by Burton, Mary
Nevada looked around the room. “I don’t see it.”
She noted the back door handle had been dusted for prints. It was ajar. She made a note to check with the investigative crew to determine if they had found the door this way.
The refrigerator was stocked with a dozen cans of beer, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, a jar of kosher pickles, a bowl full of butter packets, and various other condiments.
Macy checked the cabinets, revealing more hand-me-down dishes, cups, and glasses. “Reminds me of Mom and her crazy collection.”
“She passed away when you were in college, correct?”
She was surprised he remembered the detail. “Yes.”
“Did she ever talk to you about your adoption?”
Macy didn’t look anything like her adoptive parents and had become accustomed to answering queries about adoption from an early age. “Not much. When I asked her years ago about my birth mother, she said she didn’t have any details about her.”
“Do you think she knew the truth?”
“I’d like to believe Mom and Pop didn’t know the worst of it, but I’ll never know. My mother was an expert at ignoring some things. Pop knew my birth mother had died in childbirth, but he never reported her death.”
“Your father was afraid of what would happen to you, his wife, and him if he did.”
It didn’t surprise her that Nevada had dug into the details of the case. “I suppose so.”
Macy glanced at a wall calendar dangling under a couple of frog magnets. Both Debbie and Beth had penciled in their work schedules. Debbie had crossed out the dates from Sunday to Tuesday and added Beth’s name.
They walked down the hallway toward the bedroom and found two technicians in the back bedroom on the left. One was shooting pictures of the room, and one was dusting for prints by the open window.
The sheets on the bed were rumpled and the remote sat on the nightstand, along with a bag of chips. He could picture Beth sitting here watching television.
“Beth was a strong woman,” Nevada said. “Physically. If a big patient needed help with mobility, they called Beth.”
“There weren’t defensive wounds on her hands,” Macy said as she walked to the window and peered out. “He surprised her. Maybe she dozed off while she was watching television.”
In the adjoining bathroom, gray pajama pants and a football T-shirt were discarded on the floor. An uncapped tube of toothpaste squeezed in the middle sat alongside her toothbrush, which lay on its side. In the shower there was a collection of shampoos, a razor, and a sliver of white soap.
“Her last evening had been normal until she dozed off and awoke to him standing over her.” She turned toward a secondhand dresser with eight drawers and faded brass oval pulls. On top of the dresser were six earrings scattered around. At first glance the chaos was another casualty of an overworked medical assistant ready to kick back after a long shift.
“The earrings were arranged in a neat row. Side by side. A collection of singles, something anyone who has earrings has. But the singles get tossed in a drawer or jewelry box because you’re still holding on to the hope that the mate will be found. I’ve never laid mine out on a dresser like this.”
She reached in her back pocket and removed her phone, snapping several pictures of the collection.
“The intruder collected one of each earring for a trophy or souvenir,” Nevada said.
She glanced to the nightstand holding a picture of Beth. Her smile was genuine and brilliant as the sun captured the green in her eyes. “Beth’s wearing a delicate set of hoop earrings with small gemstones.”
Nevada found the lone moon-shaped earring with the sparkle gem on the dresser. “Whoever killed Beth was watching her for a while.”
“I agree.” Macy turned to the technician. “Any idea how he came into the house?”
The tech lowered her camera. “The back door was open.”
“Are there shoe prints leading up to it?” Nevada asked.
“I might have a partial footprint,” the tech offered. “I’ve marked the print with red flags and have made molds.”
“Could you identify what kind of shoe it was?” Nevada asked.
“I’d say a man’s athletic shoe, size ten or eleven based on the print found near the gate.”
“We’ll have a look.”
Macy followed Nevada out the back door of the house. He clicked on a flashlight, illuminating the path as they moved toward the back fence. The light caught the red flags and white remnants of the cast. He pointed the light over the fence. “This is rough terrain and a hard area to search at night. We can double back tomorrow.”
“I can keep up. Let’s go.”
“Suit yourself.”
Macy followed Nevada as he studied the area around the back door and then along a narrow footpath that led to the gate. He opened the gate and they stepped through it, moving toward the dense stand of woods.
As he approached, he moved carefully and deliberately toward a thicker swath of muck and then another. He knelt and studied a drying mud puddle under the glare of his flashlight. Stamped in the middle was an arching shoe impression common in many sports shoes.
Macy knelt down, cringing a little. With her phone she snapped pictures. “Did it rain here recently?”
“Saturday night.”
“Beth and Debbie look alike. Maybe he didn’t care which one he took. Both were his type, and killing either one would have given him the thrill he needed.”
“The forensic technician needs to make a cast of this footprint.”
Macy rose a little too quickly and her leg cramped in protest. Pain jolted her and she stumbled slightly. She caught herself by grabbing Nevada’s arm.
His hand wrapped around her forearm, steadying her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “I’m good.”
“We can take a moment, Macy.”
Macy curled her fingers into a fist, resisting the urge to massage her leg. “Pain reminds me I’m alive. It reminds me of my purpose.”
Nevada studied her a long moment, then shook his head and cursed. “Ramsey sent you to me knowing you weren’t ready for this. You need more time to heal.”
“You make it sound like Ramsey sent the B team.”
“I didn’t mean that. Ramsey put the case before your health, Macy.”
Macy possessed a fair number of foul words in her arsenal, and she swallowed a mouthful. “When this case is solved, everyone will see how effective I still am.”
Brooke Bennett received several texts from Bruce Shaw, informing her he was running late. First time it was the game, which had gone into overtime. The second time, it was a call from his neighbor about a busted pipe.
By the time they met up in the assisted living facility’s parking lot, it was after ten. He pulled up in no particular rush and rose out of his car as if he had all the time in the world. He was wearing sweats and a sweatshirt. He moved with the step of a much younger man.
She rose out of her car. “Dr. Shaw.”
He turned and smiled, moving toward her with purpose. “Deputy Bennett. What can I do for you?”
“I want to see the work schedules for the last month for the facility.”
“That’s going to take some time,” he said. “I’ll have to get with personnel, and they don’t open until nine a.m.” He grinned. “Banker’s hours.”
“I want to ask you about Beth Watson.”
He folded his arms. “What about her?”
“She was found murdered this evening.”
He stilled, drawing in a slow, even breath. “That’s terrible. Jesus. What happened?”
“I can’t give the specifics right now. Can you tell me if she had any trouble with anyone at work?”
“No. Hell, she was a nice kid. Tough homelife. I felt for her. She reminded me of where I came from.”
“Was there anyone or any incident that struck you as odd lately?”
&
nbsp; “We did have a break-in a few months ago. We had money stolen from petty cash and liquor taken from the café.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I spoke to Sheriff Greene about it.”
“You called him directly?”
“He and I go way back. He was a big supporter of the team.”
She removed the cheek swab from her pocket. “Speaking of the team, that brings me to the second reason for my visit. Special Agent Crow has asked me to collect cheek swabs of all the football players from the 2004 season.”
He arched a brow. “Does she think one of us did it?”
“She’s covering all her bases. Do you consent?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Would you rather it be somewhere more private?”
“I have nothing to hide.”
She quickly pulled on gloves and removed the swab from its container. He opened his mouth wide.
As she leaned in toward him, she caught the scent of sweat from what must have been a strenuous workout. The muscles in her back tightened, and a tremor shot down her arm. Her heart beat faster.
“You okay, Deputy?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” Pursing her lips, she wiped the inside of his cheek and quickly replaced the swab in the vial.
Shaw was studying her closely. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“I’m here to help, Deputy Bennett. Call me anytime.”
With a wave, he turned. As he crossed the lot, his cell rang. He stopped, and a sudden shimmer of tension rippled through his body. He spoke in hushed, clipped tones she couldn’t make out as he started walking quickly away from her. His expression was angry when he vanished through the facility’s front door.
What the hell was that about?
She rubbed the back of her neck and got into her vehicle. She dialed her mother’s number and the call went to voicemail. “Mom, call me. I’ve got a few questions for you about Bruce Shaw.”
It was eleven when Nevada dropped Macy off at her motel room. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You can still stay with me.”
“I won’t get any sleep,” she said.
“Is that a bad thing?”
She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips. “See you in the morning, Nevada.”
“The last time I dropped you off was at the airport. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call and hear you’re in a coma.”
She searched his face. “I’m a big girl, Nevada.”
“Who likes to take risks.”
“Like I told Ramsey, it’s who I am.”
He frowned, shaking his head, and she knew there were more thoughts swirling in his head. “I’ll wait until you get inside.”
She grabbed her pack, got out of the car, and crossed toward her motel door. She slid her key through the lock and pushed open the door, doing a quick search of the room. She glanced back at Nevada’s car and raised her hand to give him the all clear. He blinked his headlights, and he waited until she closed and locked the door.
Macy then pushed a heavy chair in front of the door. She removed her weapon, set it on the small vanity by the bathroom, and kicked off her boots. She turned on the hot spray of the shower and stripped. She stepped under the hot water and nearly whimpered with relief as the water pelted down on her skin.
She lingered until she’d chased the chill from her bones and then, out of the shower, toweled off. She slid on an FBI T-shirt, set her gun, phone, and charger on the nightstand, and grabbed her pack before scooting under the covers.
The next half hour was spent on the laptop writing up case notes and compiling a list of witnesses to interview tomorrow. Email came next. There was a message from Andy. The subject line read “Cindy Shaw.”
Andy had accessed the motor vehicles records and found a driver’s license issued to Cindy Shaw in 2004. The color photograph showed a young girl with long dark hair, a wide smile, and a sprinkle of freckles that didn’t soften the wariness in her brown eyes. Macy had seen countless runaways with the same look.
Cindy looked like Tobi, Beth, and the rape victims. “Jesus, kid. What happened to you?”
Macy scrolled down the email and saw Andy’s notation that there were no other records either criminal or public on Cindy.
She closed her laptop and pinched the bridge of her nose. She laid her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound was faint at first, but it persisted. It was the sound of fingernails clawing into dirt. Someone was trying to dig out of a grave.
“I’m still here,” Cindy said. “Don’t leave me behind like everyone else.”
“What do you want?” Macy asked.
“Find me like you did the others. I want to come home.”
“What others?”
“Find me.”
“Where the hell are you?”
A slamming car door outside her room woke Macy up, and she bolted upright in her bed. Heart pounding, she searched the room expecting the worst. She grabbed her gun and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The chair remained in front of the locked door.
“Of all the dead people I’d like to have a conversation with, you’re not it, Cindy Shaw.” She ran her hand over her hair. “How about you, Pop? Why don’t you chime in? You owe me a few good conversations. And Mom? Could use a good word or two.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, set her gun down beside her, and buried her head in her hands. “And now I’m inviting my dead parents to speak to me. I have officially lost my mind.”
There was a logical reason for all this. She’d bet an MRI and a good neurologist could explain it. Even a shrink might be welcome at this point. Anyone who could explain why her brain was now processing facts in the voice of a dead girl she’d never met.
Gingerly, she lay back against the pillows, and for several minutes, maybe even a half hour, she stared at the white popcorn ceiling. Slowly, her racing heart shifted down a notch, and the unnatural buzzing energy seeped from her body. Her eyes closed. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday, November 20, 11:10 p.m.
Brooke drove down the long drive that led to her house. Every muscle in her back ached. Her stomach growled with hunger. She expected to see the glow of the television in her mother’s room, but the house was dark.
She climbed the front steps and let herself in the front door. A nightlight glowing nearby was supposed to make Brooke’s late-night arrivals easier and prevent her from tripping over whatever size-eleven shoes Matt left lying around.
The house was peacefully quiet, and she was glad. She walked back down the center hallway to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a plate of chicken, rice, and broccoli wrapped in plastic with a sticky note attached that read EAT!
Brooke smiled as she grabbed the plate and popped it in a small microwave. She plugged in two minutes and hit “Start.” While the machine hummed and the plate turned, she opened the fridge and pulled out a soda. She twisted off the top and took a long pull before holding the cold bottle to her head.
Footsteps had her turning to find Matt standing there. He was wearing gym pants, a basketball T-shirt, and his dark hair stuck up at the crown of his head.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it home,” Matt said.
“I had to take a break. Is Grandma upstairs asleep?”
“No.” Matt yawned. “She got called in to work. She knows I can take care of myself.”
Of course her son could take care of himself. But having come from the scene of her first homicide, she didn’t like the idea of him being alone. “Did Grandma say when she’d be back?”
“She said she would drive me to school in the morning.”
Brooke stepped closer and hugged her son. His muscles tensed and he tried to pull away, but she held tight. Not only to him but
to the memory of when he’d been a little baby and wanted nothing more than to cuddle. Finally, he relaxed into her embrace. There was still some of the little boy in her young man.
Brooke kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for letting your mom give you a hug.”
He wiggled out of her arms. “I hear there was a murder.”
His statement brought the outside world crashing back. “There was. A girl not much older than you.”
“How did she die?”
Brooke walked to the stove, checked the lid of a copper kettle, and then turned the burner on. “I can’t say. When I can, we’ll talk about it.”
“Seems weird that would happen in Deep Run.”
“It happens everywhere, son,” she said. “There’s no such thing as really safe in the world. It’s an illusion, which is why I need for you to be very careful.”
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
She looked over at her son, this young man, and knew he was right. “Point taken.”
When he ran his fingers through his thick dark hair, she saw the scrapes on his knuckles. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing.”
“Something happened.” She crossed immediately, taking his hand in hers. He tried to pull away, but she held tight. “Were you in a fight?”
He shrugged in a way that reminded her so much of herself at that age. She had had all the answers and then some. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Was it Tyler?”
“He’s got it in for me, but I can take care of him.”
“Fights are a big deal, Matthew. They can get you kicked out of school.”
“It was just a scuffle with the guys. It’s not a big deal.”
The kettle whistled, screaming and hissing until Brooke lifted it from the burner. She didn’t bother to reach for a teacup, her mind now distracted. “Matt, you better get to bed. I’ll stick around tonight and get you to school in the morning.”
“Grandma said she’d do it.”
“I’ll do it.” She kissed him on the forehead and forced a smile. “Go on.”
“Okay, Mom.”
When she heard his bedroom door close, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and stared at the neatly made bed. Instead of turning in, she sat on the edge. She turned to a picture of Matt and her taken months after he was born. Her long dark hair flowing around her face, she was a kid herself. Her mother, her pastor, and her friends had all told her to put the child up for adoption. And she honestly had considered it. To this day, it pained her to think of it. She hadn’t wanted to see him when he was born. She had been exhausted, terrified, and humiliated to be a seventeen-year-old unwed mother.
