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She immediately spotted Jason. He was standing next to a beige sofa and was sporting a very concerned expression.
“Thank you for coming,” the boy said.
She hadn’t seen him since his mother’s trial, and his appearance had changed considerably in the past two months. He no longer had the shoulder-length hair but rather a buzz cut. He was still thin. Still had that rangy body. However, the snug long-sleeved t-shirt he was wearing showed off some muscle. Jason had obviously been working out.
Jason crossed the room to her, and he reached out as if he might pull her into a hug. He didn’t. Instead, he crammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and volleyed glances at Jericho, Marco, and her.
“Jericho,” he said, introducing himself.
The teenager gave him a nod in return. “Jason Cantrell. Thanks for coming so fast,” he added. “I’m not making it up about someone trying to kill me. I swear I’m not.”
“We believe you,” Rachel was quick to assure him. “Sit down, and you can tell us what happened.”
Jason groaned softly but sat on the sofa. Jericho and she took the loveseat across from him, and Marco dropped down into the sole chair in the room.
“I ride my bike to school,” Jason began after a couple of seconds. “It’s not far, just a couple of blocks from the foster place I’m staying. Yesterday, when I was leaving school, someone swerved toward me and nearly ran me off the road. I mean, I had to go up on the sidewalk and ended up hitting a fence.”
Thankfully, she didn’t see any cuts or bruises so maybe that meant he hadn’t been hurt.
“Did you see the driver or any details about the vehicle?” Jericho asked.
Jason shook his head. “Not the driver. The person sped away. I didn’t get the license plate either, but it was a black Toyota. Not old but not new either. I’d say a couple of years old.”
Rachel looked at Marco, who gave her a nod and took out his phone, no doubt to start checking to see if there was any camera footage on the route. She was guessing that Marco wouldn’t have any trouble finding the address of Jason’s current foster home.
“I was pissed that the guy didn’t stop or anything, but I didn’t think he or she was trying to kill me,” Jason went on. “I just figured it was like somebody texting and not paying attention.” He paused a heartbeat. “And then I got home and found out somebody had broken in. The foster has a bio-kid, a six-year-old named Birdie, and Birdie’s dolls were on the porch. Someone had torn off the dolls’ heads and stabbed them a whole bunch of times. Their eyes had been cut out.”
“Sweet heaven,” Rachel blurted. That was definitely sick, but so far, the killer hadn’t done anything like that.
“Was there a note or anything with the dolls?” Jericho asked.
“No note,” he first replied to Jericho. “But the foster mom called the cops and reported the break in and the dolls. One of the other boys she fosters has been having trouble with some guys at school so she figured those assholes had done it. Sorry,” he muttered, apologizing for the mild profanity.
Rachel waved that off. “But you think the dolls were a message for you?”
“I know they were.” Jason stopped again, gathered his breath. “This morning when I went outside to get on my bike, the dolls’ eyes were on the handlebars. Somebody had squirted red paint around them, and there was a knife jammed into the seat.”
“I left the knife for SAPD,” Marco explained. “Figured they’d need it untouched to preserve any evidence. But I ran a scanner over it. No fingerprints. I also snapped a picture of the knife and fed it through the recognition programs. It’s a Rough Rider Small Stag Skinner. Very common, very cheap. Less than twenty bucks.”
So, almost anyone could have bought it and done this.
“What’s the timeframe for when someone could have done that to your bike?” Jericho asked.
Jason shrugged. “Pretty much all night. After I ride it home from school, I park it on the side of the house since there’s no garage and no room for it inside. I chain lock it to the gutter.”
Again, almost anyone could have done it, including Paulie, Manson or even Bodine before he’d gone to Stronghold. Of course, it could indeed be someone else, and she was hoping Marco would be able to figure that out.
“Who wants me dead?” Jason asked. “Is it my dad?”
Rachel took a moment. She didn’t want to give Jason any false assurances in case it was indeed Paulie. “Maybe. Or it could be Manson.”
Jason didn’t seem the least bit shocked by that. He simply nodded. “Yeah, they’re both pissed at me. They blame me for what happened to Mom.”
Rachel leaned over and touched his hand. “You weren’t to blame. Your mother was at fault.”
“Yeah, but Dad and Manson don’t believe that.” Jason muttered some profanity under his breath and got up to pace. Not that he could pace far in the small space. “I didn’t want Mom to go to jail. I just wanted her to stop hitting me.”
“I know,” Rachel murmured.
