Got a friend looking through property records at this very moment.
That’s the thing about being part of Metro for as long as Walt has. He knows everyone. Has serious contacts all over. I hope he introduces me to even half of them before he retires.
Another text appears on my screen.
Bingo. Hyatt inherited a cabin and ten acres way out in the middle of nowhere in Hendersonville. Road trip tomorrow.
Images of Fanning being held by one or more of his victims flash in my head. I close my eyes against the pain that follows. Damn it. Not tonight. Tonight I need to sleep. Tonight I need to make up for my negligence toward David.
I send Walt a thumbs-up and force myself to finish off the glass of milk I’d poured. I give myself a mental pat on the back for eating a decent meal for a change and decide maybe I will tear into those boxes. I search the cabinet drawers for a knife since I have no idea where a box cutter would be.
Knife in hand, I wander to the entry hall and size up the stack. Maybe if I at least get started on one and actually take a few items upstairs, David won’t be mad that I forgot dinner.
Yeah, right.
He will be pissed. Once a month his entire family gets together for dinner. The two brothers, the sister, their spouses and offspring descend upon the family home and catch up over the meal prepared by the family’s private chef. David’s parents have a full-time chef, two housekeepers, and two gardeners. Oh yeah, David has basically the same staff, only the cook is part-time and maybe not an actual chef.
These are things I should be grateful for, and somehow I can only see the waste and self-importance of living so large. Why did I not notice this before? Giving myself grace, I spent more time with David at the farm than at his house until I moved in. Still, I should have done a better job of sizing up the situation the first time I went to dinner at his parents’ palatial home.
Is this my way of finding a reason to break up? This sudden need to pick apart every aspect of David’s lifestyle? Am I subconsciously looking for a way out?
Pushing the worries aside, I reach for a box, prepared to slice through the tape holding the flaps. But the flaps are already loose on this one. When did I do that?
The security system chimes and announces:Garage door open.
David’s home.
I lay the knife aside and reach for the box. None of them are labeled, so I have no clue what’s inside. I’ve barely pulled one flap open when he appears in the dining room, jacket slung over his shoulder.
“You forgot.”
“Sorry. I don’t know how I did. It was on my calendar.” I shake my head, infusing as much contrition as possible into my voice. I really am sorry. I don’t want to embarrass him in front of his family, and I’m certain my inability to show up for their monthly dinners is very awkward for him. “My only excuse is that it has been a crazy week.”
“I sent you several texts.”
He keeps his voice low and even, but I hear the anger simmering beneath all that control. He’s seriously pissed. Hurt, too. I guess I don’t blame him.
“I didn’t see them until I got home.” I reach for another of the flaps.
“What held you up?” He moves closer now. “You realize my niece really wanted to hear some of your competition stories. She’s starting her dressage training this summer.”
Guilt pings me again. I forgot that as well. “I’m really sorry, but we were interviewing Fanning’s victims. We have no choice but towork with their schedules. When I’m in an interview, I have my phone silenced. Sometimes I forget to change the setting after.”
“Oh yeah.” He glances upward in obvious frustration and then shakes his head. “Interviewing potential suspects is far more important than dinner with my family.”
I drop my hands from the box and take a breath. I am not going to fight with him. Clearly, that’s what he wants. “Not ‘suspects,’ ‘persons of interest,’ and, for the record, I’m a cop,” I remind him. “It’s my job. We have possibly two missing persons. One or both may be gravely injured or dead. Time is our enemy.”
“At least one of them is a pedophile.” The words come out a low roar. “Who gives a damn if someone dragged him off somewhere to torture and murder him? He deserves it.”
I wish I could say that I don’t feel the same way, but I can’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. “It’s my job. Whatever one or both are, the law protects them as much as it does anyone else.”
He stares at me. I’m not sure whether it’s disbelief or defeat on his face. Whatever it is, he is far from finished.
“Why did you sleep in the guest room last night?”
I frown, then realize he has no way of knowing the answer. “I had the worst migraine of my life yesterday. When I got home I had to close myself up in a dark room. It was awful.”
Sympathy flashes across his face. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He shrugs. “Of course, I wouldn’t know because we never talk anymore.”
