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Not me & T at bbq
Amanda’s writing? A message for her?
An icy feeling settled between her shoulder blades.
The journal. Something in the journal had prompted the message?
Is that blood?
Where was Amanda?
Is this some kind of trap?
Delta bolted for the back door, racing for her car. She’d locked it automatically and now couldn’t seem to get her hands around the keys, digging wildly through her purse.
Was that a noise? A footfall? Was Amanda playing games with her?
It was dusk. Shadows lengthening. The wind beginning to moan. She could smell the river. The grasses.
Get a grip. Get in your car. Call McCrae.
She saw something on the patio. A black puddle?
One of the garage doors suddenly started to rise. Delta froze, her eyes darting to the garage. A woman stepped from the shadows. Amanda, finally.
Behind her Delta glimpsed the rear end of a white car. A Mercedes.
“Amanda?” she asked, suddenly not so sure about this blond woman.
“Amanda’s in her bedroom,” the woman told her.
Delta automatically looked upward.
Amanda was hanging out her bedroom window. Limp. Arms thrown forward in abandon. Eyes open.
Dead.
Delta stumbled forward, a shriek of horror bursting from her throat.
Hard hands grabbed her from behind, wrenching her shoulders back.
Clarice Billings stood in front of her, but not the Miss Billings with the blond hair clipped at her nape and the trim suits and warm smile and kind words of counsel. This Clarice was cool and hard and capable.
“Put her in the garage,” she told Delta’s captor.
Chapter 29
McCrae tried to reach Delta three times before he gave up, his calls going to her voice mail. He next tried Ellie, who also didn’t answer.
Brad Sumpter was a Crassley.
He called in and ordered an APB on Brad Sumpter, then stopped trying to make it to the station and drove directly to the Crassley compound just as it was getting dark. The dogs burst into frenzied song as soon as he stepped out. He stalked to the front door and banged on it with his fist. It was wide open, only shut by the screen, which wasn’t latched. “Booker? Harry?”
He stepped inside. Pulled his gun. Eased himself through the rooms, clearing them one by one. Headed upstairs. Messy. Dirty. But empty. Downstairs. To the basement. No one. Nothing but car parts—and a small arsenal of guns.
Back to the main floor and outside, looking over the cars. A slanting sun sent its last rays over them, touching them with gold. Nothing.
Back in the Trailblazer, he searched for Delta’s parents’ number. Found it. Called them.
