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Noah’s body tensed. His voice was husky when he replied, “I guess we know each other pretty well then.”
“No matter how many times we tell each other that those things weren’t our fault,” Josie said. “We’ll never believe one another, will we?”
For both of them, the self-blame would always be there, rooted in their psyches. Immutable truths.
His fingers tangled in her hair. “Unfortunately. But you know, if you asked me what my wife’s greatest failure was, that’s not what I would say.”
She shifted so she could look up at him. “Really? What do you think is my greatest failure?”
He smiled. Dropping the remote, he traced the scar on her face again. “It was not marrying me sooner.”
THIRTY-NINE
By Tuesday morning, the number of reporters outside the police station had grown exponentially. With assurances from Chief Chitwood that he and Amber would handle the press, Josie and Noah headed out to speak with Trudy Dawson again. Heavy gray clouds filled the horizon by the time they got to the squat, single-story flat-roofed building in South Denton’s commercial district that served as the Collinses’ practice. It sat on its own parcel of land with a small asphalt parking lot. Only one car was parked in the spot nearest the front door. Josie parked next to it.
The office door was unlocked. Noah pushed it open and held it for Josie. She took two steps inside and found a scene eerily familiar to the one they’d found in the Collinses’ dining room just three days earlier. There was no blood, but the other parallels were unmistakable.
She said, “Noah.”
Her service weapon was in her hands. Behind her, she heard Noah’s holster unsnap, then the sound his gun made when he slid it out of its holster. Her breathing slowed. Quietly, he said, “Let’s clear it and then we’ll call in the cavalry.”
Josie nodded. The front door of the office opened directly into a huge reception area. The walls were painted mauve, decorated with close-up photographs of flowers. Together, they moved past two rows of chairs bracketing a narrow coffee table toward a massive reception desk. Behind it sat Trudy Dawson, slumped in the chair, her chin against her chest. To the side of the desk, a dark hallway gaped. Noah kept his pistol trained on it while Josie reached beneath Trudy’s curtain of hair and pressed two fingers to her throat. The moment she felt the perfect stillness of Trudy’s body, she knew she wouldn’t find a pulse.
She looked at Noah and shook her head. He nodded and signaled toward the hallway. Together, they worked their way through it, clearing each room as they came to it: two offices, a file room, bathroom, breakroom, and two closets. Finally, a rear entrance, locked. There was no one there. Nothing even looked amiss.
Except poor Trudy.
They holstered their weapons and returned to the parking lot, careful not to disturb any more of the scene than they already had. Josie took a slow walk around the building while Noah called dispatch. Outside, everything looked untouched, except the surveillance cameras. There were four in all, one on each side of the building. All of their lenses had been covered with black spray paint. Snowflakes began to fall lightly. When she returned to the car, Noah held open the door. “Get in,” he said. “Stay warm. It’s going to be hours before we can go back in.”
Josie’s breakfast churned in her stomach as she watched vehicles arrive one by one and pack the small parking lot. Two cruisers, the ERT SUV, an ambulance, Dr. Feist’s small pickup truck and finally, Gretchen in an unmarked car. She got out and walked over to Josie and Noah’s vehicle, climbing into the back seat. “Mett caught another call. Unattended death. What do you have?”
Josie and Noah brought her up to speed. When they finished, Gretchen sighed. “All right. We’ll have to try to get the footage from the practice cameras to see if we can see the person who spray-painted them.”
“I doubt we’ll get anything,” said Noah. “But we can try.”
“I’ll go ahead and collect surveillance footage from the other businesses along this road to see if anything turns up.” A creak came from the back seat. Gretchen tapped a pen against Josie’s shoulder. “We’ll get him, boss. It’s what we do.”
“Thanks, Gretchen,” Noah said. Once she exited the car, he took out his phone. Josie listened as he called the officer tasked with sitting outside of Archie Gamble’s house. In the confines of the car, she could hear the officer’s tinny voice. Gamble hadn’t so much as poked his head outside since he returned home the night before. After he hung up, they sat in silence, watching ERT members come in and out of the office.
Josie thought about Trudy’s mother. The ache in her heart that had started when she discovered Trudy slumped behind the desk worsened. Trudy had been so devoted to her mother. Alzheimer’s was a horrible, ruthless disease. Josie had admired Trudy’s determination to care for her mother at home. Now what would happen to the poor woman? If Trudy’s brother didn’t take the reins, she would have to go into a facility. Either way, life as she knew it was over. Josie said, “We need someone to go to Trudy’s house. Her mother has Alzheimer’s and can’t be left alone, remember? There’s a day nurse, but—”
Noah covered her hand with his. “Let me make some calls. I’ll take care of it.”
He must have sensed that she wanted to be alone because he got out of the car to make the calls. Finally, the ERT gave them the go-ahead to enter the building. They found crime scene equipment in the back of Hummel’s SUV and suited up. Inside, Dr. Feist was already at Trudy’s side, using gloved hands to gingerly lift Trudy’s chin. Noah stood in front of the desk while Josie rounded it. “Same type of ligature marks,” Dr. Feist said, pointing to the purplish-red striations circling Trudy’s throat.
Dr. Feist continued, “It’s almost identical to the injuries found on Eve Bowers’s body. Looks like he used the same type of ligature.”
Noah said, “Any guesses as to time of death?”
“She hasn’t been dead very long, I can tell you that. She’s only now starting to go into rigor. Based on my initial findings of her temperature and the temperature of this room, I’d say she was probably killed around eight or eight thirty this morning.”
Noah said, “The day nurse at her home said she left at seven thirty this morning.”
Josie said, “She would have gotten here by eight at the latest.”
They had found her around nine fifteen. It was now after eleven.
Josie turned her attention to the items on the desk. The laptop screen was dark. The phone’s receiver rested in its cradle. The photographs on the desk showed Trudy Dawson with an older woman and a younger man. Her mother and brother, no doubt.
