Dying to Tell (12 page)

Wanting to find answers for Elma, he logged on to his computer and signed in to the police database. Then he entered Herbert Foley’s name. Three Herbert Foleys showed up. One was a ninety-year-old man in Memphis who’d never even had a parking ticket in his life; another, a sixty-two-year-old paraplegic.

The third was a thirtysomething man who had died six months ago of liver failure.

Jake frowned and decided to check a few other places. He searched databases for personal care assistants, medical technicians, and other related jobs, but found no Herbert Foley.

He phoned the hospital to ask if they had a photo of Foley, but the records department told him no. The man had presented a certificate showing his qualifications to be a patient care worker. Jake asked for the certificate number and where he’d received it, but when he checked, he found that the certificate bearing that number belonged to a woman.

Considering what he’d learned and the timing of Foley’s departure from the hospital, suspicions rose in Jake’s mind. Who was this man Herbert Foley? Did he really exist?

And if he’d stolen this woman’s certificate, what else had he lied about?

Was Grace’s accident really an accident?

But again, who would want to kill Grace Granger?

He studied the storm clouds choking the light from the sky. At least Sadie was safe at home tonight.

But what if somewhere in Amelia’s crazy ramblings there had been some truth?

What if someone had hurt Grace?

What if they’d hurt Amelia too?

Sadie jerked awake, her heart racing.

The curtain was flapping in the breeze. A chill engulfed her, and her nerves fluttered.

She hadn’t left the window open.

Wishing she had a weapon, she grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand, then scanned the space. At first glance, the room was empty.

But she sensed someone watching her, as she had for months.

The floor squeaked above, the furnace grumbling. She’d forgotten how much this house creaked and moaned, like an old person with brittle bones.

Then something skittered across the floor above her. Was someone in the attic?

Maybe a squirrel?

A squirrel hadn’t opened her window...

She slid from the bed, stuffed her feet into her slippers, and rushed to shut the window. Her pulse pounded as she glanced at the guesthouse.

A light was burning, visible through the window.

The guesthouse had been dark when she went to bed.

Then a shadow moved, the silhouette framed in the window. Dear God. Someone was there now.

S
adie gripped the phone with sweaty hands. She couldn’t confront the intruder on her own. She had to call for help.

Jake...

He was the first person that came to mind.

God, she hated to call him. But he was the sheriff, and except for Ms. Lettie, she’d lost touch with everyone else in Slaughter Creek ten years ago.

Striving for calm, she took a deep breath and punched in his number. While she listened to the phone ring, she pushed the curtains aside, then peered out at the shadow in the guesthouse, moving through the living room.

What was he doing?

Searching for something?

Suddenly the shadow grew still. Turned toward the window.

Paused, as if he knew she had seen him.

For a long, tense minute, they seemed to lock gazes.

Then the shadow disappeared. Sadie blinked, wondering if she’d imagined it.

Jake’s deep voice jerked her back to the phone call. “Sadie?”

Sadie grabbed her robe and yanked it on. “Yes, Jake. I’m sorry if I woke you—”

“What’s wrong?”

Sadie glanced through the window again, scanning the door to the guesthouse, then the surrounding property. Where had the intruder gone?

“Sadie, dammit, talk to me. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. “But someone was here...in the guesthouse. I woke up, and my window was open—then I looked out and saw a light in the studio.”

“Stay inside with the door locked. I’ll be right there.”

The phone clicked off, and Sadie tried to compose herself. She flipped on the overhead light, hoping to chase the ghosts away, then slipped into the hall and flipped on that light as well.

The walls shook with the force of the wind, the house groaning again, and she tiptoed toward the steps, pausing every few feet to listen in case the intruder returned and tried to break into the house.

He’d seen her watching him.

What had he wanted in the studio?

Shivering, she tightened the belt on her robe and slowly walked down the steps. The possibilities clicked through her head.

Maybe some teenagers had heard about Amelia’s arrest and thought the farm was vacant, so they’d broken in to steal what they could sell.

Or maybe it was some vagrant looking for a warm place to hide for the night.

Nothing else made sense.

She flipped on the light at the bottom of the steps, blinking to adjust her eyes as she scanned the den. The room adjoined the kitchen, and looked empty as well.

Papaw’s gun case was open, the shotgun missing. The one that had killed him...Amelia had taken it.

Now Jake had probably confiscated it as evidence.

Headlights from a car beamed down the graveled drive from the road, and she exhaled the breath she’d been holding.

Jake was here. Everything would be all right.

Relief flooded her, reminding her of all the times he’d come to her rescue during her senior year. No matter how late it was or how upset she’d been, he’d rushed over like a knight in shining armor.

Guilt assaulted her. When he’d needed her, she’d left and never come back.

He cut the lights, coasted to a stop in front of the house, then unfolded his big body from his car. Sadie unlocked the front door and met him on the steps.

Jake’s hair was ruffled from sleep, the shadow of his beard stubble darkening his jaw. Her heart stuttered. He looked fierce and protective and commanding as he strode up the steps.

“Are you okay?”

Sadie nodded and gestured toward the guesthouse. “I think he’s gone, but I’m sure someone was inside.”

Jake removed his gun from his holster, and she followed him to the front door, her heart in her throat. The wind sent the chimes clinking and tinkling from the porch, a grating sound that tested Sadie’s nerves.

When she reached for the doorknob, Jake shook his head and gestured for her to wait behind him. Then he pushed open the door and played a flashlight across the interior of the living area. The guesthouse was small, a living room/kitchen combination, bath, and one bedroom. The art studio occupied the left side of the living area.

Sadie’s gaze automatically strayed to the studio, where several canvases were stacked and scattered along the floor. One in particular drew her eye.

It was a dark, morose painting of twin girls who looked just alike. One sat in the corner facing a drab gray wall. Red paint
depicting blood was splattered across the floor, the wall, and the little girl’s hands.

The other girl was locked in a cage with bars surrounding her, a sea of black engulfing her.

Sadie’s chest throbbed. The painting looked eerily similar to the one she had sketched at her own home, the one of her trapped in Alcatraz.

But Amelia had never been to her apartment or seen it.

Could they possibly have more of a connection than she’d thought?

Jake quickly scanned the interior of the guesthouse, noting the assortment of hodgepodge furniture, the macabre paintings, and the kitchen, which was cluttered with a mixture of ceramic cats, posters of heavy metal bands, and erotic art.

Nothing went together, yet Jake realized that in a strange way, it made sense. Amelia hadn’t lived here alone; her alters shared the same house.

He bypassed a sinister, almost frightening rendition of two little girls, one in prison, the other shrouded in darkness and blood. Images of Amelia and Sadie?

Shaking off the disturbing thought, he eased into the bedroom and bath to check them out.

At first sight, no one was inside.

For a moment he studied the room, hoping to gain insight into Amelia and the reason she’d shot her grandfather. His conversations with Sadie about her DID diagnosis echoed in his mind. Amelia’d had three alters: Bessie, a three-year-old child; Skid, a snarly, sinister teenager who protected her; and Viola, an older woman who liked booze, men, and sex.

Stuffed animals filled one corner shelf, and baby dolls were seated at a child’s table, with a tea set arranged as if they were having a tea party. Obviously Bessie’s.

On the opposite wall, heavy metal posters with skulls and crossbones covered one section, and a collection of crudely carved wooden pieces—all birds of prey—filled two shelves. A collection of books on guns were stacked on the floor by a guitar and men’s boots. Obviously Skid’s.

The oak four-poster bed was covered in a bright-fuchsia-and-green-striped coverlet, and a lacy teddy and a pair of sheer black thongs were draped over its foot.

Hmm...Viola’s.

Then a random thought nagged at him. Amelia was a young woman—could
she
possibly have had a boyfriend or a lover?

Tucking his gun back inside the holster, he spied several perfume bottles on the vanity, an assortment of makeup, a hairbrush, and a pack of condoms. All things a sexually active female would own.

His mind took a detour down that road. What if Amelia or Viola’d had a boyfriend? Maybe her grandfather had found them together. Maybe he’d tried to break up the relationship, or accused the man of taking advantage of Amelia in her diminished mental state? Amelia—or the man—could have killed her grandfather, so they could be together...

But if that were the case, what had happened to the lover?

Had he run?

Jake crossed the room, looking for a computer or day planner on the small desk, but found neither. Then he noticed some kind of wooden box protruding from beneath the bed.

Sadie must have spotted it at the same time, because she cleared her throat just as he reached for it.

“Let me have that. It’s Amelia’s,” Sadie said behind him.

Jake tensed, remembering how panicked he’d been when Sadie had called.

She looked pale, shaken—vulnerable—in her robe and slippers. The instinct to pull her into his arms and comfort her hit him.

But he had to keep his distance.

So he stooped to retrieve the box anyway. But Sadie grabbed it before he could. “Please, Jake, this is a keepsake box.” She gestured toward the rose carved on the top. “Gran gave them to us on our sixth birthday. Mine had a lily on it, and Amelia’s the rose.”

Jake frowned. For some reason, he sensed, Sadie was afraid of what that box held. Which made him even more curious.

“You called me for help, remember?”

Apprehension flickered in her eyes. “Because of an intruder, not so you could snoop through Amelia’s personal belongings.”

“I’m the sheriff; it’s my job to snoop,” he said with an edge to his voice. “In fact, I probably should have searched the guesthouse already.”

“Why?” Sadie asked. “You seemed certain that Amelia killed Papaw. You said she had the gun in her hand, blood all over her.”