“But I am telling you the truth.” Stella pulled her phone from her pocket and held a finger over the home button, then tapped the screen before she handed it over. “Look for yourself. I have nothing to hide.”
I took the phone, my forehead scrunching as I scrolled through Stella’s inbox. Generally, people who say they have nothing to hide are liars. Most everyone has something to hide, when you get right down to it. But if Stella Connolly was lying about this, it wouldn’t be smart to hand over her phone.
I made it through a week’s worth of ads, notices from parents, and other miscellany before I handed the phone back. “I appreciate that, ma’am, but how do I know you didn’t just delete them?”
“You want to look in my computer, too?” Stella asked.
I stayed quiet, watching her. Breathing even, eyes staring straight on. No fidgeting. If she was lying, she was damned good at it.
“Why would the kids have both said . . .” I stopped.
Hang on. What exactly did Lena say?
“Tenley just kept shaking her head . . . ,” I murmured. I stuck my hand out. “Can I see that again for a moment, please?”
Stella obliged, and I clicked into her Mail app and scrolled down to look at the accounts.
Yahoo.
“Is this the only email account you have, ma’am?” I asked, the letters on the screen blurring in front of my eyes as my brain waded through the muck around this case.
“That thing bings so many times a day I can’t keep up with it as it is,” Stella said. “Why would I need another?”
I nodded slowly, my fingers tapping the edges of the phone. I opened the browser. Navigated to Gmail.
Create an account flashed on the screen.
But the return address in Erica’s phone was [email protected].
I handed the phone back. “She didn’t ask you for money.”
Stella shook her head. “Her folks spoiled her rotten. Have you seen her car? Why would she have to ask anyone for anything?”
I bit my lip. It was a damned good question. More to the point, my gut said Lena and Zayne assumed when they saw Stella’s name on the screen that Tenley was talking to Stella. But what if she was talking as Stella?
“Are you okay, Officer?” Stella peered up at me. “What in the world was going on with that girl?”
“Something she was good at hiding, it seems.” I backed down the ramp. “Thanks for your time. Please call me if you remember anything else.”
Back in my truck, I made it almost to the corner before my phone rang. Archie.
“Tell me you got something on your case we can call an answer. Every time I think I’ve found one on Tenley, it brings two more questions to the party,” I said by way of hello.
“I’ve got a high school track coach in my interrogation room I thought you might like to have a go at.” The smile on his face practically leapt from the receiver.
My everything went slack, my fingers slipping right off the wheel as I rounded the corner off of Stella’s street.
23
He missed.
Plunging the blade toward his thigh, he flinched when it went through his jeans and sank into the leather upholstery.
Dammit. There was something . . . something he needed to know. It danced around the corners of his brain, moving away every time he got close, drowned out by the monster when he tried to focus.
So he kept watching her.
She was luscious.
Tempting.
Everything he’d worked for. Bled for. Ever wanted.
But he couldn’t let the monster win. Wouldn’t give in.
Not until he could be sure.
God, the pressure. It built in huge waves until he couldn’t even blink.
He fumbled with his zipper, desperate to relieve it, a soothing voice drifting through his head.
You believe God has a plan for you, don’t you? You believe He and He alone can bestow blessings. Favor.
Of course.
You are special. God himself has seen fit to elevate you above lesser mortals. You believe that? You are better. Stronger. Faster. You can take what you want. Be what you want.
It made such perfect sense. Erased the fear.
Go ahead then. Take her.
The voice faded when the angel moved.
She stood and turned to the side, his divine reward for so much hard work. Linking her hands behind her back and rolling her shoulders heavenward, she pulled in a long, slow breath, her perfect tits straining against the thin fabric of her top.
His angel was cold, it seemed.
His universe narrowed to two pebbles under fluttering linen.
Get up, the monster howled.
His left hand clamped down on the door handle, his right finding his fevered skin.
She bent one knee, catching her foot behind her and leaning forward, her balance so immaculate she had to be floating. Reaching her free hand toward the horizon, she stretched her long leg until her shoe nearly brushed the crown of her head.
His grip tightened, his breath shallow, every nerve ending alive with the possibility of her.
She pivoted toward him as she let go, gently rocking her hips side to side before she arched back to grab the other ankle.
The monster clawed for control.
He was lost.
24
“Which judge are you blackmailing?” I was only half kidding as I tugged the steering wheel and swerved back onto the road, missing a tree by inches.
“No judge necessary. Thought about what we found last night. Decided to go by and see if he’d talk. He agreed to come with me.”
“I’d wager you didn’t make it sound like he had much of a choice.”
“Is it my fault people don’t read enough to know their rights?”
I rolled my eyes. “Seems like we’ve had this discussion before.”
“And I imagine we’ll continue to have it periodically until you decide I’m right.”
I made a U-turn at the next light. “Today, I’m grateful for your stubborn streak. I’d like to see what else he doesn’t know he’s supposed to keep to himself.”
“So far, I think you might like where our little chat is going. Room C.”
I laid on the gas. If we could tie the coach to either of the girls, we’d have enough for a search warrant.
I grabbed the phone at the next light and texted Graham. Something came up, call you when I’m done.
A block later it buzzed a reply: Waiting on warrant. Plenty here to keep me busy.
I shot a thumbs-up emoji back before I moved into the right lane to park. I pulled into the first space I saw, then jogged up the sidewalk and steps, pausing with my hand on the door.
Look like you belong.
Because you do.
Repeating the mantra in my head, I swung the door back and turned toward the interrogation rooms off the back hall. I made it three steps before I walked smack into Lieutenant Boone.
Papers flew, coffee splashed. I yelped when it soaked through my jeans, scalding my thigh. What the hell was with the spilled coffee today?
Tears bit at the backs of my eyes and I fluttered my lids. Not like I could wriggle out of the jeans in the middle of the office.
“New Girl? I thought you were on vacation,” Boone said, bending to reach for the folder he’d dropped.
“I was. I am.” The pain radiating from my leg made me sniffle. “Just meeting a friend. For coffee.”
He stood up straight, his irises rolling in to look down his nose from under fleshy hoods. “You have friends here?”
I flashed a smile so fake it would’ve made my father proud. “I do spend an awful lot of time running down here to drop off files.” The words could’ve cut glass, and Boone raised a brow and backed up a step.
“I suppose you have, at that.” He nodded. “Well. I have a meeting to get to. You enjoy your time off. Nice day to be outside.”
I didn’t even bother to nod, stepping around him and ba
rreling for the interrogation rooms. Found C.
Breathe. Calm. Collected. Couldn’t have the coach mistaking my annoyance with Boone for suspicion about him—it’d shut him right up, and Archie would never let me help with anything again.
Pushing the door open, I slipped inside.
The room was smaller than my childhood closet, with a flat steel table and three metal chairs in the middle of the floor. Simpson was in the one facing the mirror on the opposite wall, but he didn’t see me step into the room because his eyes were fixed on the table. I raised a brow at Archie, who had the chair opposite, and he gestured for me to sit next to him.
“I believe you met Coach Simpson yesterday, didn’t you?” Archie’s booming voice was pleasant, so I followed his lead.
“I did. I’m sorry again about the circumstances of that.”
Simpson nodded without raising his head. “Tenley was a special girl. I still can’t believe she’s gone.” The words dropped to the table devoid of emotion, and Archie cleared his throat, leaning forward.
“Can you describe your relationship with Tenley Andre for us, Mr. Simpson? Were you close?”
Simpson raised his head just far enough to roll his eyes up and see us. “I wasn’t fucking her, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“I don’t think anyone mentioned that,” Archie said in the same easy tone. “But thank you for clearing it up.”
I knew Archie didn’t believe the guy, because I didn’t, either. Why would that be the first thing out of his mouth? Because he was guilty of it. Nine and a half out of ten times, anyway.
“I saw her every day for the last four years. She was an incredible athlete. So yeah, I guess I was as close to her as anyone.”
His voice caught for the first time since I’d walked into the room, and I laid my hands on the table. “Tenley was beautiful and accomplished,” I said. “So she had a lot of friends, I imagine. Girls like her can inspire jealousy in some. Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”
Simpson’s head shook slowly. “Tenley was beautiful. She was smart. But she was . . . different. People flocked to her, but she kept most of them at a distance.”
“Different how?” Archie asked.
“Quiet. Really hard on herself.” Simpson shifted in the chair, sitting up but not looking at us, his eyes on his reflection behind them. “The, like, three times she didn’t finish first in a race—once because she was coming back from a broken ankle—she didn’t get over it for weeks. She lived on the track. Training harder, talking to herself.”
Archie scribbled on the yellow legal pad in front of him and pushed it toward me.
Anxiety?
I tapped a finger on the paper and nodded. It fit everything I’d seen. High-functioning anxiety disorder is common in gifted teenaged girls. Charity had struggled with it for years, so I knew how debilitating it could be. Our parents used to whisper fears that it would cost my sister her shot at a political career. What they didn’t know was that Charity’s stubborn streak was the biggest obstacle to that: she knew politics inside out, and loathed every twisted principle and half truth required for success at it.
“Did Tenley seem upset about anything lately?” I asked.
Simpson shook his head again. “Quite the opposite, really. She was so excited about college, she had called and asked for a meeting with the coaches from Stanford. That’s what they wanted yesterday. I was glad to see her back up there. She got really down at the end of cross-country season last fall. Really down. Worried me. I even tried to tell her mother something wasn’t right.”
He wasn’t alone there—the text from Nicky that Erica didn’t answer. He’d tried, too.
“She didn’t believe you?” Archie asked.
“I’m not sure she didn’t believe me. She just seemed like she was . . .” He threw his hands up. “Not all there? Like she couldn’t handle the idea.”
Archie made another note. He didn’t slide this one over.
Didn’t have to. I remembered that all too well.
“How well do you know Mrs. Andre, Coach?” I asked.
“She’s my star runner’s mom.” He spoke to the table.
That wasn’t a real answer.
I started to open my mouth again, but Archie held up his phone and pushed his chair back before I got a word out.
“If you’ll excuse us for just a moment, I have a phone call holding that I have to take,” he said, tugging lightly at my sleeve as he stood.
“And I have another matter that needs a bit of my attention.” I stumbled over the lie like I always did, swallowing hard when my starched jeans slid over my burned thigh as I rose.
“When can I go home?” Simpson asked.
Whenever he wanted. But I knew Archie didn’t want him to know that, so I smiled and waited for Arch to answer.
“Just a few more questions?” Archie added the inflection at the end so slightly I almost didn’t hear it, but I knew if anyone reviewed the recording they’d be able to argue it was a request and not an order. I hated semantics, but too often they made the difference between catching the bad guy and missing him by a breath.
Simpson nodded, dropping his forehead to his folded arms. I paused in the doorway and stared. He wasn’t that upset over Tenley unless he was lying about sleeping with her. He was young and fit. Why was he so exhausted?
I followed Archie into the middle room, a half-closet-sized space where the two-way glass let Archie and I watch Simpson without him watching us. Along the other wall, the window looked into room D.
I shut the door and leaned on the table next to the digital recorder that pulled audio from the interrogation rooms. “Did you get anything out of him about Jessa?”
Archie shook his head. “He claims he’s only been to that bar once, and says he doesn’t remember seeing her. I’m going to pull more video and see if he’s lying about the place. But you were right. I don’t like him, either.”
“Excellent. But agreement on his shitty personality doesn’t get us a warrant.”
Archie turned to the glass. “He seems awfully beat for not even noon yet, doesn’t he? I wonder what could be keeping him from sleeping?”
“I had the same thought, but being tired isn’t a crime.” I fell quiet. Archie and I were world-champion people-readers, and both of us getting a lousy vibe from Simpson meant something was off. But we needed every duck from here to San Antonio in lockstep—if we rushed and let him walk and another young woman ended up dead, neither of us would ever get over it.
“Can we tail him?” I pushed off the table and paced the tiny room. “If we try to hold him, he’s going to ask for a lawyer. And so far every shred of anything we have on him is circumstantial. A lawyer will have him out in an hour, and if he’s our guy, he’ll be looking to show us who’s smarter.”
Archie nodded. “I like it. I’ll grab a patrol car from APD and set them on it. How about you?”
“I need to go catch up with Graham. Still trying to unravel this web. For somebody with a life that looked so perfect, this girl’s whole existence was pretty damned sad. New this morning, it seems she might’ve been posing online as a woman she paralyzed in an accident, demanding money from her own parents. Who are a dozen kinds of hot mess behind their Crest-commercial smiles.”
Archie’s brows floated up. “Blackmail? Did she get anything?”
“I couldn’t think of a way to ask her folks without upsetting them, and I’d like to know I’m right before I tread there.”
“Bank records?”
“Graham is working on the warrant.” I threw up my hands. “I just—the dad got her a Porsche for Christmas. The mom designed her a bedchamber fit for blue blood. Why would she bother with the lies? Why not just ask them? Or just buy whatever she wanted—she has a card on dad’s AmEx account, too.”
“Drugs?”
“Ordinarily, I’d already be there, but the best friend says no way, and her race times have been stellar. I don’t see how she could be us
ing.”
Archie touched his chin, turning back to Simpson, who still had his head down on the other side of the glass. “Was she pregnant? Maybe wanting an abortion?”
“Or maybe had one?” I bit my lip, nodding. That fit. She’d written about the other girl on her track team being pregnant. Maybe she knew because she was, too. Secret relationship, family’s social status, Tenley’s obsession with being the best . . . A pregnancy would bring it all crashing down. “Shit. I should’ve gotten there sooner. Thanks, Arch—I’ll text Jim.”
I gestured to the still form on the other side of the glass. “The thing he said about her behavior was . . .” I swallowed hard. “Enlightening. Could help us. It’s good you got him to come in.”
Archie’s lips turned up in a sad half smile. “I know you miss your sister. I also know it seems like every day with the Andre girl, there’s something that reminds you of Charity. But promise me you’ll watch yourself. Emotions are no good to you in this job, kiddo. They’ll screw you every time.”
I nodded, my eyes still on Jake Simpson. How could anyone be responsible for the death of either of these young women—let alone both of them—and still sit in that room, breathing so slowly and evenly?
Maybe he didn’t do it.
Or maybe he thought he was getting away with it.
Not on my watch, asshole.
25
Lieutenant Boone stood just inside the door, pushing away from the wall when he saw me coming.
What now? I didn’t see him that much in a normal day at my own office.
I tried to smile. “Hello again, sir.”
“Coffee okay?” He kept his face carefully neutral, but something in his tone told me being crafty with my answer was the only way to avoid a beeline for deep shit.
“Not sure any cop is qualified to judge coffee,” I said, putting a hand out to open the door.
“Where’re you off to now?” He stepped in front of the door, and I withdrew my hand.
“Lunch with an old friend,” I said. Every word true.
Fear No Truth Page 16
