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“You back on the job at the news station? For what it’s worth, the gal who took your place looks like she’s still in high school.”
She pictured the brunette with the smooth olive skin. “Kelsey Jennings was in high school five years ago.”
“Shit.”
“I might have a shot at returning if you help me with this.”
A sigh shuddered over the line. “What do you need?”
“Marsha Prince.”
The beat of silence went from weary to charged, like she had struck a nerve, and it was sending shocks through his body. “What about her?”
This time her grin was real. “Vaughan came to see me today. He told me the skull I found shoved in the gray trunk was Marsha Prince. How did she die?”
He blew out a breath. “If the detectives know, they aren’t telling.”
“How long has she been dead?” When he hesitated, she added, “Do a down-and-out gal a solid, Manny.”
He chuckled. “No one is sure. Now that they know who she is, they’ll run more tests.”
She paced the carpeted floor, glancing in the mirror as she passed. She sucked in her stomach. “What’s the FBI’s involvement?”
“Strictly support at this point. They did the bust and made the identification. Now, Ms. Prince is Alexandria PD Homicide’s case.”
“Thanks, Manny. I owe you a round.”
“Make it two.” In the background, a phone began to ring. “Got to go.”
“Thanks, baby.”
When the phone went dead, she pressed it to her chest and paced around the room. She owed Vaughan a phone call on this mysterious text, and she would tell him about it. Soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday, August 13, 5:30 a.m.
Northern Virginia
The Day Of
The instant Vaughan woke, he knew she was gone. He should not have been surprised. She never stayed long, but he’d thought last night would be different.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and instantly spotted the note on the mirror. It was written on the back of the fast-food receipt in fluid and graceful handwriting.
Called a car. Didn’t want to wake you.
Spencer. He knew how to make that woman’s body tighten with desire and how to make her moan in a way that told him she was fully attuned to his body. But beyond that, she was still a complete stranger.
He flicked the edge of the note, surprised he had not awoken. Since he had become a cop and father, he had turned into a light sleeper. Both incarnations, like a doctor on call, were summoned at all times of the day and night. His ability to shake off sleep in seconds and then think clearly was well honed. But yesterday had been long, even for him.
He laid the note on his dresser as he glanced at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. It was not like him to be sentimental, but he was sorry he likely would not see her for a while.
He showered, and fifteen minutes later he was dressed, his badge and sidearm on his belt. As the coffee brewed, he scrambled five eggs before he realized Nate was gone. He toasted a bagel and ate alone at the kitchen table.
He filled a travel mug with more coffee and was on the road by six o’clock. Moonlight mingled with the lights looming over I-395 as he looped around the beltway and headed north toward his exit. The traffic was already building, and soon it would slow to a snail’s pace.
With luck, the first wave of files from the Prince case would be in his office. He had been warned that there were a dozen file boxes, but he did not care. He also had the autopsy of the Jane Doe stabbed to death in the motel room to attend. It was going to be another long day.
Fifteen minutes later, he had parked and was in the break room, refilling his coffee. When he flipped on the lights of his office, there were six file boxes stacked in front of his desk. A green sticky note read More to come.
It was too early to call the medical examiner about his Jane Doe from the motel room, so he set his cup down and flipped through the first set of files.
He spent the next hour and a half reading through the detectives’ notes. At the time of Marsha’s disappearance, the detectives had exhausted every lead and tip that had come into the station, but in the end came up with nothing.
Vaughan juxtaposed the image of the blackened skull in the trunk and the smiling face of Marsha Prince. Only a monster would do this to a young, vibrant girl who had been Vaughan’s son’s age when she’d died.
When Nate had been a little boy, he had wanted assurance that monsters were not real. Before Vaughan could confirm they were, his ex-wife had been quick to tell the boy that they were only in storybooks. But Nate had been savvy enough to know even then that she had lied. When Vaughan had been tucking Nate into bed that night, the boy had asked his father about the monsters.
Vaughan could not lie and had simply said, “I got your six, pal.”
“I got yours, too, Dad.”
A knock on Vaughan’s door brought his attention to the present. Detective Cassidy Hughes stood in the doorway. He had worked with Hughes for a year now, and the two got on well. Short with a sinewy frame, Hughes had curly hair and always dressed in well-fitting clothes. Today it was snug jeans, a silk blouse, and heeled boots.
“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she said.
He cleared his throat and shut the dead girl’s file. “What’s up?”
“A real shit storm of biblical proportion.”
Zoe stood in her kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the still-packed boxes she had moved to her townhome six weeks ago.
Technically, she had the day off. Ramsey had told her to kick back for a few days after what had been an endless stream of weeks filled with different cities, police departments, and killers.
Try as she might, she had not been able to sleep more than a couple of hours, so she had risen and made coffee. As she sipped, she cared less about the flavor and more about the punch of caffeine to chase away the fatigue. She really did not want to unpack boxes today any more than she had during the other countless opportunities. Even an armchair psychologist would call this procrastination classic avoidance. She had legally claimed the property and sold a perfectly good condo, but for some reason she could not settle into living here.
She crossed the stone floor to the table nestled in the nook of a bay window and thumbed through the stack of mail. A glance out the wavy glass windowpanes, original to the 1801 house, showed a vivid blue sky. Bright sunshine shone down on Prince Street’s cobblestone road sloping toward the Potomac River less than a block away. She climbed the narrow staircase to her room, thinking she would slide back into bed and catch up on reading.
The stairs creaked and the banister wobbled a little as she climbed the stairs past the dozens of black-and-white photos featuring Uncle Jimmy in all the incarnations he had enjoyed during his eighty-two years.
Vaughan had hit the nail on the head when he had questioned why she was keeping this place. As tempting as it had been to sell, as it was worth millions even in its dilapidated state, giving it up felt disloyal to Uncle Jimmy and Jeff. Uncle Jimmy, who had raised Jeff, was her last tangible connection to him. However, the true cost of repairing and maintaining this home was beyond her means. So here she was, able neither to sell nor to keep. She was caught in no-man’s-land.
The digital clock on the antique nightstand and her phone charger looked out of place next to the four-poster Queen Anne bed that dominated what had been a guest room.
