“Movie of the week,” Walt says.
“No kidding.”
I shake my head at the other info Walt shared. Warden Tennison did give the lawyer a heads-up about our questions. Scumbag.
I feel terrible not telling Walt first thing about the files I found at the farm. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I figure this out, at least to some degree, myself. As much as I adore Walt, love him, really, it truly would be like betraying my father.
Besides, Walt had big news and I let him go first.
My cop instincts warn that I’m allowing emotion—my allegiance to my father—to get in the way of the job, of the law. But I just can’t doit. Not yet. We still have another victim to interview. Not to mention Sanchez is coming back in to Nashville tomorrow. There’s time to talk about the files later. Maybe Sanchez will shed new light on that part of the puzzle.
I heard my father’s name mentioned on the news this morning. The reporter apparently did a piece on the late news last night that was picked up on all the networks this morning. The chief has already called Walt, which he downplayed when telling me. I expect a call from David any second.
Walt glances at me. “You okay, kid? You still don’t look rested.”
I open my mouth to tell him I didn’t sleep well, but he reaches for his cell. I’m grateful for the reprieve. Gives me a minute to figure out what I am going to say.
By the time I flipped through the files on Fanning’s victims last night, my vision had blurred to the point that I could no longer read the words on the pages. The new headache consumed my ability to think, pain exploding over and over in my skull. I crawled to the lower bunk in the panic room, and that’s where I woke up this morning.
There was dried vomit on the floor, so at some point I threw up. The bad taste in my mouth was more than sufficient evidence that it had come from me. Not that there was anyone else around, only me.
I rinsed my mouth and made a pot of coffee, then checked my cell for the first time since I went unconscious. David had called three times during the night. The problem is I left my cell in my father’s office. No way could I have heard it through the foot of concrete that makes up the walls of the panic room.
I called him back this morning. He didn’t answer, so I left him a voicemail telling him I had worked so late packing at the farm that I’d fallen asleep. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I just decided to stay the night. There was a nugget of truth in the story. With all that’s happened, I don’t know how he and I will ever get back to each other. The gap between us widens a little more each day.
My mind goes back to the files. There was nothing there that suggested my father had done anything other than conduct background research on each of the victims. There were no notes from meetings or sessions. No conclusions. No summaries from telephone conversations. But why would he need background information on Fanning’s victims? Since Sanchez’s name is the only one I found in his office, I have a feeling it begins and ends with him.
Sanchez has to know what my father was doing. I refuse to believe he was gathering information for Fanning prior to his release. No way he would do that.
“That was Reynolds.”
I force those dark worries away and turn to my partner. “He got the DNA results?”
Walt nodded. “Only on the B positive. The analysis confirms that it came from Fanning.”
I blow out a breath. “Well, we knew that was coming. What’s the holdup on the second type?”
“Just the timeline. We ordered the first test the day before the second. Those results will probably pop up in his system by tomorrow or Monday.”
“That’s something, I guess.” Not that we doubted Fanning was one of the people who had been injured in whatever went down in his house. There wasn’t enough blood at the scene to believe he’d died there, but there was a sufficient amount to conclude that he had sustained a serious injury.
Walt reaches for his cell again. I wait, hoping it’s Patricia Shelby and that she has decided to tell the rest of the story.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Walt says before putting his phone away. “That was Holland.”
Renae Holland is the detective working the two missing person cases we added to our list of potential trouble with Fanning. I brace for the news.
“Suzy Eldridge was found over in Knoxville with her boyfriend’s sister.” He brakes for a traffic light. “Chloe Simone is dead. They found her body this morning.”
Not what I wanted to hear but not a surprise, either. “Any chance her murder is connected to Fanning?”
Walt shakes his head. “They got the killer. The old janitor who used to work at the school. He’d been watching her for months. Bastard finally worked up the nerve to go after her. I guess he had too much time on his hands after he retired.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “Sick fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I can only imagine what the Simones are going through. How in the world can a sane person bring a child into this screwed-up world? I think of the child developing inside me, and I wonder whether I’m making the biggest mistake of my life. Will he or she blame me for dragging him or her into this shitty place?
