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Macy had worked enough cases to know when she needed to ease up. She might not like Greene or his methods, but until this case was closed, she might need him. “I’m only in town for five days, Mr. Greene, but you’ll be seeing more of me.”
“Stop by anytime. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Neither Nevada nor Macy spoke as they left the house. Only when they were seated in the front seat of his vehicle did he ask, “What’s your assessment?”
She clicked her seat belt in place. “Maybe we should test his DNA and compare it to our offender.”
“Greene? Jesus, Macy, that’s kicking the hornet’s nest.”
She shrugged. “If he didn’t do it, he has a good idea who did. During my research on the town, I saw that the county named the school gymnasium after him. That tells me he did more than show up at the games and keep the peace. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was protecting one of the players.”
When Nevada dropped Macy off at the police station, it was nearly ten and she was exhausted. Her leg ached as she got into her car, but she was damn careful to make sure Nevada didn’t see her discomfort. She drove to the motel close to the highway where she’d reserved a room for five nights. As she pulled up in front of the motel’s office, she realized the establishment didn’t quite live up to its website.
Macy pushed through the door and approached the front desk. She set her purse on the counter and dug out her wallet and ID. “A room for Crow.”
The receptionist studied her and then typed her name into the computer. “Five nights?”
“Correct.”
“Sign here,” he said.
She filled in the registration card.
“You must be the FBI agent,” he said, putting the set of keys on the counter. “You look like a fed.”
She scooped up the keys. “Somehow I don’t think that’s a good thing.”
“You here to find Tobi Turner’s killer?”
“Not really at liberty to discuss my cases.”
She grabbed her purse and left the office. She drove around the side of the two-story building and parked in front of room 107. Grabbing her roller bag, she walked fifteen feet to her room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The scent of pine cleaner nearly overpowered the faint aroma of cigarette smoke.
She locked the door behind her, secured the chain, and closed the thick vinyl curtains. She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over a chair by a small round table. Running her hand over her hair, she rolled her neck from side to side as she surveyed the room.
How many places like this had she stayed at while with the bureau? She guessed there was an unused Bible in the nightstand, four white towels in the bathroom, paper-thin toilet paper on the roller, and an ice bucket she doubted had been really washed in years.
She sat on the edge of the bed and with a groan leaned over and unlaced her boots before she kicked them off. She rose and pulled the comforter and sheets back before she lay down. In her early days, she’d carried a blue light that detected the presence of human fluids. Bottom line, she kept her socks on, didn’t use the comforter, and carried a fresh supply of wipes in her suitcase for cleaning the channel selector and the phone’s receiver.
She removed her gun from its holster and placed it on the pillow next to her right and dominant hand. As she lay back, a sigh escaped her lips. The good thing about being dog-ass tired was she didn’t worry about channel selectors, ice buckets, or counting sheep. Her body throbbed as she melted into the soft mattress. Her eyes drifted closed.
The day’s events replayed slowly in her mind, but the image that kept returning was Mike Nevada standing at the entrance to the Wyatt barn. Nevada and Ramsey respected each other, and as the new sheriff he needed this case solved. He basically was Ramsey’s eyes and ears on this one.
What surprised her was Nevada looking pretty at ease. The Nevada she knew was a hard-charging agent. She always figured him as a lifer being forced out at the mandatory retirement age.
What the hell had changed for him?
The question turned over in her mind slower and slower as her grip on consciousness loosened until finally she tumbled into darkness. She didn’t fight it. Sleep would recharge her brain and body, and she’d be sharper in the morning. Just a few hours of sleep and then she’d be up early.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound was distant and easily dismissed at first.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound grew louder. More insistent. Instinct had her fumbling for her weapon as she heard a woman’s faint whisper.
“Help me. Find me.”
As her fingers groped the cool sheets and then the rough texture of her weapon’s grip, a heavy weight pressed on her body, pinning her to the bed. Her heart raced faster.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
“Who are you?” Macy asked.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Silence settled and the sounds faded.
“Who are you?” An anxious energy rolled over her.
And then, very quietly, “Please find me.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Please find me.”
Macy sat up in her bed. Her shirt was soaked in sweat, and her heart pounded against her chest like a battering ram. She looked around the room and saw her weapon lying on the pillow where she had left it. The room was bathed in shadows. She was alone. Still, she listened and waited. What the hell?
“I’m losing my damn mind.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday, November 19, 1:00 a.m.
Under bright stars, Brooke Bennett stood outside the barn where the remains of Tobi Turner had been found last week. She hadn’t been to the Wyatt barn since the day in middle school when she and Cindy Shaw had ridden their bikes out here.
Cindy had spotted a large gray circular beehive. A few bees had buzzed, and the core had hummed with movement. Cindy had kicked a few rocks and then had reached for a piece of roughly hewed wood. “I dare you to hit that nest.”
“Why would I hit the nest?” Brooke had said.
“You saying you’re too scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
Cindy had arched a brow. “Then take a swing.”
The doubt in Cindy’s eye had irritated Brooke. She had been afraid, but she had never backed down from a challenge. “Give me the wood.”
Cindy had held back. “You sure?”
Brooke had snatched it away, cocked the wood like a Louisville Slugger, and whacked the gray cylindrical cone hard. The brittle hive had hit the dirt with a dull thud and split open right down the center. Cindy had run as the bees, fierce and angry, had swarmed. Then, sensing Brooke, they had zeroed in on their intruder.
Brooke had run screaming from the barn, her legs and arms covered with welts. Cindy, a safe distance away, had laughed so hard she had cried.
Brooke had always thought that trouble found some people, while others went looking for it. Cindy had gone looking for trouble. She had been a provocateur, but had always been careful to delegate. To her credit, Cindy had known where the line was drawn.
Brooke clicked on her flashlight and crossed the interior of the barn to the red crime scene tape. As she stared into the partially dismantled chute, she thought about Cindy. By the time Brooke and Cindy had reached high school, they had been running in very different circles. Cindy had been cynical at seventeen. She had drunk hard, and sex had been as automatic as breathing.
But those last few days before Cindy had vanished, she had been stirring up a different kind of trouble. Cindy had been drinking heavily and claimed she knew things. Terrible things.
And when Cindy Shaw had vanished, it should have been a red flag. Tobi Turner had been missing, and the entire town had been searching for her. But no one had cared that the loud troublemaker was finally gone. Brooke knew firsthand how cruel Cindy could be, and she hadn’t cared either.
Brooke knelt by the grave and picked up a handful of dirt,
letting it trickle through her fingers. She had always believed Cindy really had run off. The girl had threatened to do it often enough. It had been a surprise to no one.
But now Brooke doubted herself. She saw Cindy through an older, wiser lens and forgave the girl. Now she wanted to know what really happened to Cindy Shaw.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
That’s what Greene would say if she asked him about Cindy. It’s what he had said about the untested rape kits when she found them in the evidence room. When she had pressed Greene a second time about the kits, he had told her to back off. In that moment, something inside of her had changed.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
That advice had rattled in her brain when she had risked a secure future in the sheriff’s department and leaked the information about the rape kits to Nevada and then the media. She’d expected the feds to investigate. She hadn’t expected him to run against Greene. Or to win.
Brooke crossed the frost-covered ground, following the ring of her flashlight to her car. As she reached for the door handle, the wind rustled in the trees. Her hand slid to her weapon as she searched the darkness. She watched for signs of trouble in the sway of the trees and tall grass. Her skin prickled. She tightened her fingers on the grip of her weapon.
Finally, she pushed aside the unexpected case of nerves and got into her car. As she started the engine, she searched the horizon one last time before she shook off the remnants of worry and drove the five miles to her house.
