“Just my girlfriend, Hannah,” he replies, biting his lip and avoiding her eyes.
“No one else? I thought maybe one of your friends might have come to visit you,” she adds, knowing full well that Traynor has already confirmed one other person has come to visit.
“Just Hannah,” he mutters and stands to leave, holding his hands out for Traynor, who shackles him and leads him toward the door.
“Okay, thank you for your time today,” she calls out. “We’ll organize your next session soon. Your lawyer will let you know.”
Before he’s led out of the room, Connor turns and faces me, looking me dead in the eye before dropping his gaze down to his own hands. When I follow his eye line, he uses his hands to sign.
Help me. I didn’t do it.
It’s like he knows about the call I just got. Ormaybe he’s referring to the one murder he’s already been arrested for. I had no idea he could even speak sign language; it wasn’t in his file. And I’m curious to know how he knows I speak it. I hadn’t mentioned it to him; not many people know, after all.
As we make our way down the corridor, I feel Katie eyeing me. I turn and give her a small shake of my head and say nothing until we’re in my car.
“You’re scaring me,” she mutters, turning her body to face me, her purse between her feet in the footwell of the car. An envelope pokes out of the top.
“What’s that?” I ask, having not noticed it before, it seems odd for her to have it nearly falling out now.
She looks down, frowning, and pulls the letter out. She reads the slanted script and quickly folds the envelope in half, hiding the words. Her breath pulls in quickly, and she turns to face forward, watching the walls of the prison.
“Katie? Nowyou’rescaringme. What is it?”
She pauses for a moment, wetting her lips. “Nothing, it’s nothing.” She shoves the envelope back into her purse, taking a deep breath and turning back to me. “What was so urgent?”
I paraphrase the information Tilly gave me over the phone less than thirty minutes ago. “Right. Well, the police were searching Maddox’s property. They brought the cadaver dogs, and their little tails started wagging like it was theFourth of fucking July. Three bodies, of varying degrees of decomposition, but apparently no older than two years, the coroner estimates.”
“His property . . . hadn’t they searched before?”
“I thought so, too. They must have gone back for a second look.”
“And they just happen to bring cadaver dogs with them? The first murder didn’t appear to be a repeat crime. It was spur-of-the-moment, unplanned...burying bodies in your backyard suggests a level of preparedness. Something isn’t right.”
I fight the urge to agree with her. The evidence is all pointing toward Connor Maddox. The CCTV, the clothing belonging to him, and the fact that he has conveniently no memory of the murder or anything past 9 p.m. And now three bodies have been discovered on his property. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Connor Maddox is guilty as hell, even if his tears are convincing enough to look past everything we knew before I took that phone call. The fact that he’s lied about how many visitors he’s had shows he has a track record of lying.
Katie’s head is in her hands, her fingers white as they stretch through the strands of her hair.
“Katie, when was the last time you slept?” I ask softly, knowing full well she’s going to hate me for that question.
“I’m fine, Jonesy. Asking questions is part ofmy job. Something isn’t adding up, and I want to work out what it is.”
“Okay, say that’s true. Answer my question, when did you last get a full eight hours?” I cup her face, running my thumb over the dark circles that frame her forest green eyes. She doesn’t need to answer. The fact that she rests her cheek against my palm tells me she’s too exhausted to fight me on this. A fully rested Katie would never have allowed it.
She sighs, her eyes filling with tears of exhaustion.
“We need to check into the station to get a briefing. The detective will have left you a message, no doubt. After that, I’m taking you home, and I’m staying with you,” I say, after she doesn’t respond.
“Why?” she asks, her brows furrowing together.
“Because you need to be on your A game, and that means getting a good night's sleep.”
“I don’t need you to be there.”
She’s a liar. A beautiful, stubborn, will only accept help if it’s forced upon her, liar. And it’s my job, my duty, to ensure she gets through this case so she can start to heal.
“Not to blow my own trumpet, princess, but apparently you do.”
Chapter Thirteen
