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“Can you at least raise my head?” Zoe asked. “I’d like to sit up a little more.”
Vaughan pressed a button on the side of the bed, and her head slowly rose as Vaughan approached. At least sitting up, she didn’t feel so helpless. “Tell me about the case.”
As the nurse closed the door behind her, he opened with an update of what he and Hughes had found at Jason’s apartment. She listened, locking on his words as if she needed an anchor. Finally, he shifted to the shooting. “Your left-handed shot was textbook center mass.”
“I’m lucky.”
“You’re good.” He leaned forward. “The knife was found. We’ve already found his fingerprints on it and your blood. What happened?”
“I saw him preparing to leave, and I approached. He attacked. The entire exchange lasted only minutes.”
“Did he say anything?” Vaughan asked.
“Not much. When I showed Dalton the sketch, he was calm and challenged me to prove it. His demeanor was nonchalant. I think he planned to kill me the instant he saw me standing outside the garage.”
Vaughan frowned, his fingers drawing into a fist before he relaxed them. “The forensic team is searching for signs that he’d been in the Foster home but so far have found nothing. Mark Foster’s toxicological screen came back. He had high levels of sleeping pills in his system.”
“So did he kill himself?”
“Good question.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday, August 18, 4:00 p.m.
Two days postsurgery, Zoe probably should have been inside with her feet up. But inactivity would have given her time to worry about the hand that still felt numb as well as the inquiry into the Dalton shooting. It was a recipe for insanity.
She sat in a wooden card chair by her garage, her arm in a sling, watching the two men she had found on Craigslist willing to haul away her junk. She had been holding on to all of Jimmy’s things as if she were protecting a piece of the past. But she knew it was time to let some of the memories go.
She’d also never thought she would be giddy at the thought of parking her car, but knowing she would not have to circle the block or hoof it through the rain was just this side of nirvana.
The crewman carried out a large cardboard box, set it at her feet, and opened it. This had been their process. They hauled and opened, and she then inspected. So far, what she had found had ended up on the donation pile.
As she opened the latest box, she almost did not bother to glance inside until her gaze landed on a neatly folded shirt that had belonged to Jeff.
She gently ran her fingers over the worn flannel. The softness triggered memories of Jeff laughing and teasing her out of a mood she had slipped into after she had received a B instead of an A in one of her classes. He had coaxed that smile, and they had ended up in bed. When he had first died, that memory had not only taunted her but reminded her of everything they would never share again. Uncle Jimmy had told her to put Jeff’s things away and come back to them later, but she had tossed his clothes into a box and dumped them on the curb.
“Jimmy. You’re a sneaky one,” she whispered.
She raised the shirt to her nose, unmindful of the heat as she inhaled deeply. For just a moment, she caught a faint whiff of Jeff’s spicy aftershave.
How could you love someone so much and forget so much about them? Tears welled in her eyes. One escaped down her cheek before she caught herself. Carefully, she placed the shirt back into the box and closed the lid. She would always love Jeff and wonder what it would have been like to grow old with him. But he was gone. And for the first time in a long time, she was grateful to be alive.
“Is that for the junk truck, ma’am?” the man asked.
Zoe cleared her throat. “These are good clothes. I want these donated.”
“Will do.” He reached for the box and lifted it.
As he turned, she stood quickly. “Wait.”
“Ma’am?”
She opened the top and removed the flannel shirt. “The rest can go.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She sat back in her chair, holding the shirt close, and watched as the men cleared out the last of the items and closed up the truck. She walked into the now-empty garage. Her phone rang. It was Vaughan.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I am.”
“I’ve arranged with social services and Mrs. Bradford to be present when we talk to her. I don’t want to take any shortcuts with this one.”
“Me neither.”
“See you in fifteen.”
When he pulled down her street right on time, she was ready, having changed into a loose pair of black pants and a simple button-up blouse. It was not fashionable, but it was all she could manage with the cast now.
When she climbed into his car, he kissed her. “You look better every day. How’s the hand?”
“Stubbornly silent. But I’m on a quarter of the pain meds now. So, progress. Have you spoken to Bud?”
He reached for a manila folder and handed it to her. “You should enjoy reading this.”
She had enough time to read through the file before Mrs. Bradford arrived with Skylar at the police station. She had retained the services of a court-appointed attorney, Tara Ellison, a tall slim woman in her early thirties.
Skylar was wearing a peach-colored top, white capris, and sandals, and she had swept her blond hair into a ponytail so like the one Hadley had worn.
“Thank you for coming, Skylar,” Zoe said.
“What is this about?” Ms. Ellison said. “Her parents’ cases are nearly closed.”
“Not quite.” Zoe opened the file Vaughan had given her.
“This entire case started with a text. Someone sent Nikki McDonald a message telling her where Marsha Prince’s remains could be found. I was able to re-create her face before she could be identified.” She flipped through pages and then pointed to a row of numbers. “I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to figure out who sent her that text. Who knew Marsha was dead?”
“I don’t know what else my client can tell you. The woman died before Skylar Foster was born,” Ms. Ellison said.
“Jason Dalton admitted that he was angry when he learned Hadley had kept his daughter from him. He strikes up a relationship with Skylar, and they texted on a secured app. Over the course of the last six months, he did a good job of stoking her frustrations. Skylar, you weren’t happy with your parents, and Jason made it worse.”
“He listened,” she said. “He was a friend.”
“I’ve had a chance to read all your exchanges with Jason. He didn’t sound like he had your best interests at heart. Your mother can be a bitch. Even her own sister hated her. Those don’t sound like supportive texts,” Zoe said.
Skylar brushed back a lock of blond hair. “It was the truth. She wasn’t the nicest person sometimes.”
“I believe that,” Zoe said. “You made a comment once that she got drunk sometimes and she talked. Did she let it slip that she felt guilty about her sister?”
“Don’t answer that, Skylar,” Ms. Ellison said.
“Did you tell Jason? We now know from the burner phones we found in his apartment that he texted Nikki McDonald the tip.”
