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Mitch’s eyes returned to her. “How do you know Lana didn’t hang around him before she started working for his father?”
Zoe shook her head, her eyes hardening as she seemingly recalled memories she’d more than likely tried to forget.
“She told me, shortly after she got the job, that she was seeing someone new. She said he was perfect. That alone raised alarm bells. Then about a week later, she brought him over to my house—we used to do dinner every Sunday night—and I watched him carefully, as a protective sister might. Especially as a psychologist might. And you know what I thought?” she asked, but continued before he had a chance to respond. “I thought he was indeed perfect—too perfect. I thought maybe I was being over-protective,,, but I didn’t need to wait long to see his true colors. When dinner was finished I took a phone call and left them in my living room. When my call ended, and I don’t know why to this day I did this, I took my shoes off and crept through the hallway. I could hear their conversation and paused because he was mirroring everything she said. He seemed perfect in her eyes because he told her everything she wanted to hear. In addition to that, every conversation was maneuvered to become about him no matter what she tried to talk to him about.” She exhaled a long sigh. “I told her my thoughts on that, which went down about as well as you can expect from someone who thinks they’ve just met their Prince Charming. I should’ve known better than to lecture Lana. I should’ve known she’d rebel, because that’s what she’d always done with my parents, but I felt responsible for her after their death. I lost her that day... our relationship was never the same.”
Mitch mulled on this, turning it over in his mind.
“What is his name?” Mitch asked.
“Brandon Ross,” Zoe responded without hesitation.
He didn’t recall the name from Lana’s file, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t in there. “I’ll look into it, I promise,” he said.
She looked into his eyes. He didn’t need to search her eyes though—he could read her like an open book. He’d made her a promise, and unlike the world that kept on trying to break her, he was going to fulfill this promise.
“How long was it between that conversation and when Lana went missing?” he asked.
“Two months,” she said, like she’d calculated it many times before.
He nodded, collecting his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak when his phone rang.
“Mitch speaking,” he answered.
“Mitch, it’s Maria. We have another identification: Olivia Gregory. DNA identification confirmed the match. She was reported missing one year ago.”
Mitch turned his back, taking a few steps away from Zoe.
“What is her estimated time of death?” he asked, his eyebrows weaving together.
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about,” Maria said. She exhaled a long breath. “I can’t give you an accurate time of death because... she’s been embalmed. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say she was killed not too long after she was taken, embalmed immediately afterward, kept in some sort of refrigeration cell, then hung within the last six months. I’m still assessing the other bodies, but it looks like they’ve been through the same treatment except for the last two: Lana and Jane Doe. Mitch, I think this is a serial killer and he or she has knowledge in preserving corpses. Some are definitely older corpses than others, but it’s like the killer waited until there were enough bodies to hang them within a short time span.”
Mitch squeezed his eyes shut, his mind reeling. “I need to know which body was killed most recently, and how long ago you estimate that happened. If this is a serial killer, they won’t stop at seven,” he said as an image of the seven suspended bodies swaying between the trees haunted his mind.
“Jane Doe, then Lana—they were the more recent kills and the only two not embalmed. The others I’ll work on, but I need more time,” Maria said.
Mitch nodded then remembered she couldn’t see him. “I know. Thank you, Maria. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He hung up, turning back to Zoe.
“Was that about Lana?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
“Not exactly,” he said. “It was about the other bodies. We have another identification, a missing person. I need to get back to the office.”
She took a step forward in the direction of his car. “Of course,” she said, stopping a few steps in front of him. “Thank you for your time today,” she told him, her eyes beginning to glisten.
“Like I said last night, if you need anything, you call me,” he said. He wanted her to call him—not the station.
She nodded, but he sensed she wouldn’t do that. Zoe Seacombe didn’t want to be a burden to anyone—he already knew that much about her.
“We should get going,” he said, and turned his back on the woods, walking toward his car. She fell into step beside him and they walked in a comfortable silence.
Mitch took one last look over his shoulder at the woods as he climbed into the car, his eyes sweeping over the overgrown path.
Why here in Redwater?
If none of the victims were locals, why hang their bodies in Redwater?
A cold chill ran up the back of his neck the moment he asked himself that question.
