Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

Seven

Five thirty came too soon, of course. But I’d supplied Mom with a dinner plan, an “In Case of Emergency” reference sheet (several sheets, if I’m being honest, including CPR instructions), and a movie to be used in case of extreme boredom (hers or the kids’). Yep, I’m
that
parent. The one who’s sorta creeped out by the Boy Scouts but lives by a similar motto: Be over prepared.

As soon as Dean’s car pulled up, I called out, “He’s here, guys. Love you!” and scooted out the door to avoid reintroductions.

Dean had left the Aston Martin at home and brought his nondescript, gray SUV instead. It was his surveillance car, chosen for its ability to blend in. He also had a blaring motorcycle I’d found offensive for two seconds until I realized how hot he looked on it. I’d appreciated his tattoos just as quickly, one of which honored his mom.

Tonight he was all covered up in gray dress pants, a white button-down, and an understated gray and blue tie that set off his bright, blue eyes. As much as I loved his blond hair and brute strength, it was those eyes that mesmerized me. I was pretty sure they could get anyone to confess anything.

“How do you want to do this tonight?” I asked. “Should we stick together and interview each guy in the conference room—and record everything?”

“Yeah. That makes the most sense.”

I’d brought a digital recorder, a notebook, pens, and a list of questions, which I ran by him, adding several he suggested. We decided he’d do most of the talking since his experience, while not extensive, was greater than mine. I’d take notes and jump in whenever it felt right.

“Got any tips for me?” I asked.

“When you ask to record the conversation, be casual about it. Say something like, ‘Just so we don’t have to take as many notes…’ And if someone starts giving us self-incriminating or risky info, stop taking notes and just listen. Our goal is to make them as comfortable as possible, no matter what they say.”

Okay. Hopefully Dean would do the same for me.

When we arrived at the Emerson Inn, all five guys were quietly eating steaks on Frank’s tab. Thankfully, they had the common sense (or hangover sense) not to order alcohol.

We introduced ourselves, and Dean did a great job of putting everyone at ease. When one guy finished his steak, we invited him to chat in the next room and hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.

Keeping the conversation as natural as possible, Dean collected contact information and ran through the evening chronologically, and then did the same with each friend. Most stories matched what we’d heard from the best man. The general timeline consisted of drinking, pole dancing, smoking, eating, more drinking, and bad porn. (Is there such a thing as good porn? Bad porn must be
really
bad.)

When Dean asked about the last time Bruce was seen, the stories were consistent—always around one fifteen. And when we politely asked to see photos from each person’s cell phone, I noticed something surprisingly familiar. The stripper’s butt. Or, more specifically, the sparkly shorts that were barely covering it.

Kenna sold them—along with six-inch heels—at her health club, which offered pole dancing classes. She’d even done “continuing education” pole training to keep her aerobics teacher certification current.

Who knew my aversion to heels and exercise could combine into one phobia? And who knew the “club” in “health club” would eventually represent mirror balls and stripper poles? The disco lights and nightclub-quality music were almost irresistible to me. Almost.

Speaking of irresistible, we
needed
that booty picture and any others like it. Todd had arranged for the stripper, but either he hadn’t kept her number or didn’t want to admit having it. She might be the only witness who could provide an unbiased description of Bruce’s mood, even if it was just “horny.” Maybe Kenna would recognize that toned, tan derrière.

While Dean arranged for evidence collection in line with whatever PI codes cover explicit bachelor party cell phone pics, there was a “tap, tap” on the closed conference room door. I hoped it was some sort of dessert delivery, since I’d skipped dinner and my stomach was protesting.

I opened the door a few inches and saw a wide-eyed hotel employee without a dessert tray or menu.

“Ms. Valentine?” she asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Mr. Frank Fallon needs to see you or Mr. Summers at the front desk.”

“Of course.” I excused myself and tried to imagine what this was about. What could Frank need to tell us right now? I hoped Bruce had been found alive and well.

A front desk attendant saw me coming and directed me toward a back office. Not a good sign. Inside, Frank was seated on a couch, massaging his face with his hands. He stood and gripped my hand.

“Nicki. Sorry to interrupt.” His face was red and puffy, but his eyes were dry. “I heard from the police.”

Oh my gah.
(Who can forget Jessica Simpson saying this on her
Newlyweds
reality show in a sweet, inept effort to stop saying
Oh my God
? Not me.) “They found…”
Oh my gah, oh my gah, oh my gah.
“Bruce’s car.”

Oh my gah.
That wasn’t what I was expecting, and I hoped it was good news. This would give us a location. It would give the police physical evidence. It would…Wait. Was Bruce or anyone else in the vehicle? I gingerly asked Frank and braced for the answer.

“No. His wallet, phone, and hotel key were there, and his phone battery was dead, which is why the police couldn’t trace it to the park.”

“The park? Which one?”

“Jones Falls. The one nearby with trails and sports fields. You know the one.” I didn’t. “His car was on a maintenance road, and a worker reported it. They’re searching for Bruce now.”

There was hope in his voice, and I tried to imagine anything positive they could find. Bruce passed out? Injured? Lost? Hiding?

“Do Lydia and Mia know?” I asked.

“I called them. Mia’s on her way there with her parents. I couldn’t talk her out of it.”

I didn’t want Lydia to be alone, but I couldn’t ask Frank to comfort his ex-wife.

“How can we help?” I asked.

He handed me a slip of paper with a detective’s name, number, and email address on it.

“This guy’s in charge,” he said. “Call him when you’re done and fill him in. But finish with these guys first, because some of them are leaving town. I’m going to talk with hotel security about the surveillance footage from that night. With all the money I’ve spent here, they better give me copies. I’ll keep you posted.”

He shook his head, and I couldn’t imagine what was going through it.

“Please let Lydia know we’re doing our best. And that I’m thinking about her and Mia and Bruce.”

“Actually,” he said, “Lydia mentioned you. We’re not close, but she has good instincts, and she wants you and Dean to stay on this. Especially you.”

I didn’t know what to say, but a question occurred to me that I had to ask.

“Who’s going to tell the groomsmen?”

“You are. I don’t even want to talk to them. In my opinion, they’re the ones who lost Bruce. It was their job to get him to the wedding. How hard could that be?”

“I’ll talk to Dean and touch base with Detective…” I looked down at the hotel stationery. “…Allen.”

“That’s fine. Just figure out what happened. I need my son back.”

He accompanied me back to the lobby and straightened his jacket before approaching the front desk. I nodded goodbye, took a deep breath, and kept moving.

After Dean finished questioning the best man, Todd, I closed the door and shared the update privately.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he said.

“Me either.”

My cell vibrated, and I looked down to see a message from Mia.

They found Bruce’s car on the Jones Falls Park access road. It’s empty.

I tapped the message to expand it and noticed something I didn’t like. It had been sent to a group, which included Todd. That meant he was probably in the next room breaking the news to everyone else. That wasn’t how Frank wanted it to go.

I alerted Dean, who grabbed his cell phone and led the way next door, where the room was silent.

“I can’t believe it,” Todd mumbled to himself or everyone. I couldn’t tell which. “Jones Falls Park? Why there?”

“How far away is that?” someone asked.

“A couple miles,” Dean said when no one else answered. “It’s wooded, so I’m not surprised no one noticed the car right away. Plus, it’s cold out. Not good park weather.”

To me, that made the location even odder. Unless Bruce liked the cold, he wouldn’t have gone there to blow off steam or take a walk. Even if he had, why on a maintenance road?

There was a lot of murmuring and exchanging of glances.

“Look, I gotta be honest,” the youngest-looking guy, Ashton, said. He shifted in his seat and avoided eye contact. Then he looked at another groomsman. “Sorry, Scott. This is too freakin’ serious.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked. “Now’s the time to speak up.”

Actually, yesterday was the time
, I thought.
But better late than never.

Scott covered his eyes in what looked like embarrassment. “Whatever, dude,” he said. “You’re right. We gotta say something.”

“After we left Bruce’s room,” Ashton said, “Scott and I wanted to keep the party going, so we went down to the bar, but it was closed, so we hit the first-floor vending machines for soda to mix with stuff from the minibar. Bruce walked by heading for the lobby, and we asked him what was up.”

Scott nodded in agreement.

“He said he couldn’t tell us, and that he just had to go. He told us not to say anything. We didn’t know if he was ditching Mia or what, but we could tell he meant business.”

“You’re just speaking up now?” Todd said. “And you let him drive? What the hell is wrong with you two?”

“He was freakin’ serious,” Scott argued.

“Look,” Ashton said. “He told us not to worry about him. He said something like, ‘I gotta get out of here for a while. Don’t tell anyone you saw me.’”

Whoa. Now we needed to interview everyone again. Or better yet let the police do it. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. Todd did the same with his.

“Do any of you…” Dean started.

“Oh my God,” Todd said.

There was a knock at the door. More like a pound. Frank threw it open, and the doorknob dented the wall.
We need one of those doorstopper things
, I thought nonsensically,
and a
security guard, pronto.
Frank’s shaved head was flushed, and unless he’d just washed his face and forgotten to dry it, he’d been crying.

“What happened that night?” Frank demanded. “What happened?” He used his fist like a gavel, and I thought his tailored suit might burst.

“Frank, why don’t we step out,” Dean suggested quietly. “We’ll…”

“No. I want answers, and I want them now!”

No one needed to ask why. It was clear something tragic had happened, and a second text from Mia confirmed it.

Blood was found in Bruce’s car with signs of a struggle. Can’t talk, but you needed to know.

The news led to silence, followed by outrage, agony, and seemingly honest discussion with the guys. Ashton and Scott’s secret had taken “bro code” to a whole new, dangerous level, and no one was happy about it.

“We just thought he had cold feet,” Ashton said. He half-looked at Frank and lowered his voice. “I’m really sorry.”

Hearing
cold feet
made me nauseated. Instead of Bruce’s wedding day being the best of his life, it may have been the worst. Or the last.

Eight

Frank insisted everyone stay until the police could get there, so privately, Dean and I began re-questioning each guy about where and when he
truly
last saw or spoke with Bruce, starting with Ashton and Scott. We pressed harder about Bruce’s dealings, asking again about drugs, drinking, mistresses, prostitutes, bookies, loan sharks, underhanded business dealings—anything, even if it was petty. No one denied smoking pot at the bachelor party, but apparently it was from a longtime friend everyone trusted, and Bruce was consistently painted as a successful, responsible businessman whose parents would do anything for him.

Halfway through our questioning, Detective Allen and his partner arrived, so Dean and I introduced ourselves, reviewed what we’d learned, and promised to share everything. They looked annoyed and unimpressed. Frankly (no pun intended), I didn’t blame them.

We made ourselves scarce, and before the detectives could protest, we got a quick peek into the penthouse and a block of second-floor rooms Frank had reserved for the wedding party. He’d spared no expense, with each room featuring a separate sitting area and terrace. Unfortunately, the maids had cleaned everywhere, and they hadn’t noted anything out of place other than unmade beds, leftover room service, and empty alcohol bottles.

We also knocked on doors surrounding the reserved rooms and interviewed anyone who answered, all to no avail. Several guests had been there the previous night or two, but they hadn’t noticed anything helpful. The hotel staff, including the bartender, confirmed the guys’ stories, although no one had noticed Bruce leaving.

Finally, we met with Frank and the security manager, who agreed to show us footage from one fifteen Friday night. The police hadn’t noted anyone fitting Bruce’s description coming or going from the hotel, and there hadn’t been any reports of trouble that night. But upon reviewing the video several times, it appeared Ashton and Scott were telling the truth. At one twenty-five, a figure passed by the lobby, barely visible in a hallway. He was dressed in all black—pants, coat, hat, and shoes.

“Wait. Pause that,” Frank said. “The guy in the hallway.” The manager paused and rewound the video in slow motion, and then he clicked play. “You can hardly see his face, but that’s Bruce. I’m sure of it.”

Frank punched numbers into his cell phone and urged the police to get on it. Then he recorded the footage with his cell phone and demanded that the manager, who was reluctant to work with anyone outside law enforcement, email him a copy. Frank quietly promised to forward it to us.

“Where are your other security cameras located?” I asked.

“We pride ourselves on respecting guests’ privacy and maintaining a classic atmosphere, ma’am. Our entrance is monitored, but we don’t surveil hallways, elevators, or rooms, of course.”

“What about parking lots?”

“Not yet,” he said. “They’ll be installed soon.”

“Is there an exit Bruce could have accessed down that hallway he was in?” Dean asked.

“Yes, sir. At that time of night, you can leave through that hallway, but it’s locked for entry.”

“Are the guests who stayed near that exit still here?” I asked.

He called the front desk.

“They’re gone,” he said after seconds on the phone, “and I can’t give you their names, but I’ll give them to the police.”

Frank nodded, so I didn’t argue.

I requested a map of the hotel instead and wished its location wasn’t so secluded. It didn’t share a driveway with other businesses that might have outdoor security cameras, but maybe we could find some en route to the park.

Before leaving, I suggested Frank call us in the morning, but I refrained from adding, “After you’ve gotten some rest.” I didn’t think that was possible for him—or me. I needed to gather myself, and for once, reality TV, dark chocolate, and talking with Kenna weren’t going to help. Conversation with Dean would, which meant I might have to invite him in.
Oh. My. Gah.

After exiting through the door Bruce had likely used, we walked to Dean’s car, and I texted Mom first thing. Not about Bruce, but about my house.
We’ll be on the way soon.
Can you do a quick cleanup before I get home?
Just the hallway, kitchen, and living room. I have to invite Dean in for work, and I know I left a mess. Thank you so much.

I wanted to tell her about Bruce in person, privately. She didn’t know him, but she’d heard a lot about Mia, and it would be a shock.

Before heading home, we timed the drive to Jones Falls Park, which was sealed off for investigation, and we stopped at a gas station and convenience store to ask about security cameras or witnesses. No one was helpful, except to say the police had already collected their footage.

To my relief and dismay, Mom responded,
Yes. Your home is an embarrassment, and thank God you’re finally bringing home a man.
Okay, those weren’t her exact words, but that’s what they implied. She actually said,
Yes. Not sure I can get it all done. Looking forward to seeing him!

Before I could reply, my phone rang. It was Todd, and his voice echoed in what sounded like a bathroom.

“I need to talk to you and Dean about something,” he said.

I put him on speaker, and Dean pulled over to focus.

“I took a bathroom break from the police,” Todd said. “I wanted to tell you something without the other guys hearing.”

“Okay,” I said. I fumbled in my purse for a notepad and pen. I’d removed the stray toys, coupons, and leftover kid snacks from it earlier, but I still emerged with crumbs on my fingers. I tried to brush them back into my bag without Dean noticing.

“Earlier, you wanted to know if anyone had a reason to be upset with Bruce,” he said.

“Right,” I said.

“Well, I have some information that’s really personal about him. Not many people know. Actually, no one knows all of it.”

I looked at Dean. That didn’t sound like something we should discuss by phone on a roadside, but Todd was in a bathroom, ready to spill his guts—in a good way. I don’t know if Dean sensed my unease, but he nodded, which I took as “Go ahead.”

“Okay, Todd. Go on, please. We’re listening,” I said.

“You know Bruce and I went to Smyth in Florida before he transferred to Maryland State, right?”

“Yes,” Dean said.

“Well he left Smyth for a reason. When we were there, he got accused of something.”

“What was it?” Dean asked.

There was a pause, and I worried we’d lost the call.

“Rape,” he finally said.

I was glad Todd couldn’t see my jaw drop, but Dean got the full effect.

“Was he convicted?” Dean asked.

“No. The college handled it, and he never went to court or anything. He just had to stay away from his accuser for a while.”

What did he mean “the college handled it”? Why didn’t the police handle it?

Todd exhaled audibly. “Anyway, it was horrible, so he decided to transfer instead of sticking it out. He was tired of defending himself constantly.”

“Okay,” I said, doing the whole, “make the interviewee comfortable” thing. Meanwhile, I had the sick feeling Mia didn’t know any of this.

“The day before the wedding,” Todd said, “Bruce told me the girl’s father had seen Bruce’s engagement announcement in a Florida newspaper, and he actually called Bruce, out of his mind. He threatened to contact Mia and stop the wedding.”

“Stop it how, specifically?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know. Bruce said he convinced the dude to meet him and talk. At the bachelor party, he said not to worry about it—that it was all taken care of. He didn’t want to talk about it, so I let it go.”

“Do you think that’s where he went? To meet this guy?”

“I don’t know. I’m really worried that if he did, they got into something physical.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Not yet, but I will as soon as the other guys aren’t around. Bruce never wanted Mia or his mom to know, and his dad thought it was behind him. I promised to keep my mouth shut. But Bruce is my best friend. He’s done so much for me. I have to say something if it could save his life.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” I reassured him. “What’s the father’s name?”

“I don’t know. The daughter’s name is Andrea. Andrea Morgan. She was from Smyth Lake.”

We gathered as many details as possible and encouraged Todd to tell the police everything. I left messages for Detective Allen and Frank, neither of whom picked up, to ensure they were aware. Ten minutes later, we were at my front door, which was flanked by potted, yellow mums and opened by another mum. Mine.

If Mom’s rushed cleaning methods were anything like mine, I knew better than to open any closets in front of Dean, for fear he might be injured by falling jump ropes, soccer balls, and spooky Halloween decorations. (
Hello, doctor. This is rather embarrassing, but my friend’s skull was hit by a skull. My skull. I mean one I had hidden. I mean…
) So I hung his jacket on a banister and quietly re-introduced him to Mom.

I’d barely noticed her appearance when I left, but now I tried to see her from Dean’s perspective. Bottle-brown bob. Diane von Furstenberg dress. Trademark pink lipstick. Manicured nails. Style came naturally to her, while the “natural” look was all I could muster. My salon routine consisted of occasional trims and firm instructions: “I have to be able to put this in a ponytail.” Graduating from Sophie’s rainbow selection of hair ties to ones in the brunette family was a major accomplishment.

“I made a fresh pot of decaf,” Mom said as she lifted her bag to go. “And I left oatmeal raisin cookies in the kitchen.”

Cookies?
I pictured our giant, bear-shaped tub of animal crackers. Maybe Mom had made an emergency call to Kenna. That would be embarrassing and totally called for.

“Thanks, Mom. Let me walk you out.”

And leave Dean unattended in my house. Holy moly. Dean shook her hand, said goodbye, and dazzled her with a smile she’d probably rave about later.

I quickly guided him to the living room sofa and set out the cookies. Since he had quite an appetite, I hoped they’d keep him occupied.

You never really know with oatmeal raisin.

On the porch with the door closed behind us, Mom coped well with the news and promised to call Aunt Liz before driving away. Then she literally pushed me back inside.

If the mood hadn’t been so somber, I think she would have slapped my butt and said “Go get ’im.” She was president of the “Let’s Get Nicki Married” club—and the only member, thank goodness.

“Ready to go to Florida?” Dean asked as I sank into the living room couch. I hoped whatever was under the cushions (remotes, raisins, Hot Wheels, doll parts, whoopee cushions, etc.) wouldn’t poke us, stain us, shock us, or worse.

“What do you mean? Can’t we hire someone to check things out for us down there?”

“Sure. But I don’t think Frank’s going to like that. Plus, Florida is where the police will have the least resources, so it might be where we can make the most difference. I understand if you can’t go, though. You explained to Frank about Jack and Sophie.”

I was quiet. “Florida still has reciprocity, doesn’t it?”

Reciprocity meant Florida and Virginia agreed to let private investigators follow cases from one state to the other under certain circumstances.

“It does,” Dean confirmed.

My wheels were spinning a hundred miles per hour, considering all the options. The kids had school the next day, and I had work, but nothing I couldn’t delay or take on the road. Liz was on her way back to Florida, which meant the kids might have somewhere safe and fun to stay. I’d hate for them to miss school, but I’d also hate for them to miss food and shelter if Sky Investigations failed.

“I
want
to go,” I said. “But I have to work things out for the kids big time.”

“Of course,” Dean said. “I’m surprised you’re even considering it.”

“It’s partly because Liz lives in Florida. I wonder how far she is from Smyth.”

“Let’s see,” Dean said, pulling out his phone. “Where does she live exactly?”

I recited her address in Siesta Key.

“Nice,” he said when he saw an aerial view of her beachside church and rectory. I’d looked it up many times, dreaming of taking the kids to see her, Disney World, and Siesta Key’s powdery sand and turquoise waters. Dean’s eyes were a similar color, and seeing him there was a fantasy that had been running a little wild lately.

Liz’s home was about forty-five minutes from Smyth Lake and the college. We spent several minutes searching for Bruce and Mia’s engagement announcement and anything about Andrea Morgan. The announcement was easy to find, but there wasn’t much else. Going to Florida seemed like a necessity.

Dean emailed Frank, asking to discuss Florida and travel. Then he told me he’d write up everything we’d learned and, with Frank’s okay, pass along our report to the police. I offered to start running background checks on Bruce and his associates. I’d also review information Mia had emailed me, although she’d apologized for having so little, saying she and Bruce were about to merge everything, such as bank accounts and credit cards, but they were waiting until after the honeymoon, when her name would be changed.

The case was so serious and overwhelming that it felt surreal.

“We’re sharing the load, you know,” I reminded Dean. “Don’t go easy on me just because I’m new at this—or because I have kids.”

He smiled and moved closer on the sofa, resting his arm on my shoulders. I bit my lip and held his gaze—along with my breath.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’re definitely in this together.”

More than anything, I wanted to reach up, squeeze his hand, nestle in, and become inseparable for a while. I almost indulged. But then I imagined Jack or Sophie coming downstairs unexpectedly. They’d never seen me date, never mind kiss, a guy. Their concept of romance was limited to family stories, fairy tales, and friends’ marriages. Dean was something I’d have to explain. Eventually. I hoped.

“I can’t,” I said. “The kids...”

“Is there somewhere private we can go?” he whispered.

Did he mean a bedroom? I was no Mia, but that wasn’t happening. I wasn’t even sure that part of my body worked anymore. Meanwhile, our home’s first floor was open space except for my office, which had French doors. I’d loved that floor plan until now.

The other options included the patio (too cold, no matter how warm he could keep me) and the basement, which consisted of a toy-strewn playroom, storage areas, and a full bath. Not exactly appealing or romantic, unless you counted the bath. Again, no way.
I’d stick with Mr. Clean and Mr. Bubble for now, thank you.

“We should probably get some sleep,” I said. “I mean, I should walk you to your car.”

Confusion—and possibly a touch of hurt—flashed in his eyes, and I regretted not suggesting the basement. Maybe being surrounded by dolls and action figures would have been okay.
Eat your heart out, Barbie,
I thought.
Dean would put Ken to shame.

He stood and took my hand, and I grabbed my keys and a baby monitor, just in case I spent more time at (or in) his car than expected. Maybe that’s what dating would be like as a single parent—reminiscent of my teen days, making out on porches and in cars, hoping my family and neighbors wouldn’t see. In passing, I wondered if adults get hickeys. Kenna would have a field day with that.

I closed the door behind me with a gentle click and followed Dean all the way to the driver’s side.

“I haven’t told the kids about you yet,” I said quietly. “I mean, they know about you, but not that we’re...”

“Involved?”

That was a good way of putting it.

“Right. To them, you’re my teacher and friend.”

“There’s no rush,” he said, leaning on his car.

But rushing was so tempting. Rushing to connect with him. Rushing to make him part of my life. Rushing to…

I glanced up at Jack’s and Sophie’s windows, making sure their lights were off and their curtains were closed. Then I checked the houses nearby, including Kenna’s. Her living room light was on, and the street lamps seemed brighter than ever. Privacy was hard to come by these days, and as a PI, I couldn’t complain.

“Call me in the morning, okay?” I said. I stood on my tiptoes and gave him a kiss that was longer than planned.

He leaned in, and the entire world disappeared until we resurfaced for breaths of crisp, sense-sharpening air. He wrapped his arms around me for a few luxurious moments. I wished I could fall asleep right there, listening to his heartbeat.

I pulled back slightly, met his eyes, and spoke without thinking.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

His soft laugh floated toward me in a mist. “We’re going to spend a lot of time together. Maybe more than you want.”

But we’d probably spend it doing everything but this.

Kenna’s words about getting to know him rang in my ears. Traveling together on business might be the best way to consider moving forward…and away from my past. Could I risk getting hurt again? Maybe. Could I risk having my kids lose another male role model? I wasn’t sure.

I gave him a lingering peck and then a playful wave over my shoulder as I walked toward the house, not feeling a bit of the cold surrounding me.

Inside, I had a message from Lydia flashing on my cell phone, which I’d left on the coffee table. I felt guilty but relieved that I’d missed the call. What could I say to a mom who was suffering so terribly? I’d lost my father and my husband, not a child. And no one, thank God, to violence.

“You have to help us find Bruce,” she pleaded on the voicemail through her tears. “Not for my sake. But for him. For Mia. Please, just trust me. I know it.” She didn’t even say goodbye. Just “Thank you” and a click.

My eyes watered, and I held back feelings that went beyond words. The warmth I’d felt just moments before with Dean was now uncomfortable heat. Too much emotion at once. I’d studied so many criminal cases. So many atrocities. Yet reality still left me speechless.

Bruce’s family needs to know what happened
, I thought.
They need to know if, how, and why he suffered—and that someone will be held responsible.

Logic told me that with the discovery of Bruce’s car, the police should—and would—take care of it. But like Lydia, I trusted instinct more than reason, and my intuition aligned with hers.

Meanwhile, there was someone else I hadn’t consulted. Someone whose gut I trusted almost as much as my own. It was too late to call her, but I dialed anyway.