“Aw, George,” McMichael said. “Leave her alone, will ya?”
George looked at Ann and pulled the file away. “I’m sorry, Detective. Am I outta line?”
“Maybe another time.” Ann stood and maneuvered around him. “I gotta go.”
“Don’t let this buffoon scare you away.” Rachel flipped a hand in George’s direction. “He’s harmless.”
The office had suddenly grown too small with George Riley and his big goofy grin hovering around. Ann backed away to the door.
McMichael stood. “It was great to see you, Annie.” He pulled her into another hug and whispered, “I’ll subpoena your dad’s phone records, okay?” Ann pulled away nodding. She mouthed a thank you and left the stifling office.
On the sidewalk, she took in a deep breath and turned to head home when the girl she saw in silhouette that morning ran across the street toward her.
Chapter 8
Teresa convinced herself the entire exchange with the strange little girl had been a dream. She often fell asleep during the day. She was asleep on the couch in the family room when Derrick called to tell her he’d made it to Aspen.
“Aspen?” Teresa said. “What are you doing there?”
He made a frustrated sound. “I told you, Teresa. I’m at a seminar on small practice management today.”
Oh, right. The seminar. He signed up for it to make her feel guilty for having quit the practice a few years ago. Teresa had managed the business side of things—at least once her patients stopped coming to see her and before she stopped going in.
“I put it on the family calendar,” he said. Teresa wandered into the kitchen to the bulletin board. It was there, not only circled in red marker but highlighted, too. He knew she’d miss it.
“I’ll be home tonight,” he said. “Late.”
“What am I supposed to do with Maggie?”
Silence on the other end. She could only imagine what was going through his head. Probably the same thing she was thinking. Take care of Maggie? She could hardly take care of herself. But that wasn’t true. She always made sure to beautify herself for him. Just like her mother taught her.
Always look your best for your husband.
“Don’t forget to get Maggie from school,” he said. “Oh, and Teresa?” His voice wasn’t soft. “Make an effort.” He hung up.
Make an effort.
She made plenty of efforts. She packed Maggie’s lunch every day. She made sure dinner was on the table every night. She made sure the house was clean and presentable. What else was there? What else did she have to do to show him?
Later that day, Teresa walked to the school. The late afternoon air held the chill of an oncoming first snow. Teresa scowled. The only thing she hated worse than the cold was snow. She stood outside the school and waited for Maggie to come out. The girl bounded down the front steps and looked around. When she spotted Teresa, she froze. Her face fell, and she all but dragged herself over to Teresa.
“Hi,” she said in a quiet voice. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Derrick isn’t going to be home until late tonight.” She paused. “Looks like it’s just us girls.” She tried to put excitement in her voice.
Maggie only stared at her.
“Um, what would you like for dinner?”
Maggie cocked her head up at Teresa and narrowed her eyes—as though trying to peer through the effort Teresa was making.
“Pancakes?” Maggie asked in a hopeful question.
Pancakes? Seriously? For dinner?
“I have a nice roast in the fridge,” Teresa said, even though it would take hours to cook. “Or, I can order pizza.”
Maggie perked up. “Pizza? Oh goodie.”
Teresa smiled because it seemed like the right thing to do. “What toppings do you like?”
“Last time Daddy took me I had the red circle things.” She held up her fingers in a circular shape.
Teresa didn’t even know when Daddy had taken Maggie for pizza. He certainly hadn’t invited her along. She swore he didn’t invite her to things on purpose, forcing this distance between her and Maggie. Why was it so easy for him to bond with children?
“Teresa?” Maggie said, her voice small.
“Huh? Oh, pepperoni,” Teresa said. “Please, call me Mommy.”
“Okay,” Maggie said.
Across the street, the door to the Sheriff’s office opened, and a woman Teresa had never seen before stepped out onto the sidewalk. She had an exotic look to her—tan skin, shiny dark hair. The woman shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket.
“Who’s that lady?” Maggie asked. “I need to meet her.” She pulled away, and Teresa tightened her grip on the girl’s hand. But Maggie jerked out of her grasp and took off across the street.
“Maggie!” Teresa called, looking up and down the street for cars. An image of Maggie getting hit flashed in her mind. Derrick would never forgive her. Maggie talked to the woman like they had met before.
“I’m Maggie, by the way.” Her high-pitched voice bounced off the brick wall of the Sheriff’s Department. “I live down the street that way. Do you live here? I’ve never seen you before. I like your coat. I got mine from Daddy when I moved here. I like pink. Do you like pink? What’s your name?”
“Ann Logan,” the woman said. She shook Maggie’s hand. Maggie tugged the woman down into a crouch and whispered something in her ear. Ann got her hand free and backed up a step.
“I’m so sorry,” Teresa said. She took Maggie by the shoulders and pulled her back.
“It’s fine.” Ann rubbed her hands together and shot glances at Maggie. “Ann Logan.” She held out her hand.
“Doctor Teresa Hart.” Teresa gave Ann’s hand a quick squeeze. She crossed her arms and met the woman’s bright blue eyes. “Aren’t you the detective who caught the, what was it, Saliva Slaughterer?”
“Salida Stabber,” Ann said. “That’s me.” She paused. “Hart? Are you Derrick’s wife?”
Teresa narrowed her eyes. How did this woman know her husband?
“Yes,” Teresa said, eying Ann up and down. She stood shorter than Teresa. The jacket hid her body, but her jeans were tight enough to show off shapely hips and thighs.
“So, you caught the killer, you saved the day, but you didn’t really, did you?” Teresa had read the local paper. The town made Ann out to be some kind of hero, but Teresa saw the truth. Ann let her partner and the killer’s last victim die. Heroes didn’t do things like that.
Ann took a step forward. “Excuse me?”
Teresa smiled. “Oh, never mind.” She waved a hand. “Serial killers are not a topic to discuss in front of a six-year-old.”
“I’m seven now.” Maggie grinned at Ann. “Today is my birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” Ann said, though she didn’t smile.
“Why do people want to kill cereals? They’re delicious. Especially Lucky Charms.”
Teresa patted Maggie’s head. “Tell me, Ann, how do you know my husband?”
“Your husband? Oh. Uh . . . we went to school together.” Ann smoothed her fingers over her eyebrow. “I grew up here.”
Teresa heard what Ann didn’t say.
You didn’t grow up here. You don’t belong here. You’re an outsider.
“Well, Detective,” Teresa said. “I need to get this one home and fed. Enjoy your stay.” Teresa took Maggie’s hand and led her down the sidewalk. Maggie stumbled along behind Teresa, looking over her shoulder at Ann.
Another person Maggie liked better.
Chapter 9
Back at the house, Ann burst inside and slammed the door. She leaned against it. Maggie’s breath still tickled her ear.
I’ve been waiting for you.
Ann changed into her cold-weather running clothes and followed the road out of town. She focused on her panting breaths and footfalls to no avail.
Maggie was definitely the girl from the vision. Ann picked up speed. Maggie’s breath in her ear had made the mark on her che
st tingle. She shook her head to rid it of the memory and kicked into a full sprint.
A mile down the road, she passed Harmony Storage. She glanced at the main office. A person inside waved at her. She waved back, then halted. The yellow key tag with Harmony Storage had been sitting on the kitchen counter at her dad’s house when she arrived. She thought it had fallen off the bulletin board, but maybe he left it there on purpose. She sprinted back to the house, gasping for air in the high altitude.
The key with A257 scrawled on the Harmony Storage tag sat right on top in the junk drawer she’d thrown it in.
On the short drive back to the storage place, the memory of the fight she and her father had the morning she’d left for the police academy swirled around in her head. He wanted her to stay in Harmony, follow in his footsteps, become his deputy, and eventually run for sheriff. Ann wanted so much more than that. She’d set her sights higher. They parted angry. She hadn’t seen him since.
Ann pulled into the lot. She drove past the office and up and down the lanes until she found A257 in the back corner.
It was a smaller unit with a regular door instead of the typical, garage-style roll-up. She took a deep breath and stuck the key in the knob. With a little bit of jiggling, she got it unlocked and went inside.
Ann clicked on the light and surveyed the stacks of boxes. Years’ worth of dust covered everything except a trail of footprints leading toward the back. Some kind of work boot, by the pattern of the tread. The tracks couldn’t be more than a month or two old, based on the amount of dust.
She followed them to an unmarked box and flipped open the lid. Mom’s angels, half-wrapped in newspaper, filled the box. She unwrapped a few and considered taking them home. Dad kept them on the mantle Ann’s entire childhood to keep Mom’s presence in the house. She was six when her mom died in a hit-and-run.
The key was a clue. Along with the missing angels. He’d expected her to put the two together. So much for being a great detective.
Ann closed the box and turned it around. Her dad’s tidy but looping handwriting on the backside read, “Tchotchkes.” Ann let out a snort. Her mom called all of her knickknacks by that name. There were a lot of boxes to go through, and Ann had no idea what she was even looking for. Something, anything, to give her an inkling of what happened to him.
After three and a half hours of searching through mostly unlabeled and mildewed boxes—at some point there must have been a leak—she found what she was hoping for in the one directly under the tchotchkes. Another mental smack.
Come on, Detective Logan.
She pulled a leather-bound journal filled with pages of her dad’s handwriting out of the box. The stiff, warped pages crinkled under her fingers. Water damage had smeared or dissolved most of the writing.
The vanishing lines of writing turned to illustrations of what appeared to be reliquaries, but a lot of the words were indiscernible. The last drawing talked about how the necklaces—oh, necklaces, not reliquaries—were used as identifiers among the P-something. She flipped the page. They used ultra-violet lights. Something about how the necklace glowed under UV light. Silvery-blue.
Like my veins.
How could veins be inside a necklace? The necklace looked like it could hold something, and whatever that something was, glowed. She rubbed her arm for a second, thinking hard when it came to her. It wasn’t her veins that glowed. It was what was inside them. It was her blood.
Normal blood appeared dark, almost black, under UV light unless sprayed with a solution like Luminal. So, a P-something’s blood must glow, like hers did. But naturally.
She flipped ahead a few more pages toward the back where the writing became even more illegible. One page had SUMMON THE ANGEL written over and over again. A small key was taped to the opposing page along with a collection of signatures. Ann peeled the tape and put the key in her pocket. Then, she perused the names, but—of the ones she could decipher—she didn’t recognize any of them. With the journal in hand, she left the storage unit, got in her truck, and drove to the little office just inside the gate.
An old man, the one who’d waved at her, glanced up. He had a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Hiya,” he said with a smile. “What can I do you for?”
“I was wondering if you have any kind of record of who comes and goes around here. Or security tapes. Something like that.”
“Oh, dear. Has someone broken into your unit?”
Ann shook her head, then reconsidered. “Kind of. They didn’t steal anything, but they put a box in there. It had to be someone my father knew.”
“Number?” he asked.
“A257.”
“Let me see here.” He opened a filing cabinet and flipped through some folders. “Bram Logan, A257—here we are.” He stood and peered over his glasses. “You don’t look like Bram Logan.” He clicked his tongue and slapped the counter. “You must be Ann! Last time I saw you, you must have been in pigtails. Now you’re catchin’ killers and saving the world.” He grinned. “One town at a time, eh?”
“Yep,” Ann said.
“What did you need? Oh, yes. Some kind of record or security footage.” He shrugged. “We don’t have either.”
She should have known. They didn’t even have a computer. No electronic records of any kind.
“You wouldn’t happen to know when my dad was here last, would you?”
He looked at the upper corner of the room. “I think I remember him driving by a few months ago. Didn’t stop in to say hello like he usually does, I don’t think. Memory’s going, you know. Old age and all.” He laughed like it wasn’t a joke the elderly used all the time. “Coulda been him.”
Though it wouldn’t explain why a box of her mom’s stuff was inside, she asked, “Who had the unit before my dad? Maybe they still have access.”
The old man opened the file and flipped through it.
“Oh... the people who had it before your dad don’t have it anymore because they died.” He shook his head. “Death. And taxes.”
“Do you keep record of maybe other people who have keys?”
He shook his head. “All we keep track of is who’s rentin’ which unit. What they do with their keys is their business.”
Ann’s shoulders slumped. She gave the guy a brief smile. “Well, thank you. He must have stashed it there before he left town last time—or something.”
“You drive safe out there. Looks like we’re finally gettin’ that snow storm the weather lady’s been yappin’ about.”
Ann drove through flurrying snow. Back at the house, she grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped off the cap, and chugged over half of it before coming up for air. She sipped the rest of it while flipping through the journal again but didn’t find anything new. The little key was her only hope, and she had no idea what it opened.
Ann finished off beer number one and grabbed another. She sat on the couch and leaned back. She wanted this to be her safe place. Sure, she came here to investigate her dad, but she also came to get away from her life’s bull shit. Recoup. Recover. Get back in the game. She tried to see herself from the viewpoint of everyone who heard only the media’s version of the story, but all she came up with was that her supposed courage led to a dangerous decision and the loss of two innocent lives.
An inventory of events from the night followed. The knife, the blood, the gunshots. How her legs shook so hard from the surge of adrenaline she could hardly stand.
Condition black—not able to do anything about the Salida Stabber’s knife sticking out of the victim’s chest. It pulsed as the girl’s heart beat its dying rhythm. The life leaving her eyes.
The victim’s eyes were brown with flecks of gold, fringed with thick black lashes. They locked Ann in their fear-filled gaze while the seven-year-old gasped for air that wouldn’t fill her punctured lung. Ann would never forget those eyes.
She would never forget the way the blood spread across Bruce’s white shirt or the way he looked at her with a combina
tion of surprise and sadness.
Or was it regret?
The hot, prickly sensation in her eyes should have meant tears, but no tears came. Fine with her. Tears meant feeling. She took a long pull off her beer and let the numbness coat her emotions. But the sensation wouldn’t subside.
The phone rang, and her beer bottle slipped from her hand. It hit the coffee table and toppled to the floor. A puddle of amber liquid foamed across the hardwood.
“Shit.” Ann dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a towel and the cordless phone. “Hello?” She knelt to wipe up the mess.
Static and emptiness on the other end. A heavy breath. She sat back on her heels.
“Real funny, perv.”
“Hello?” a man’s voice came through the static.
“Dad?” She dropped the towel and gripped the phone with both hands.
“It’s Asim Raghib.” The voice was slightly accented. Ann slouched. She didn’t know any Asim Raghib.
“What can I do for you?” Ann continued wiping up the mess. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.”
“I knew your father,” the man said. Ann froze. Knew your father. “It is a danger for me to call you. I have information for you.” He paused. “Ann Logan.”
He knew her name. He knew to call her at her dad’s house. Just like the Stabber knew to call her at home that night to taunt her. Ann hung up the phone and tossed the cordless handset onto the couch. She wiped her hands on her pants.
For all she knew this was the guy who cut off her dad’s finger. Or—because of his use of the past tense—much worse.
Chapter 10
Teresa served pizza onto Maggie’s plate, and, like a barbarian, the girl picked up the greasy slice and shoved the end into her mouth. Teresa sat down at the opposite end of the table with knife and fork.
“I think we should invite that lady for dinner sometime,” Maggie said with her mouth full. She took another bite before swallowing the previous one. “She’s nice.”
The Blood of Seven Page 4
