Page 12 of K-9 in Pursuit

She went into the kitchen, but her appetite had vanished. Where did Darinda get off blaming Chloe for not keeping track of Sharee? She was the one who had sent her own daughter to live halfway across the country at the first sign of trouble.

Sharee was troubled. Chloe didn’t understand why or how, but it made sense to her to get a professional opinion. But Sharee still depended on her parents’ health insurance, and Chloe didn’t have extra money to pay for counseling sessions with no insurance coverage.

She clicked on the television, but couldn’t focus on anything there.

She hugged her arms across her stomach and paced, anxiety mounting. Times like these she wished she had someone to be with her, to listen as she vented or brainstormed, and to help her to decide what to do. Most of the time she did fine on her own but sometimes she ached to have a partner. Another person she could count on.

But that person didn’t exist. She grabbed her keys and went out to drive around town, searching for some sign of her sister. If she didn’t find Sharee, and if the girl wasn’t at the apartment when Chloe returned, she would call the sheriff and report her sister missing.

THE LOUD BLARE of music jolted Brian from sleep. He groped for his phone, intent on shutting off the alarm. Then he realized it wasn’t the alarm that had awakened him, but a call. He stared at the screen, not recognizing the number.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Brian Weeks?”

“Who wants to know?” He looked at the clock. Five twelve a.m. Not early on a day when he had to do avalanche mitigation, but today he was off the schedule. He could sleep in as long as he wanted.

“Mr. Weeks, this is the sheriff’s department,” the man on the other end said, his voice firm. “Would you open your front door, please?”

“Open my door?” He blinked, still wrapped in a fog of sleep.

“Open your door. I have two officers waiting to speak to you.”

“Just a sec.” He shoved into a sitting position, then found a pair of ski pants on the floor and pulled them on. Then, barefoot, he went into the living room and looked through the door’s security peep. Sure enough, two men in khaki uniforms stood on his tiny front porch.

Heavy knocking sounded. “Sheriff’s office,” one of the men said. “Open the door.”

Brian undid the locks and eased open the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Brian Weeks?” the taller deputy, with a round face and bangs, asked.

“Yeah.”

“We need you to come with us.” The deputy who hadn’t yet spoken, a thin, dark-haired man with sallow skin, took Brian’s arm, while the other pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Bangs ordered.

“Wait a minute,” Brian protested. “What’s going on?”

“You have the right to remain silent…”

This was a nightmare. That had to be it. In real life he wouldn’t be standing here while one cop read him his rights and the other fastened cuffs around his wrists. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Brian Weeks, we’re arresting you for the murder of Sharee Anderson.”

Chapter Four

No matter how hard she pinched herself, Chloe couldn’t wake up from this nightmare. Sharee was dead. The most alive person she had ever known was just…gone. Chloe had had to identify her sister’s body. Or, she had been asked to look at the body of someone who looked like Sharee, but who couldn’t possibly be her. The body on that table wasn’t talking or singing or dancing or moving at all. She wasn’t angry or joyful or pouting or teasing—all things Sharee had been.

But she had looked exactly like Sharee, down to the dragonfly tattoo on her left wrist. And now, instead of enrolling Sharee in the local high school, or bringing her on to work at the salon, Chloe was helping plan a funeral. “The service has to be in Richmond.” Darinda—red-eyed and looking a decade older—clutched the hand of Chloe’s father, Ben, as they sat in a side parlor in the local funeral home. “I don’t want anything to do with this awful place.”

“Of course, dear.” Ben Anderson, his thick black hair streaked more heavily with gray than Chloe remembered, his jowls heavy, forehead deeply wrinkled, had repeated this phrase approximately every five minutes since the couple’s plane had landed. Chloe had picked the couple up from the airport Sunday at noon and had driven them straight to the funeral home. She had been shocked by the effect of grief on her father and stepmother. They reminded Chloe of photos she had seen of people who had lost everything to a tornado—wide-eyed and pale, going through the motions of living, but seeing nothing around them.

“We never should have sent her here.” Darinda glared at Chloe when she said this.

Chloe wished with all her might they hadn’t. Maybe then Sharee would still be alive.

“What do we need to do to arrange for transportation of…of the body to our home in Richmond?” Ben asked the dark-suited woman who sat on the sofa across from them.

“As soon as the sheriff’s department releases your daughter, we’ll take care of everything,” the woman said. “If you’ll provide the name of your preferred funeral home in Richmond, we’ll coordinate with them.”