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“It does. There is some blood that belongs to Skylar, but most of it was Hadley Foster’s.”
“Where did you find Skylar’s blood?” Vaughan asked.
“In the front seat, on the steering wheel,” Bud said.
“Fitting Foster’s first narrative that the girl drove her mother and the assailant away from the house,” Vaughan said.
“It could be interpreted that way,” Bud said.
“Did you get a chance to pull Jason’s DNA from his prison records and compare it to Skylar’s?” Spencer asked.
“It’s a match,” Bud said. “He’s her biological father.”
“The blue eyes and high cheekbones they share are not a fluke,” Spencer said.
“Appears so,” Bud said.
“Is there any of Mark Foster’s blood on Skylar’s or Hadley’s clothes?” Vaughan asked.
“No,” Bud said. “So far, his blood seems to be contained to his clothes, by the garage, and on the floor by the front entryway.”
“What about Skylar’s clothes?” Vaughan asked.
“She’s soaked in her mother’s blood,” Bud said. “And there are also traces of her own blood on her clothes.”
“All could fit the narrative of a masked intruder who forced the girl to leave with her mother,” Spencer said.
“Which leads me back to Mark Foster’s story,” Bud said, pointing to stains on Hadley’s outfit. “Hadley’s clothes were doused in her own sweat. These were the clothes she wore while she was running. She did not shower and change as her husband said.”
“She was killed shortly after her run,” Spencer said, more to herself.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that Foster lied?” Vaughan asked.
“Foster’s clothes were also stained with sweat,” Bud said.
“That could have been the result of chasing after his family’s attacker or the trauma of a stabbing,” Vaughan said.
“Very true,” Bud said. “But there was a significant amount of perspiration, which is what caught my attention. Makes me think he did a good bit of running himself. Also, his shoes are badly scuffed on the bottoms.”
“They could be an old pair,” Vaughan challenged. Smoking guns rarely arrived fully formed but slowly in a collection of small facts that paired together to create a mosaic that told a narrative.
“The scuffs are well defined,” Bud said.
“There’s no record of him getting a ride from the car’s location to his home,” Vaughan said. “It’s a solid four miles between the car’s location and their house. He’d have to be one hell of a runner to get back home, especially in the summer heat and humidity.”
“He’s fit,” Spencer countered. “Plus, his body would have been surging with adrenaline. Maybe he could have covered that ground in a little over a half hour. It would explain the sweat and the scuffs.”
“He panics, puts both in the car,” Vaughan said. “Maybe he did want to save Hadley, but she bleeds out. Now he has to protect his daughter and save himself. Stashes the kid, dumps the body, and runs home.”
“But there are no traces of his wife’s blood on his suit clothes,” Bud said.
“He was sleeping on the couch,” Spencer said. “Guessing he was wearing a T-shirt and shorts in case his daughter happened in on him in the middle of the night. He was dressed in those clothes when Hadley was stabbed.”
“Where are the clothes soaked in his wife’s blood?” Vaughan asked. “And where did he clean up?”
Bud grinned. “I might be able to help with that one. We found traces of Hadley’s blood in Skylar’s motel room shower. We attributed that to Skylar’s shower, but her father could have cleaned up there as well.”
“Foster had a suitcase full of clothes in the trunk of the Lexus,” Spencer said.
“He dumps Hadley’s body and then takes Skylar to a motel. He dopes her up, showers, changes, ditches the bloody clothes, and runs home. He has time to stab himself and call 911 by 7:00 a.m.”
“Where’s the knife he stabbed himself with?” Spencer asked.
“It has to be in the house close to where he was found,” Vaughan said.
“Are Veronica Manchester’s or Galina Grant’s knife wounds similar to Foster’s?” Vaughan asked.
“I can’t rule that out definitely,” Bud said. “I studied pictures of the wound patterns on both women. The knife used to kill them had a shorter and wider blade.”
“Any DNA pulled from Veronica Manchester’s or Galina Grant’s bodies?” Vaughan asked.
“Hair fibers. Semen samples. All of it’s been sent off for testing, but that could take weeks. Do you still think the two cases are linked to Hadley Foster’s murder?”
“All the women had a very similar look, lived within twenty miles of each other, and two of the three knew Mark Foster,” Vaughan said.
“It could be a coincidence,” Bud offered.
Vaughan raised a brow. “How often do those really happen?”
“Almost never.”
Nikki parked in front of the nondescript trilevel home on the tree-lined Alexandria street. A FOR RENT sign was in the front yard, left worn and brittle by the August heat. As the AC blew against her skin, she felt oddly flushed as she stared at the house where the Princes had lived seventeen years ago.
She grabbed her bag and got out of the car, wondering where the years had gone. She simply had not noticed the time zooming past until she had seen herself on tape and now. Shit. She felt old.
Within seconds, the day’s heat made her perspire as she walked past the sign and up the brick sidewalk covered with weeds growing up through the cracks in the mortar. Her hand slid along the wrought iron railing as she climbed the stairs. Memories flashed as the day’s heat seemed to close in on her. There had been a tremendous amount of chaos and confusion when Marsha Prince had first gone missing. The area had been swarming with cops, and many of the neighbors had been terrified that their own children might be at risk. Many had not wanted to talk to her for fear their children would be targeted by the unseen assailant.
A car door closed behind her, bringing her back to the present. She turned to see a trim young woman dressed in a bright-red dress and sensible heels with a flash of gold at her wrists and ears. The woman’s hair was swept into a practical ponytail.
Nikki found a smile as she pulled back her shoulders. “Ms. Westwood?”
Sure, quick heeled steps clicked over the cracked sidewalk. “Yes. Romi Westwood. I’m with the property-management company, and this house is one of my listings.” Green eyes narrowed. “You’re the reporter.”
“I am.”
“Weren’t you put on leave or something?”
“I was.” She sidestepped any explanations or apologies. “I would like to see the house. Is that possible?”
A frustrated sigh shuddered over her lips. “You aren’t interested in renting it, are you?”
“I should have been more forthcoming on the phone, but no, I’m not interested in renting. I’m working a story about the Prince sisters.”
