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“You were sleeping with both sisters,” Zoe said.
“Why not?” Jason said. “We were young and having fun. I gave as good as I got.”
“Which sister did you sleep with first?” Zoe asked.
“Does it matter?” Jason asked.
“I think it does,” Zoe said. “I think you slept with Hadley, and she saw something in you that spooked her. She keeps it secret because she didn’t want to lose Mark. She gets wind that Marsha is falling for your charms, and Hadley, knowing what’s in store for Marsha, puts in a good word for you. Maybe she just wanted to rattle her sister. I don’t think she planned on her sister dying.”
“You keep forgetting that I was gone by the time Marsha went missing,” Jason said.
“You had quit your job at Prince Paving,” she said. “But there’s no proof you weren’t in Northern Virginia.”
“I was in Florida,” he said, his grin widening.
“Did you know Hadley was pregnant with your child when she married Mark?” she asked.
His grin faltered. “Look, young love ain’t the kind of love that really stands the test of time,” Jason said. “I moved on. And she sure did.”
“With your kid,” Zoe pressed. “That must have really stung when you realized she’d taken your kid. I bet when you realized you’d been cheated out of your kid’s life, you were pissed.”
He dropped his gaze to his calloused palm. “Sure, I was mad. But remember, I was here at the shop under a 2000 Ford pickup truck when she was murdered. You must have looked at the footage; otherwise, I’d be wearing cuffs by now.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded them. “I see what’s going on now. You can’t pin Hadley’s murder on me, so you’re going to blame me for Marsha’s death.”
“Did you kill her?”
His gaze locked on hers, and his body stilled as if he was struggling for control. “Doesn’t matter what I say. You’re going to manufacture evidence and pin it on me.”
Sometimes people communicated more without even realizing it. And Jason had done just that.
Nikki was sitting on the floor of her living room, staring at the images she had made of Marsha Prince’s diary. It had been one thing to see images of the girl and another to hear what others said. But to read her own words brought the girl to life. It stirred a sadness in Nikki she had not expected.
Her phone dinged with a text. She glanced toward it, and when she saw Mark Foster’s name, she sat taller, imagining herself at her desk.
If you want the real story, meet me at my house.
As her mind spun with possible scenarios, she typed quickly. The real story?
About Marsha. Hadley. All of it.
She unfolded her legs, her knees groaning slightly as she straightened. When?
Now. I won’t be here much longer.
Give me fifteen minutes.
She dashed toward her front door, sliding her feet into sandals and shoving her cameras and keys into her purse. Her apartment front door slammed behind her, and she rushed to the elevator, hitting the down button a half dozen times. The elevator car creaked up the shaft and finally arrived. With the door open, she dashed inside and pounded the first floor button while the doors slowly closed.
The next few minutes were a race to her car and out of the lot. When she pulled up in front of the Fosters’ house, her heart was pounding. It had taken her twenty minutes to get there.
“Shit.” She hurried up the front walk and stopped at the yellow tape blocking the entrance. She knocked several times and rang the bell. When she heard no sounds of life inside, she had the vague notion that she had been played.
She then moved around the side of the house, through the privacy fence gate, and up the back stairs to the door. She twisted the handle, and it turned.
Getting caught at an active murder scene would not get her any favors, but given that she had very little to lose right now, she stepped into the kitchen. The large room had been designed to be airy and bright, but the air-conditioning had been turned off, creating a stuffy heat that made the large room feel oppressive. Anything that could have fingerprints was covered with the graphite dust used by the crime scene technicians. The coffeepot was still half-full. Yellow tents marked the trail of blood through the kitchen and toward the garage.
“Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster? It’s Nikki McDonald.”
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Careful to step over the trail of blood, she moved through the downstairs, looking in each room. Outside, she heard a dog bark and a car door slam.
“Mr. Foster?”
She climbed the stairs and stopped at the first door, which was slightly ajar. She pressed her knuckles gently to the door, not wanting to leave her fingerprints. The hinges squeaked open. The skin on the back of her neck tingled. Six months ago, she would not have taken this kind of risk. She would have been behind her anchor desk, reading the news. But six months ago, she’d been collecting a fat paycheck and was not desperate to get back in the game. Instinct shouted at her to run. Desperation told it to shut the hell up.
She moved down the hallway to the bedroom and paused as she stared at the large stain of darkened, dried blood. “Mr. Foster.”
No one responded, but she noticed the light in the bathroom was on. She edged toward the door. And then she smelled it. It was blood. Fresh blood. She pressed open the door with her knuckle, and her gaze went immediately to the bathroom. Mark Foster lay in the dry tub. His wrists had been cut, and he appeared dead.
Her nerves crumbling and her stomach tumbling, she backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, and called the cops.
As Vaughan was driving back to the station, his phone display lit up with Nikki McDonald’s number. Vaughan was tempted to ignore it. The woman had inserted herself into the Marsha Prince investigation, and though the diary appeared genuine, he knew if the case went to court, there could be claims that the reporter had manufactured or tampered with the entries. He did not believe she had, but by her not calling him first, she’d opened them both up to scrutiny.
“Ms. McDonald?” he said.
Spencer lifted her gaze from her phone and looked at him, her head tilted slightly.
“Detective Vaughan, I’m at the Foster home.” She sounded breathless, agitated.
“What are you doing there?” he demanded. “It’s an active crime scene.”
“Foster contacted me. I came here to see him.”
“He shouldn’t be there either.” As he reached the next red light, he did a U-turn and headed back in the direction of the Fosters’ home.
“Look, I’m not calling to debate the finer points of crime scene protection,” she said. “You need to get here quickly. Mark Foster is dead.”
“Dead?”
“I called 911, and the uniforms are here,” she said. “I’m on the front porch.”
“We’re on our way.”
“Foster is dead,” Spencer said, more to herself. “How?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Vaughan pressed the accelerator, flipped on his grille lights, and covered the six miles in minutes. He pulled up in front of the house behind three marked cars, lights flashing. He and Spencer got out and quickly approached a uniformed officer.
