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“What?”
“Where are you going? I’ll tell you about it in person. Or meet me somewhere? Your house.”
“I’m going to Amanda’s. I’m meeting my lawyer.”
“Oh. Then meet me afterward.”
“Ellie, are you sure about Brad?”
“Yes. So, your house. What time?”
“No. I’ve gotta go.”
“Delta, don’t put me off. I think the Crassleys are behind Bailey’s death, too.”
“I’ll—I’ll call you and let you know.” Then, “Thanks,” and she clicked off.
Good Lord. Her pulse was racing. Too much information in too short a time. Had Brad started following her after they ran into each other at Danny O’s? He was related to the Crassleys? Why were the Crassleys after her? She’d never done anything to them. She’d avoided them as much as anyone else. It didn’t seem right.
She drove on toward Amanda’s, glancing once more toward the spot where Zora and Brian died, though she warned herself not to. She’d told McCrae there was a conspiracy. There had to be. Her friends just couldn’t die like this.
* * *
“Dee,” McCrae said aloud, on his way back to the station. Something or someone had brought Tanner’s nick
name for Delta to the front of his mind. Dee. He’d thought it could stand for Dean Sutton or Zora DeMarco . . . But Zora was gone now, and it didn’t feel like it could be Coach Sutton. It didn’t even have to be a name . . . although Woody’s last name was Deavers . . .
He grimaced, knowing he was searching for anything other than “Dee,” as in Delta’s initial.
But what had cued that? What was his brain trying to remember? Something from high school?
He’d powered down his phone while he was in the jail. His battery was low, and he’d left the charger in his own car, which he was on his way to retrieve. Now he switched the phone back on and was gratified to have a whole seven percent of battery life left. It was enough to get him to the station, where he could switch back to his car.
Two messages. The first one from Ellie. “I want to talk to you. I’ve got information that I want to share, but I need to be in on the story. Here’s some: Brad Sumpter’s been following Delta in a black Tahoe. He says he’s watching out for her because his cousins, the Crassleys, have it in for her. Call me for more details.”
McCrae thought that over. Almost called her, but listened to the second message.
Delta’s voice, on the edge of hysteria, “I saw the black SUV! It was following me. I drove—” and it cut off.
He quickly phoned her back.
* * *
Delta drove around to the back of the Forsythe property and parked next to Amanda’s Lexus. There were lights on in the kitchen, and she stepped outside onto the patio, the breeze tugging at her hair. Memories stirred, and she looked down at her foot, faint scars still visible around her tender ankle from the injuries sustained at the barbeque.
She knocked on the door, and when nothing happened, pushed it in. “Amanda?”
No answer.
She stepped into the kitchen and listened. Nothing.
In the dining room, she found Amanda’s laptop and a notepad and papers . . . and a journal. Bailey’s journal?! She’d seen it enough times before it disappeared that she knew it instantly. Amanda had Bailey’s journal? How?
“Amanda?” she called again, the creeps coming over her. Something was wrong here.
She reached for the journal but pulled her hand back and waited, counting her heartbeats. Carefully, she reversed her steps and then saw what looked like drops of blood on the carpet. Mouth dry, she leaned down to look. The wood floor looked as if someone had hurriedly wiped up some liquid. Was that blood in the tiny cracks? Blood drops on the carpet? Amanda’s blood?
A teensy corner of blue paper was caught beneath the edge of the carpet. She was torn between finding out what it was and running for the back door. She got her fingernail around the ragged piece of paper and carefully slipped it out.
