s body, right?”

  Romi looked up. “I don’t watch the news. Bums me out too much.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m the one who got the tip and discovered the skeletal remains in a trunk.” She added the last bit as a teaser, hoping to appeal to the darkness that lingered in everyone. “I’m trying to figure out who killed Marsha Prince.”

  “Does it really matter?” Romi asked. “I mean, it’s been years.”

  “I think it does matter,” Nikki said with an edge to her tone. “Especially now that her sister, Hadley Foster, was found murdered.”

  “So, like, you think the murders are connected?”

  “Seems a little odd, don’t you think? Two sisters murdered?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Her phone dinged with another text, and she dropped her gaze again to the screen.

  “If you show me the house, think of the stories you can share with your colleagues and on social media.”

  Romi looked up and then shrugged. “I’m here, so I might as well show you around.”

  “That would be great.”

  “So, what are you looking for?” Romi knelt by a locked box by the door, punched in a key code, and then removed a key.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” Nikki said.

  Romi unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The air in the house was thick, stale, and hot. “We turned the AC off to save money.”

  Nikki’s shoes clicked on the clean, polished floors as she moved to the middle of the empty living room. She glanced down the hallway toward several doors, remembering what Rose had told her. “Do you have any idea which room belonged to Marsha?”

  “You’d know better than me.”

  “I never was allowed in the house. Her parents weren’t fond of the media.”

  “It’s a three-bedroom house,” Romi said. “Can’t be too hard to figure out.”

  “True.” Nikki moved down the center hallway and stopped in the first bedroom. Opening the closet, she checked the floor and the baseboards, but all were affixed firmly in place. She repeated the process in the next room and found nothing. When she entered the third, she was again reminded of empty vaults and fools’ errands. Still, her body hummed with excitement.

  In the final bedroom closet, Nikki knelt and ran her hands over the floor and the baseboards. The wood was smooth, but as she came around the last side, she noticed a small ridge. Looking closer, she saw the tiny seam. She removed a small multitool from her purse and worked it behind a baseboard that had likely been painted over several times since the Prince family lived here.

  “What are you doing?” Romi asked, her patience with this adventure thinning.

  “I’m not sure.” Nikki could sympathize. This entire adventure felt bogus. But still, she kept pulling on the section of wood.

  “This is getting a little weird,” Romi said.

  And then the wood gave way, and she saw the opening beneath it. After grabbing a small flashlight from her purse, she shined it inside the small dark hole.

  The shifting of feet told her Romi had leaned forward, intrigued.

  When Nikki initially did not see anything, she pushed her hand into the darkness.

  “You’re going to put your hand in there?” Romi asked.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Nasty.”

  Nikki opened the video app on her phone. “Can you do me a favor and tape this?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  For the camera shot, Nikki started the process over. She first tugged on latex gloves and inserted her hand through the opening. Her fingertips slid against the subfloor coated with grease and dirt from five decades. She’d been at the top of her game five months ago, and here she was, rooting on her hands and knees with a hand shoved in a black hole up to her forearm. Oh, how the mighty did fall.

  At the very back, she felt a plastic bag filled with what appeared to be paper.

  Removing the packet, she felt a sense of triumph. She had just taken another big step toward reclaiming the life she had. She looked up into the camera to make sure Romi was getting this.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the cops? This could be some kind of evidence.”

  “I
’m calling them as soon as I open it.” She pulled out the pile of banded papers and looked at the first page. Blood rushed to her head, and she absorbed what she was reading. “Holy shit.”

  Vaughan and Spencer met Hughes in her office, and she had already prepared several surveillance clips for them to see. She downed the last of her coffee and looked up at them, her green eyes bloodshot.

  “Don’t you two look chipper,” Hughes said. “Must be nice getting some sleep.”

  “Don’t be hatin’, Hughes,” Vaughan said with a grin.

  Her chair squeaked as she leaned back. “Yours truly has been up all night long reviewing video footage from multiple surveillance cameras. I’m amazed at all the cameras out there that are always watching.”

  “What about Jason Dalton and the garage surveillance footage?” Spencer asked. “Do the recordings back up his story?”

  “I did have a look at them all, and he was exactly where he said he was, working at the garage,” Hughes said.

  “Meaning he could not have been the one who killed Hadley Foster,” Spencer said.

  “Not unless he can teleport,” Hughes said. “I thought Foster said he killed his wife?”

  “He’s sobered up now and not talking to us,” Vaughan said.

  Hughes leaned back and grinned. “Then ask me what else I saw in the tapes.”

  “I can tell by your expression, Hughes, that you found something,” Vaughan said.

  “Let’s start with Veronica Manchester.” Hughes leaned forward, pushing aside several empty snack-size potato chip bags, and opened a file on her desktop. “This video surveillance follows the trail of Veronica Manchester’s last few days.”

  She clicked on a file, and an image of Veronica frozen in midstep at the Pentagon City Mall appeared. In the clip, Veronica was walking out of the Jazz dress shop, a large shopping bag resting on her arm. She reached into her purse and removed her cell and held it up to her ear. She stopped, frowned, and looked around and then started moving at a fast pace toward the mall exit. She vanished out of sight.

  Hughes clicked on another screen. “This was taken outside the north mall exit, which was the direction she appeared to be moving in when she left the dress shop.”

  In this clip, Veronica exited the mall and crossed the lot toward a dark SUV. As she approached the car, the window came down. She paused to talk to the driver, who, at first glance, was not visible to the viewer.

  “Wait for it,” Hughes said.

  The door opened, and Mark Foster got out. He glanced from side to side, and then he kissed Veronica on the lips.

  “What date was that?”

  “Two days before she ‘went on vacation.’”

  Hughes zeroed in on the car near the SUV. “Does this car look familiar?”

  Spencer nodded. “It’s Hadley Foster’s.”

  “And the driver is Skylar. She was following her father. She must have seen him kiss Veronica,” Vaughan said.

  “Might be coincidental for the girl to just show up at the mall. But I wouldn’t bet the farm on it,” Hughes said.

  “Good work,” Vaughan said.

  “Oh, I’m not finished yet. Let me replay Foster’s 911 call.”

  7:00 a.m.

  911: 911, what’s your emergency?

  Caller: My wife has been stabbed. Kidnapped, along with our daughter.

  911: Sir, what is your name and location?

  Caller: I’m Mark Foster, and I’m at my home. Hurry.

  911: Mr. Foster, are you injured?

  Caller: I’ve been stabbed. My wife and daughter have been kidnapped.

  “Now that we are reminded of the timeline, you’re going to find this interesting,” Hughes said as she clicked on another clip. “We were also able to pull the security footage from the neighbor’s home located on a diagonal to the back of the Fosters’ house.” She pulled up the image.

  The black-and-white footage featured the Fosters’ backyard. It was dark, but there was a full moon.

  The back door to the Foster home opened, and Hadley Foster appeared. She stretched, rolled her head from side to side, and jogged toward the back gate.

  “What time was this?” Spencer asked.

  “It was at 3:15 a.m.,” Hughes said.

  “That’s almost four hours before the 911 call,” Vaughan said.

  “A lot earlier than we first thought,” Spencer said.

  “Hadley reappeared in her backyard at 4:20 a.m. through the same entrance,” Hughes continued. As Hadley walked up the back sidewalk, she pressed a hand to her side, as if she had a stitch. She vanished into the house. “Now watch the shadows by the toolshed.”

  Both Vaughan and Spencer observed the inky darkness shrouding the back corners of the yard. It was totally still, and then seconds after Hadley went into the house, something moved. It was impossible to make out who was there, but it was clear there was something.

  “An animal?” Vaughan asked.

  “That’s what I thought at first. Keep watching.” Seconds later, a figure appeared wearing jeans and a hoodie. They both waited and watched, willing the figure to step into the light.

  And then a security light tripped, and the face of Skylar Foster came into view.

  “Skylar was up,” Spencer said.

  “What the hell was Skylar doing outside?” Vaughan asked.

  “Teenagers aren’t always asleep in their own beds,” Spencer said. “She could have been sneaking home.”

  “From where?” Vaughan asked.

  “Neil Bradford is the logical choice,” Spencer said. “But who knows.”

  “Mark said she was in her room when the attack happened,” Vaughan said.

  “We know she was following her father to the mall. Stands to reason she could be following her mother when she went out early,” Hughes said.

  The timeline of events came more into focus for Vaughan. “Hadley arrives home. Skylar is on her heels. Mark is sleeping on the couch and wakes up. He sees them both. Maybe he thought the daughter had gone to sleep. He and the wife get into it. It goes sideways, and he stabs her?”

  Hughes leaned back in her chair. “Still doesn’t rule out that masked intruder. If I were Mark, I’d claim their attacker held them hostage for a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t think whatever happened in Hadley and Mark’s bedroom was planned,” Spencer said.

  “Why do you say that?” Vaughan asked.

  “Foster’s fabricating his story as he goes along. He wasn’t expecting the stabbing, the tossing of the body and knife, nor stashing his kid in the motel room. Foster was in a full-blown panic that morning. He comes by the station to confess until you impress upon him that you’re still going to follow the forensic evidence. Then he seems to shift gears.”

  “What the hell is he hiding?” Vaughan asked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Thursday, August 15, 9:00 a.m.

  Fifty Hours after the 911 Call

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Zoe and Vaughan rang the bell of the Bradford house. She listened as determined footsteps echoed inside, seconds before curtains covering the windows to their right fluttered. Mrs. Bradford opened the door.

  Mrs. Bradford’s face was as pale as it was grim, and Zoe guessed she had not slept much last night. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you since I received your voicemail. Sorry I didn’t call back. It’s been a mess here today.”

  “What’s happening?” Zoe asked.

  “My phone is ringing off the hook. The reporters are calling nonstop. I finally had to turn my phone off. Neil had to do the same. Nikki McDonald is the most persistent.”

  “I hope you’ve not spoken to any of them,” Vaughan said.

  “No. I have no desire to be the center of a media circus,” Mrs. Bradford said. “I just want all this to die down.”

  “How’s Skylar?” Zoe asked.

  “She’s doing pretty well, I think. She was up during the night, pacing. I asked if I could get her anything, but she said no. S
he’s trying to appear brave.”

  “Where is she?” Zoe asked.

  “In the basement den with Neil. They’ve been hunkered down in there because there are no windows, and they’re watching a movie. Can I get either of you coffee or water?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” Vaughan said.

  They made their way through a modest home filled with pictures of Neil that documented most of the major moments in his life.

  “Is Neil your only child?” Zoe asked.

  “Yes. I wanted more, but my husband liked the idea of focusing on the one.”

  “Where is your husband now?” Zoe asked.

  “He’s traveling for work. He’s in sales.”

  “I don’t see any pictures of him,” Zoe said.

  “Andy hates having his picture taken. Says he has a mug that will break any good camera. I don’t agree. Neil is the spitting image of him.”

  She descended the stairs, past wood-paneled walls, toward a low ceiling. “Make sure you duck. The ceiling is lower than we’d like, but digging down six more inches was too expensive, so we duck.”

  “How long have you lived in the area?” Vaughan asked.

  “We’ve been here about a year. We were in Kansas, but my husband’s company transferred him. The high school is new for both Neil and Skylar. I think that’s what drew each to the other.”

  “Did you spend any time with the Fosters?” Zoe asked.

  “No. We didn’t know her parents very well, but Hadley was always nice to me.”

  “When was the last time you saw Hadley alive?” he asked.

  “Alive.” She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “God, I can’t believe I’m talking about her in those terms.”

  “I know it can be difficult.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “It was about three weeks ago. I ran into her while I was getting coffee. We had a lovely time and chatted about family.”

  “And it was a pleasant meeting?”

  “I suppose it was. I had to go to the restroom, and when I came back, she was gone. I thought it odd, but when I called her, she apologized and said it was an emergency.”

  “You said a few weeks ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And where were you?”