Kevin reached for her hand. “This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t predict that Jamie would react the way she did.”
“I’m a night manager at the diner,” Vanessa said. “At least five nights a week, I don’t get home until two in the morning.” She sniffed. “I thought this was going to be a good thing. Kevin is an accountant. He works from home. I know Jamie was sneaking out to parties while I was at work. I’d hoped having an adult in the house in the evenings would be the end to the drinking and pot smoking.” She looked at her fiancé. “Kevin warned me that Jamie might not see the end to her freedom as a positive outcome.”
“We won’t stop searching until we find her.” Kevin lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckle.
At fifty, Kevin was an average-looking middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and a small paunch, but Vanessa looked at him as if he were Brad Pitt.
“I don’t know what I would have done without Kevin. He’s been my rock.” She gave him a weak smile. “I keep telling him he should move in. He’s here all the time anyway, but he won’t do it.”
Kevin shook his head. “No. Not while Jamie’s gone. It wouldn’t be right. She’d feel like you moved on without her in just two months. We’ll wait until she’s home and settled.”
Lance leaned forward. “How long have you been dating?”
Vanessa smiled. “Two years.”
“How do you and Jamie get along, Kevin?” Morgan asked.
Kevin’s gaze met hers for a split second, then flickered to the left. He scratched his nose. “Fine.”
Pausing before answering a simple question, the inability to maintain eye contact, and touching one’s face were all classic examples of a liar’s body language. So, what was Kevin lying about?
Morgan circled around the topic of his relationship with Jamie. “Do you have any children of your own?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Lance picked up on Morgan’s line of questioning. “Teenagers can be difficult. Do you have any experience with kids?”
“Um. No.” Sweat broke out on Kevin’s forehead. He dropped his chin and shook his head. “I do the best I can with Jamie, but I admit sometimes I don’t feel up to the task.”
Vanessa jumped in. “Jamie and Kevin get along as well as could be expected. They don’t fight. Kevin is extraordinarily patient with her—more patient than I am sometimes. Most teenagers are difficult, but Jamie takes that to a whole new level. Anyway, she seemed fine with our relationship right up until I told her we were getting married.”
“How does Jamie get along with her father?” Lance asked.
“They talk on the phone once in a while.” Vanessa frowned. “He just goes through the motions. Jamie knows he isn’t interested. He has a new wife and a baby on the way.”
“That must be hard on her,” Morgan said.
“She should be used to it.” Bitterness echoed in Vanessa’s voice. “He walked out on us when she was eight. He couldn’t handle her. He wanted two kids, a white picket fence, and a dog. We were hardly living the American Dream. We were broke most of the time. We were paying out of pocket for a lot of Jamie’s therapy. And money aside, he just couldn’t deal with the volatility.”
“Has Jamie run away before?” Lance asked gently.
Nodding, Vanessa blotted her eyes with a tissue. “Yes, but she was always easy to find, which made me think she didn’t really want to run away. Usually it would happen after we’d had a fight about her treatment. Getting her to therapy was a nightmare every single week. Last time she ran away, the police found her in a friend’s shed. The parents had no idea Jamie had been sleeping in their backyard for two days. Her friend brought her food and clothes and let her into the house when the parents were at work.”
“Does Jamie have hobbies?” Morgan asked. “Does she like music, shopping, sports . . . ?”
“She listens to music, but she doesn’t play an instrument or anything.” Vanessa focused on her crumpled tissue. Her breath caught in her throat.
“She likes comics and she draws,” Kevin finished for her.
Morgan had kept one eye on Kevin throughout the interview. As long as she wasn’t asking him direct questions, his nerves seemed to settle. She turned to him. “What kind of drawings?”
More sweat popped out on his head. “They look like dark comic books.”
Lance’s gaze swept from Kevin to Vanessa. “What does she do after school?”
“She locks herself in her room.” Vanessa sighed. “I do my best, but I’m lost as to how to get through to her.”
“Did she have a cell phone?” Every teen Morgan knew had a phone.
“No.” Vanessa shook her head. “I had to take it away. She was using it to access chat rooms and engage with strangers. Here at home, I have software that limits her online activity to approved educational websites.”
Lance and Morgan fished for more information, then looked around Jamie’s bedroom. The walls were covered with classic rock posters.
“She has good taste in music.” Lance nodded toward a Rolling Stones poster. He opened the closet. “All jeans and sweatshirts.”
“No nail polish or makeup either. Jamie isn’t a girly girl.” Morgan sat at the cluttered desk. The drawers were full of the usual junk: pens, pencils, paperclips. Notebooks. Morgan opened one. “She does draw her own comics.”
Lance looked over her shoulder. “She’s pretty good. Sharp took her photo to the local comic book and art supply stores but didn’t have any luck.”
“Look at these.” Morgan leaned over to see the photos stuck in the frame of the mirror over the dresser.
“These look like some of the kids from the video.” He took one down. “There’s Tessa.”
It was a selfie of Tessa and Jamie printed on computer paper.
“It was taken right here.” Morgan pointed. “There’s the Rolling Stones poster.”
They took the photo to the living room and showed it to Vanessa and Kevin. “Do you know this girl?”
They both nodded.
“That’s Tessa.” Vanessa started to cry again. “She tutored Jamie in math last year. The school arranged the match. It didn’t help her grades all that much, but the friendship was good for her. Jamie really liked Tessa. I can’t believe what happened to her.” She sobbed.
Kevin wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
“When was she here last?” Lance asked.
Vanessa hiccupped and spoke between hitched breaths. “Not since before final exams last June.”
They said good-bye and showed themselves out, leaving Vanessa crying on Kevin’s shoulder.
Lance pulled out the keys as they walked across the parking lot. “What do you think?”
Morgan glanced over her shoulder at the depressing brick building. “I think Vanessa Lewis is in a really tough spot.”
“Mental illness can destroy your life,” Lance agreed, his voice rough.
“Did Sharp do background checks on all the parents?” Morgan asked.
“Yes. I don’t like that Jamie left as soon as she found out her mother was marrying Kevin, but Sharp hasn’t found any red flags in either Kevin’s or Vanessa’s backgrounds. The father in California is clean too.”
“Maybe Vanessa is right and Jamie was angry that she’d have less freedom if Kevin moved in. If Jamie is oppositional, her motivation could have been as simple as not wanting her life to change or not wanting to share her space. It’s a small apartment.”
“You’re right, but I still don’t like the timing.” Lance steered her around a patch of broken glass. “And we’ve established a concrete connection between Tessa and Jamie.
“Could be a coincidence,” Morgan said. “Scarlet Falls High isn’t that big.”
“True. But it’s worth more investigation.”
“You know who else needs more investigation?” Morgan stopped at the Jeep. “Kevin.”
“You noticed all the sweating too?” Lance pulled his key fob
from his pocket and unlocked the doors.
“Yes. And I would swear he was lying about something.” Morgan walked toward the passenger door. “Though excessive sweating isn’t evidence.”
“I think you’re right.” Lance looked at her over the hood of the Jeep. “Kevin has something to hide.”
Chapter Seventeen
The picture of Tessa stared back at him from his computer screen. Her dark hair was pulled away from her pretty face. It seemed like she was smiling for him.
At him.
He couldn’t use the Internet without seeing her. She was everywhere. And in none of the photos on the news was she covered in blood. So much blood.
I miss you.
He looked at his hands. Clean. He closed his eyes. How was he going to get over her?
He sucked in a deep breath.
On the screen, a reporter talked to Morgan Dane. He turned up the volume. In a taped sound bite from the day before, she claimed to know that the wrong person had been arrested for the murder of Tessa Palmer.
Impossible.
Only two people had been in the woods that night, and one of them was dead. She couldn’t possibly know the truth.
But doubt lingered under his certainty. He’d lived in constant fear that someone would discover his game and call him out. But people saw what they wanted to see—and no one wanted to believe a killer could actually be living next door.
He wiped his hands on his thighs. Had he made a mistake? He replayed his actions that night but found no mistakes. The cops had been satisfied. Nick Zabrowski had been arrested. The whole town thought Nick was guilty.
Nick Zabrowski was going to be convicted of murder.
Because the alternative was unacceptable. If Morgan Dane proved Nick’s innocence, then the police would resume their investigation. If they dug deep enough, who knew what they’d find? No matter how careful he’d been, there was always risk. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night until the trial was over and Nick Zabrowski was sent to prison.
He clicked “Play” and watched her give her short speech one more time. The fire in her eyes made him hit pause. She was determined. She actually believed Nick was innocent.
Apprehension prickled along his skin like static electricity. Morgan Dane was going to be a problem. He could feel it.
Above all, he couldn’t allow her to find out the truth.
Opening a new window in his browser, he began a random search. He needed to learn everything he could about Morgan Dane. Her address. Her family. Her friends. Anyone she was close to could be used against her.
He would use information as ammunition. He would find her weaknesses. If you drilled enough holes in any foundation, it would crumble.
Morgan Dane was a threat, and she needed to be stopped.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning Morgan stepped into the storage room at Sharp Investigations. Lance and Sharp were in the process of clearing the room out for her use. The closet door was open and stacked with boxes. The long table in the center of the room still held a few cartons.
“How is Sophie’s cold?” Lance shifted a box. He wore what she’d come to consider his private investigator uniform: cargo pants, a snug tee, and a short-sleeved shirt worn unbuttoned, likely added to conceal the weapon behind his right hip.
“Much better.” Morgan set a takeout tray loaded with three coffees and a Dunkin’ Donuts box on the table. “But I suspect Ava has caught it. No doubt Mia will be next.”
“You brought donuts?” Lance grinned.
“Also a couple of croissants and muffins. I didn’t know what you and Sharp liked.” Morgan took the lid off her coffee and inhaled. She loved summer, and this morning’s autumn chill had cut right through her. In her opinion, pumpkin coffee and her suede boots were the only good things about the approach of cold weather.
Sharp walked in. “You know Saturdays, and every other day, are casual here.”
“When I’m on the job, it’s important for me to look the part.” Morgan thought her appearance had become even more important while she was working Nick’s case. Without the weight of the prosecutor’s office behind her—and considering public opinion was not on her side—she would have more difficulty than usual getting cooperation. “People judge lawyers’ abilities by the cost of their clothes and vehicle. I drive a minivan. The suit is all I have.”
And she considered it her armor.
She offered Sharp the Dunkin’ box. He made a distasteful face.
“I’ll take one.” Lance grabbed a glazed donut. “Sharp doesn’t drink coffee or eat processed foods.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan selected a Boston Kreme. “I have a wicked sweet tooth.”
“Sugar and caffeine are highly addictive,” Sharp said in his high-and-mighty tone.
“I’m going to live on the edge this morning.” Lance took a coffee from the tray.
“I’m sorry. I won’t corrupt him again. I promise.” Grinning, Morgan slid her laptop from her tote. “Thank you again for the loan of your office space.”
Sharp moved the last two boxes to the closet. “You’re welcome.”
“Our security system isn’t close to what you have here,” Morgan said.
Lance carried a box of supplies and copies from the hallway and placed them on the table. “What’s your plan for today?”
“Reviewing evidence. I started last night, but there’s a lot to get through.” Morgan’s head was fuzzy from lack of sleep.
Sharp opened her box. “There isn’t much in here.”
“Most of the discovery materials came through secure email.” She opened her laptop.
Sharp frowned. “I know I’m being an old fart, but I prefer printed copies.” He left the room and returned with a printer, which he set up on the far end of the table. “Start when you’re ready.”
Morgan began to print police reports.
“I like to work with visuals.” Sharp rubbed his hands together, as if anxious to get started. “I’ll put together a murder board.”
She glanced up at the far wall, where a huge whiteboard spanned the distance between two windows. “I’ll print multiple copies. I like to keep my files a certain way too.”
The printer hummed as it spat out pages. They divvied up reports and began reading.
Morgan started with the police reports. By lunchtime, she’d gotten through a large chunk of the materials, and her head spun with details. She saved the autopsy report for last, steeling herself for the horrible details. Reading about the sheer brutality of a violent crime was hard enough when she hadn’t personally known the victim. But this . . .
This was the stuff of nightmares.
She scanned the text first and then moved on to the photos. The first image of Tessa’s body lying in the cattails took Morgan’s breath away. The close-ups of Tessa’s face and wounds were worse. Morgan closed her eyes and pictured the girl the last time she’d seen her alive, sitting at the Danes’ kitchen table playing a game of Chutes and Ladders with the kids. Morgan’s empty stomach churned. She reached into her tote bag for a roll of antacids and chewed two.
“We should break for lunch,” Lance said, his gaze too focused on her.
“I’m going to get some air.” What she needed was to get away from those photos. She took a croissant onto the back porch.
A flash of white drew her attention to the space under the porch steps. A dog huddled in the shadows. Clearly a mixed breed, its body was white with tan patches and looked vaguely bulldogish, but leaner. Someone had docked its tail, and its ribs protruded under a short, dirty coat.
“I can’t eat this anyway.” Morgan tossed a piece of her pastry onto the porch. The dog slunk out of its hiding space and gobbled the food with the wary rush of an animal that didn’t know when or where it would get its next meal. Morgan tossed more bits of croissant, drawing the animal closer. The dog edged forward for each bite, until it was only a few feet away. “I’m out of food.”
With one apprehe
nsive wag of her tail stub, the dog darted back under the steps.
The door behind her opened. Lance walked out and stood next to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Morgan leaned on a post. “I just needed a minute.”
Lance put an arm around her shoulders, and she shifted her weight toward him. A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. “Some of those pictures got to me. I’m sorry.”
“For what? Being human?”
“Being weak.” She pushed away from him. “The only thing I can do for Nick or Tessa is to solve her murder. Crying isn’t going to help anyone.”
“You are the strongest person I know.” Lance reached out and tucked a hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing her cheek. “But this—” He gestured toward the building. “This is hard enough to handle even when the victim is a stranger. I’m here if you need someone to lean on.”
She closed her eyes and turned her face into his hand for a few seconds. But when he shifted forward, as if to embrace her, she straightened. If he held her right now, she’d break down, and she couldn’t handle the emotional storm that would follow. Grief was a quagmire that would pull her under until she suffocated. She could already feel the familiar heaviness, ready to settle its crushing weight on her chest, making each breath harder to draw than the last, as if the simple act of drawing air into her lungs could crack her wide open and leave her in pieces.
She couldn’t go there again, not after she’d just fought her way out from under it.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the offer. I do. But what I really need is to get back to work.”
Ignoring his disapproving frown, she turned toward the door and away from him.
Back in the war room, Sharp brought her a green smoothie, and she forced herself to drink it while scanning the murder board. Using magnets, he’d organized photos under headers like Crime Scene and Suspects. He’d also written bullet points and drawn connections with arrows. He’d put a photo of Tessa at the top of the board.
“The visual presentation helps you see connections,” she said.
“That’s the idea. What do we know so far?” Sharp picked up his marker and started a timeline on one side of the board. “Nick and Tessa attended a party at the lake. They arrived at approximately nine p.m. The police have identified eleven other teens who attended the party.” Sharp listed their names. “As far as I can tell, only Jamie, Robby Barone, Felicity Weber, and Jacob Emerson were still at the lake at the end of the party.”
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