Page 39 of In the Dead of Night

CHAPTER TEN

Nick’s officer was gone by the time Sara stepped out of the shower and slipped into dry clothes. She’d thought the hot water would soothe the bruises and aches she’d sustained in the fall. Instead, every insult to her body had come to life with a vengeance.

She started down the stairs to find Nick standing near the front door. He looked up as she descended. “Any sign of the man who pushed me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Sammy and I set up a grid and searched the area, but we didn’t find anything. Most of the footprints were washed away by the rain. Even the writing on your car window is gone.” He grimaced. “He’s heading over to talk to the caretaker now.”

Skeeter, Sara thought, and felt a tinge of sadness. She didn’t think the caretaker was responsible; the man who’d pushed her had seemed much more agile. But she couldn’t say for certain. “Did your officer recognize the name Blaine Stocker?”

“He had the same reaction we did. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. I’ll hop on the Internet when we get back to the bungalow.” He regarded her, concern evident in his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Sort of like I got run over by a stagecoach and a team of mules.” She managed a smile.

He didn’t smile, but his expression lightened. “You look better.”

“Purple becomes me.” When he simply stared at her, she pointed to the bruise on her forehead. “That was a joke.”

“Not funny.” But he finally smiled.

His clothes were still damp. She wished she could offer him something dry to wear, but all she had were the few items she’d left in her closet.

“We need to talk about what happened,” he said after a moment. “Then we need to get a few things straight.”

“Nick, I’m not in the mood for a lecture—”

“I’m not going to lecture you.” Gazing steadily at her, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think we need to take a long, hard look at everything you’ve uncovered since you’ve been here.”

Her pulse kicked with anticipation. Sara knew it was a silly reaction, but she also felt grateful that he was finally starting to believe her. “So you think the police may have been wrong?”

“I believe all of this warrants a very careful look.” He scowled at her. “By me.”

The memory of the journal she found sent her rushing for her bag. “I almost forgot.”

“What?”

She tugged the faded tapestry journal from her purse and set it on the table in front of her. “I found this hidden in a compartment in the hearth mantel.” Her hand shook when she held it out.

He opened the journal and began to page through it. “That’s my father’s writing.”

“It’s the same writing as the notes I found in the attic.”

“What the hell are my father’s notes doing at your parents’ house?” he wondered aloud.

“Nick, I think maybe they’d been working on something together.”

“A book?”

She nodded. “It makes sense.”

As if by unspoken agreement, they began to read.

Twenty-two-year-old Helen Murchison went to a photo shoot in Hollywood and never returned. Her roommate, Kim Cable, reported her missing the next morning. No one would have dreamed her torn and battered body would be found a week later in a dry riverbed in East L.A.

Toward the end of the journal, Nicholas Tyson wrote:

I watched the film today, and I was literally sickened. Filth. Alex and Rich saw it, too. Alex broke down and cried. I watched it a second time with them. There’s no way the police are going to go after B.S. Someone inside the Hollywood PD, and more than likely the D.A.’s office, is on his payroll. We’ve decided to continue gathering evidence on our own and complete the book. In the interim, we can only pray more young women don’t fall victim to his secret hunger for violence.

“My God.”