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“I’m fine.” Pursing her lips, she wiped the inside of his cheek and quickly replaced the swab in the vial.
Shaw was studying her closely. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“I’m here to help, Deputy Bennett. Call me anytime.”
With a wave, he turned. As he crossed the lot, his cell rang. He stopped, and a sudden shimmer of tension rippled through his body. He spoke in hushed, clipped tones she couldn’t make out as he started walking quickly away from her. His expression was angry when he vanished through the facility’s front door.
What the hell was that about?
She rubbed the back of her neck and got into her vehicle. She dialed her mother’s number and the call went to voicemail. “Mom, call me. I’ve got a few questions for you about Bruce Shaw.”
It was eleven when Nevada dropped Macy off at her motel room. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You can still stay with me.”
“I won’t get any sleep,” she said.
“Is that a bad thing?”
She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips. “See you in the morning, Nevada.”
“The last time I dropped you off was at the airport. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call and hear you’re in a coma.”
She searched his face. “I’m a big girl, Nevada.”
“Who likes to take risks.”
“Like I told Ramsey, it’s who I am.”
He frowned, shaking his head, and she knew there were more thoughts swirling in his head. “I’ll wait until you get inside.”
She grabbed her pack, got out of the car, and crossed toward her motel door. She slid her key through the lock and pushed open the door, doing a quick search of the room. She glanced back at Nevada’s car and raised her hand to give him the all clear. He blinked his headlights, and he waited until she closed and locked the door.
Macy then pushed a heavy chair in front of the door. She removed her weapon, set it on the small vanity by the bathroom, and kicked off her boots. She turned on the hot spray of the shower and stripped. She stepped under the hot water and nearly whimpered with relief as the water pelted down on her skin.
She lingered until she’d chased the chill from her bones and then, out of the shower, toweled off. She slid on an FBI T-shirt, set her gun, phone, and charger on the nightstand, and grabbed her pack before scooting under the covers.
The next half hour was spent on the laptop writing up case notes and compiling a list of witnesses to interview tomorrow. Email came next. There was a message from Andy. The subject line read “Cindy Shaw.”
Andy had accessed the motor vehicles records and found a driver’s license issued to Cindy Shaw in 2004. The color photograph showed a young girl with long dark hair, a wide smile, and a sprinkle of freckles that didn’t soften the wariness in her brown eyes. Macy had seen countless runaways with the same look.
Cindy looked like Tobi, Beth, and the rape victims. “Jesus, kid. What happened to you?”
Macy scrolled down the email and saw Andy’s notation that there were no other records either criminal or public on Cindy.
She closed her laptop and pinched the bridge of her nose. She laid her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound was faint at first, but it persisted. It was the sound of fingernails clawing into dirt. Someone was trying to dig out of a grave.
“I’m still here,” Cindy said. “Don’t leave me behind like everyone else.”
“What do you want?” Macy asked.
“Find me like you did the others. I want to come home.”
“What others?”
“Find me.”
“Where the hell are you?”
A slamming car door outside her room woke Macy up, and she bolted upright in her bed. Heart pounding, she searched the room expecting the worst. She grabbed her gun and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The chair remained in front of the locked door.
“Of all the dead people I’d like to have a conversation with, you’re not it, Cindy Shaw.” She ran her hand over her hair. “How about you, Pop? Why don’t you chime in? You owe me a few good conversations. And Mom? Could use a good word or two.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, set her gun down beside her, and buried her head in her hands. “And now I’m inviting my dead parents to speak to me. I have officially lost my mind.”
There was a logical reason for all this. She’d bet an MRI and a good neurologist could explain it. Even a shrink might be welcome at this point. Anyone who could explain why her brain was now processing facts in the voice of a dead girl she’d never met.
Gingerly, she lay back against the pillows, and for several minutes, maybe even a half hour, she stared at the white popcorn ceiling. Slowly, her racing heart shifted down a notch, and the unnatural buzzing energy seeped from her body. Her eyes closed. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday, November 20, 11:10 p.m.
Brooke drove down the long drive that led to her house. Every muscle in her back ached. Her stomach growled with hunger. She expected to see the glow of the television in her mother’s room, but the house was dark.
She climbed the front steps and let herself in the front door. A nightlight glowing nearby was supposed to make Brooke’s late-night arrivals easier and prevent her from tripping over whatever size-eleven shoes Matt left lying around.
The house was peacefully quiet, and she was glad. She walked back down the center hallway to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a plate of chicken, rice, and broccoli wrapped in plastic with a sticky note attached that read EAT!
Brooke smiled as she grabbed the plate and popped it in a small microwave. She plugged in two minutes and hit “Start.” While the machine hummed and the plate turned, she opened the fridge and pulled out a soda. She twisted off the top and took a long pull before holding the cold bottle to her head.
Footsteps had her turning to find Matt standing there. He was wearing gym pants, a basketball T-shirt, and his dark hair stuck up at the crown of his head.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it home,” Matt said.
“I had to take a break. Is Grandma upstairs asleep?”
“No.” Matt yawned. “She got called in to work. She knows I can take care of myself.”
Of course her son could take care of himself. But having come from the scene of her first homicide, she didn’t like the idea of him being alone. “Did Grandma say when she’d be back?”
“She said she would drive me to school in the morning.”
Brooke stepped closer and hugged her son. His muscles tensed and he tried to pull away, but she held tight. Not only to him but
to the memory of when he’d been a little baby and wanted nothing more than to cuddle. Finally, he relaxed into her embrace. There was still some of the little boy in her young man.
Brooke kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for letting your mom give you a hug.”
He wiggled out of her arms. “I hear there was a murder.”
His statement brought the outside world crashing back. “There was. A girl not much older than you.”
“How did she die?”
Brooke walked to the stove, checked the lid of a copper kettle, and then turned the burner on. “I can’t say. When I can, we’ll talk about it.”
“Seems weird that would happen in Deep Run.”
“It happens everywhere, son,” she said. “There’s no such thing as really safe in the world. It’s an illusion, which is why I need for you to be very careful.”
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
She looked over at her son, this young man, and knew he was right. “Point taken.”
When he ran his fingers through his thick dark hair, she saw the scrapes on his knuckles. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing.”
“Something happened.” She crossed immediately, taking his hand in hers. He tried to pull away, but she held tight. “Were you in a fight?”
He shrugged in a way that reminded her so much of herself at that age. She had had all the answers and then some. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Was it Tyler?”
“He’s got it in for me, but I can take care of him.”
“Fights are a big deal, Matthew. They can get you kicked out of school.”
“It was just a scuffle with the guys. It’s not a big deal.”
The kettle whistled, screaming and hissing until Brooke lifted it from the burner. She didn’t bother to reach for a teacup, her mind now distracted. “Matt, you better get to bed. I’ll stick around tonight and get you to school in the morning.”
“Grandma said she’d do it.”
“I’ll do it.” She kissed him on the forehead and forced a smile. “Go on.”
“Okay, Mom.”
When she heard his bedroom door close, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and stared at the neatly made bed. Instead of turning in, she sat on the edge. She turned to a picture of Matt and her taken months after he was born. Her long dark hair flowing around her face, she was a kid herself. Her mother, her pastor, and her friends had all told her to put the child up for adoption. And she honestly had considered it. To this day, it pained her to think of it. She hadn’t wanted to see him when he was born. She had been exhausted, terrified, and humiliated to be a seventeen-year-old unwed mother.
