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“How do you know that?” Mettner said. “About the nurse waiting for Sharon to come in and then calling her?”
“Because that nurse called me at home at exactly seven thirty-five and told me. Then she asked if I could hightail it over here to help out. When I got here at eight, it was packed from one end to the other.”
Josie said, “Do you know if anyone tried to contact Sharon after that?”
For the first time since they’d shown up, concern broke through the stress of being overworked and busy. “Wait,” said Bryce, holding up a hand. “Did somethinghappento Sharon?” He put great emphasis on the word “happen,” as if it was some kind of code word for something unspeakable. Actually, in Josie’s experience, it was exactly that. People always used it to refer to death. It sounded less harsh and final to say “something happened” than to say this person died.
She said, “We’re afraid so. Sharon was found dead near Kettlewell Creek a few hours ago.”
All the color drained from his face. Slowly, he pushed the mouthpiece back to his lips. One trembling hand reached for the phone receiver and pressed a button. Into the small microphone, he said, “Renee, I need to take a break. Can I send the calls over to you for ten minutes? Thanks.” He clicked another button and then looked back up at them. In a raspy voice, he asked, “What happened to her?”
Mettner said, “We’re not entirely sure yet. That’s why we’re here, trying to figure out when she was last seen.”
His chest rose and fell with exaggerated motions.
Josie said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Sorry, nothing like this has ever happened here before and Sharon, well, she’s just a kid.” Bryce rolled his eyes. “I’m just a kid, too, I guess. I’m only a few years older than her but she’s akidkid, if you know what I mean?”
Mettner said, “I’m afraid we don’t.”
“She’s really sweet and innocent. Life hasn’t…messed with her yet.”
Josie thought about what Rosalie had said about Sharon’s mother. Life had messed with Sharon. It just hadn’t ruined her kind nature. Josie knew what it was like to spend your early childhood with someone addicted to drugs. She was quite certain that Sharon’s mother lacked the pure evil that Josie’s own fake mother had possessed, but regardless, addiction was a challenge for any family and, for young children, it could often be confusing and even traumatizing.
“Was she murdered?” Bryce asked.
Josie glanced back at the three people in the waiting room. None were paying attention. The couple waiting for their dog bent their heads toward one another, having a private, tearful conversation. The other woman stared into her cat’s cage, whispering reassurances. Turning back to the desk, Josie said, “We don’t know any details yet. Can you tell us whether anyone had any contact with Sharon after the nurse made the initial call to her?”
“I know that the nurse called a couple more times and left messages. Sharon never called back. I think a couple of the techs wanted to call her grandmother, but I don’t think anyone did. Like I said, it got crazy busy in here. Oh, no. Oh God. You don’t think—if someone had called earlier—”
Mettner said, “We don’t know what happened to her. It’s impossible to say whether making contact with Mrs. Eddy would have had any effect on the outcome.”
Bryce didn’t look convinced. Josie said, “The nurse who called Sharon—is she here?”
He shook his head. “She left a few hours ago.”
“Is there anyone here right now who was close to Sharon?” asked Mettner.
“Right now? I don’t think so. Sharon worked day shift.”
Josie took a business card from her pocket and handed it to him. “There is a possibility that we’ll need to speak with anyone on the day shift who knew or was friendly with Sharon. Either one of us or our colleagues will be back tomorrow during the day to speak with other members of your staff. In the meantime, if you or anyone else thinks of anything that might be helpful to figuring out what happened to Sharon, please call.”
FIVE
They walked back to their vehicles in silence with Josie’s flashlight leading the way. In spite of the light and Mettner’s presence beside her, it felt as though the dark was chasing her somehow. She had the distinct and eerie feeling that Sharon Eddy’s last moments had played out in this same silent void. The question was, had someone stalked and killed her, or was her death merely an unfortunate accident? They wouldn’t know until the autopsy was complete.
Josie followed Mettner back to the Denton PD headquarters, pulling in beside him in the municipal parking lot at the back of the building. It was a huge, three-story, gray stone behemoth that sat in the center of town. Its ornate masonry, double casement arched windows, and bell tower made it look more like a castle than a police station. Formerly the town hall, it had been one of the first buildings to be listed on the city’s historic register. Josie and Mettner entered on the ground floor and walked up two flights of steps to the second-floor great room. At this hour only a couple of uniformed officers used the common desks to fill out their shift paperwork. The permanent desks belonged to the investigative team: Josie, Mettner, Noah, and Detective Gretchen Palmer. They had all been pushed together to make one large rectangle. To the side of them was the only other permanent desk, which belonged to Denton PD’s press liaison and Mettner’s girlfriend, Amber Watts. She was gone for the day. The Chief’s office was just off the great room, but his door was closed. No light seeped from under it. Tomorrow, he’d be briefed on the Sharon Eddy case.
Josie helped Mettner with the reports and the warrants, spending a few hours at her desk before she left him to finish his shift so she could go home and get some sleep. Her house was silent when she arrived. Everyone had gone to bed, including Trout. From the bottom of the steps she could hear his snores, even behind their closed bedroom door. In the kitchen, Josie helped herself to a cold slice of day-old pizza, still too wired to sleep. She sat at the table and used her phone to pull up Sharon Eddy’s social media profiles again. She’d looked through them at the stationhouse but hadn’t found anything that raised red flags. Like so many people her age, Sharon had a lot set to public. Photos and videos of herself doing just about everything. A documentary of her life. The foods she ate, the clothes she wore, the shoes she bought, the animals she cared for at work. There were photos of her out with friends on the weekends, but it was mostly innocent—or she only posted the innocent parts because she was still technically too young to drink.
One photo taken the previous Mother’s Day showed Sharon sitting side by side on a park bench with a woman whose face was almost identical to hers. This woman was older and thinner with red hair. There was nearly a foot of space between them. Their posture was identical—arms folded, legs crossed. Closed off. The two of them stared at the camera with weak smiles. The unenthusiastic caption read simply:Mother’s Day. Josie wondered if Sharon had posted the photo of herself with her mother because she felt obligated. There were no other photos of the two of them on any of Sharon’s social media platforms. There were plenty of photos of Sharon with her grandmother, though. In every single one of them, Sharon hugged Rosalie. They beamed at the camera. The captions read:The best;My ride or die;The amazing lady that made me who I am today; andMy favorite.
Josie’s heart ached to think of the grief Rosalie Eddy had in front of her. She tossed her phone aside with a heavy sigh. It slid across the table, bumping against Trinity’s laptop and dislodging a thick file folder she’d left on top of it. Josie lunged across the table, fingers clamping the edge of the file before it slid off the table and spilled its contents all over the floor. She pulled it closer, reading the name Trinity had scrawled on its tab:Jana Melburn, Everett County, PA. Most people did everything digitally these days, but Trinity still insisted on printing out any and all materials she had gathered on the cases she featured on her show. A photograph fluttered to the floor. A young woman with curly flaxen-blonde hair and a heart-shaped face wearing a cap and gown stood on a football field, flowers clutched in her arms. Crowds of other graduates and their families milled behind her. She stood between a man and a woman, visible only in profile as each of them planted a kiss on one of her cheeks. A happy glow reddened her face. Was this Jana? Were those her parents? They seemed young to have a high school graduate. Trinity had said that Jana’s foster sister was the one who contacted the show. Were these Jana’s foster parents?
It was tempting to open the file and review it. Josie’s fingers itched as she returned the photo to the file and then tucked the edges of several pages flush with the folder. She carefully placed it back on top of the computer. Trinity would gladly share this with her—typically everything Trinity and her staff uncovered or had access to was public record anyway—but Josie didn’t want to be presumptuous.
A creak on the stairs distracted her from the file. Seconds later, Noah appeared in the kitchen doorway, bare-chested and wearing a pair of sweatpants. Even after all the years they’d been together and all the times she’d seen him naked, her eyes were still drawn to his muscular chest and the thick, gnarled circle of scar tissue on his right shoulder. She’d shot him once. It was long before they were together, during a time when a vulnerable young girl’s life hung in the balance and Josie wasn’t sure who to trust. It turned out that Noah had been one of the good guys. He’d covered for her, helped her in that investigation and ultimately forgiven her. Still, she had not forgiven herself.
