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Salt Lake Valley, Utah
Now
My fingerprint was a ninety-eight percent match.
When we got the news, Domanska’s office turned into a hive of activity.
The warrant for his arrest by the state of Utah was secured in less than two hours. Domanska’s assistant arranged for an agency assist from Officer Kittleson in Idaho to make the arrest.
Early the next morning, I was riding shotgun on the way to Idaho to find him—which wasn’t going to be as easy as it should have been, since the car had already been released out of impound.
Detective Kittleson insisted they’d let him walk out of the impound lot because they had nothing concrete to hold him in Idaho. No evidence to connect him to the murder that had prompted Ken to call in after seeing that KTVD article.
Not yet.
But now that we had physical evidence that I’d been in his car, we could get a warrant to search his house. His computer. His online activities.
Which meant they were finally going to find not just James Carson but Jimmy Carlson—and whoever else he had been over the years.
34. SKYE
Kuna, Idaho
Now
He tailgated his own wife and kids all the way home, cursing under his breath about how stupid April was. How this was her fault.
I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how I’d ever gotten into the car with him all those months ago. How I’d ever thought he was handsome, or worth two seconds of my thoughts. He darted his eyes back and forth from the tail lights of the minivan to the rearview mirror, and I wondered if he was waiting for the police to suddenly show up behind him with flashing lights.
I hoped they would. But I wasn’t holding my breath—so to speak—anymore.
The clock in the car showed that it was almost 10:00 a.m. I wasn’t sure how old his girls were, but it seemed like they should be in school.
Suddenly, he grabbed a cell phone that had been lying next to me in the passenger seat. I flinched as his hand fumbled around on the seat. The car radio made a little blip, and I wondered if I’d done it.
He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket then dialed the phone number, slamming on the brakes to keep from plowing into the back of his own minivan. I watched April’s wide eyes flick to the rearview mirror. I could only imagine what she was thinking right now. Part of me sympathized with her. She was married to a murderer. And she had no idea.
Another part of me was angry with her. And still another part hated her. Because how could she not know? From what Brecia had told me, she’d looked up the article that had run in Utah about the murder he’d committed there.
I thought back to the months before my parents’ divorce. The screaming. The crying. The bad vibes. The pre-emptive, “You know that when Daddy and I fight, it’s not your fault, right, Skyebird?” heart-to-hearts. But even after all that, when they finally sat my third-grade self down at the table and told me my dad was moving away, I refused to believe it was real. I didn’t want it to happen. So it wasn’t happening.
Still, I’d been in third grade.
I leaned closer as the call picked up and a woman answered the phone. “This is Marjorie.”
Her voice sounded old—and suspicious.
“It’s James,” he said flatly.
Her suspicion melted into surprise. “James? My goodness, I didn’t recognize your number. It’s wonderful to hear from you. It’s been such a long time. I didn’t think I’d hear—”
He didn’t match her tone when he cut her off. “We need to come stay at the cabin.”
The radio blipped again as what he had said hit me. I missed Marjorie’s response as I frantically looked back at the city behind us, where the police station—and Brecia—had long since disappeared from view.
He was going to run.
I couldn’t panic. I had to focus. I had to listen. Marjorie sounded slightly confused but mostly pleased when she responded. “The cabin? Oh yes. Yes, wonderful memories there. It’s been so long. When do you want to visit? I’ll check my calendar.”
