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The baby’s cries intensified.
“I really have to go!”
Reed asked, “Are you willing to come to Savannah and give a statement?”
“Sure, yeah. I’m married, got myself a family now. A little daughter of my own. In fact, I’m babysitting her now. I called when the wife was out, didn’t want to upset her if she overheard me cuz she doesn’t know about any of this, but, yeah, I could probably drive up on Friday, probably, after work. I just don’t want Sharon to find out. She’d be beyond pissed.”
As if Reed could keep a lid on this. No way. But he didn’t have time to warn Kaminiski that the cat was already out of the bag, and probably wouldn’t have if he’d had the chance. He heard the baby crying again, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“I really gotta go. I’ll come to Savannah. On Friday,” Kaminiski promised, and then he was gone.
Reed’s mind was whirling, he had a million questions to ask Kaminiski, the first witness who had seen what had happened to the Duval girls. Maybe, just maybe, they would finally be able to put this case to rest.
As he was backing out of the drive, another text came in from Nikki and he hit the brakes. For a second he felt relief, but it was short-lived as he skimmed the message:
At the Marianne Inn. Settler’s Road. Get here fast. Be careful!
He pushed the button to speed dial her and held the phone to his ear. The call went directly to voice mail.
Crap. What did that mean?
Nothing good.
The Marianne Inn. What the hell was she doing out there?
The answer was pretty damned simple:
She was in trouble.
Serious trouble.
Possibly life-threatening trouble.
Again.
* * *
Delacroix’s head was pounding.
Anticipation fired her blood, but she slowed her car as she eyed the screen on the GPS, the red dot on the GPS screen pulsing, but not moving.
It didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to realize Nikki had ditched her car.
Damn that woman!
Delacroix had waited too long.
All the planning and all the finessing to get to this point. For what? So that Nikki Gillette could fuck it up?
No way.
This was her case. More importantly, it was her life. She pounded the steering wheel with her fist, then caught herself. Pull yourself together. You can do this. You have weapons. You have training. More than that you have the need to free yourself of this, the pulse-pounding desire to see this through. You can handle it. Use what you know. Practice the patience the nuns forced upon you. Control yourself like your pious parents demanded of you. Focus the way your instructors explained to you. And examine the situation with the tools all those psychologists gave you. You can handle this. You know what you have to do.
She touched the locket on the chain that encircled her neck. It gave her strength. Calm. Centered her. She concentrated on her breathing. Slowing it deliberately. Focusing.
Her cell phone beeped again.
On the small screen, she saw Pierce Reed’s name.
