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Sighing, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is if this Moretti woman keeps digging, our son could lose his father.”
“Don’t talk like that. Moretti’s done here.” He could only hope that was true, that this wouldn’t go in the direction Paris feared. When he was a boy, his stepfather used to punish him by locking him in a box the size of a coffin out in a metal shed. During the summer, he’d nearly suffocate. Small, confined spaces still terrified him. He already knew he could never bear living in a jail cell.
“How do you know she’s done?” she asked.
“Because I’ll make sure of it.”
“Who was she?”
He could tell by the change in her tone that she wasn’t referring to the investigator. “Who are you talking about? April Bonner?”
“Who else?” She sounded weary, as if this incident might get the best of her despite how hard she’d fought to keep their family together.
He could easily recall April’s kind brown eyes, her timid but eager smile, her round cheeks, her body, soft from lack of exercise. They’d exchanged some intriguing e-mails, but she hadn’t turned out to be his type at all. “No one. She was just a…a means to an end. You know that. That’s all it ever is.”
“What happened with her that was so different from all the others?”
“Nothing. The night didn’t end well, I’ll admit that. You know how I get sometimes. But I didn’t kill her.”
Paris shoved her hands in her pockets. “It has to stop, Butch.”
He slipped his arm through hers and was gratified when she leaned into him. He hadn’t lost her yet. And he never would. “It will. I promise. Don’t give up on me. We’ve come so far. We can get through this, too.”
* * *
Francesca had canceled her credit cards and cell service. She’d also left a message with a locksmith, asking him to contact her first thing in the morning. Now that she was finished with everything, at least everything she could do after hours, she was lying in bed, pretty sure she’d never had a more miserable afternoon. She’d been involved in some tragic cases—peripherally when she was with Phoenix P.D. and then the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, and more directly after she’d started her own agency—but never had she experienced anything more enraging than having Butch Vaughn flat out lie to her. It was one thing to have him claim he hadn’t meant to frighten her; she’d expected that. But she’d never dreamed he’d try to keep her purse, or that he’d take so much joy in making her feel powerless. Now he had her iPhone, her car keys—and her house keys because they were on the same ring—her wallet and her ID, all of which he’d basically stolen from her right beneath the noses of ten police officers.
He thought he was clever. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with what he’d done to her or to April Bonner. If he’d killed April, she’d find the proof she needed to put him away. The poor woman had to be somewhere. And what about those other bodies, the ones in the mass grave Finch had told her about? Was Butch responsible for those murders, as well?
It held the remains of seven women….
She believed Butch to be capable of extreme violence. She’d never met an individual who scared her as much.
This was what some of the people she took on as clients went through, she realized. Now she’d become a victim, too. She tried telling herself it was good experience to have, that in future she’d be better able to relate to their feelings of helplessness and frustration. But trying to find something positive in what she’d gone through didn’t make these late-night hours tick by any faster.
Agitated and restless, she stared at the ceiling. Although she tried to avoid it, she kept picturing Butch sitting at his kitchen table going through her purse while the rest of his family slept. Was he holding her driver’s license right now, memorizing her address? Had he checked MapQuest to determine the best route to take to her house?
Surely he wouldn’t be that obvious. Besides, she lived two hours away, which meant he’d need a wide margin in which to be gone. But just knowing how easy tracking her down would be made every creak and rustle—normal noises on any other night—sound like someone was attempting to break in. She was so wound up she could feel her pulse beating in her fingertips. Would morning never come?
Why hadn’t she listened to Jonah? He’d asked her not to go back home tonight. He’d encouraged her to stay with a friend for a few days, give Butch time to cool down. But Butch wasn’t the type to cool down. The way his muscles had contracted when she’d continued to challenge him for her purse made her believe she’d never be completely safe, not as long as he was free. And hiding wouldn’t solve the problem, not when Butch could simply use one of her business cards, a stack of which could be found in her purse, to come up with her office address. He could attack her midday as easily as at night. Crimes took place at all hours. If he really wanted to hurt her, he’d find a way.
“Butch can go to hell as far as I’m concerned,” she muttered. And if he broke in and attacked her, maybe she’d send him there. She’d brought a large carving knife to bed with her. She also had a new can of pepper spray in the top drawer of her nightstand. She’d squirted a little on the sidewalk to make sure it worked—something she’d taken for granted with the old one that she wasn’t willing to do again.
Were those precautions enough? Maybe not. She couldn’t imagine actually having to stab someone. A gun would be a much more practical form of defense. Maybe she should get one…. She’d never been tempted before, but she’d never been so rattled, either.
Her hand was growing sweaty on the handle of the knife. She couldn’t go on like this.
Forcing her fingers to unclench the weapon, she put it on the nightstand. If she did fall asleep, she didn’t want to roll over on top of it. But there was little chance of nodding off. She’d have to relax for that to happen. And she couldn’t relax. When she wasn’t thinking about Butch, she was thinking about Jonah. How ironic that he’d pop up on a day when she was so ill-equipped to deal with his reappearance in her life.
Talk about rotten luck and terrible timing….
Running a finger over each eyebrow as if she could smooth away the anxiety, she replayed the argument that had ensued after Finch had pulled away from the salvage yard.
Jonah: “What the hell’s wrong with you, Francesca? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Francesca: “Weren’t you listening? I was trying to get my purse. He has the keys to my house, my cell phone, my wallet, everything!”
Jonah: “I understand that. But you had no proof, no basis for accusing him. It was your word against his. Why provoke him?”
