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“I do. But I have a feeling we’d hit the same brick wall that we got with Costabile. We need to know more before we start coming at these guys.”
“I get that,” she said. “But just to be clear, we’re in agreement that something seriously shady is going on here, right? I mean, that Costabile guy seems more like a mob capo than a police sergeant. Or maybe he’s the Don Corleone of Valley Bureau.”
Ryan looked over at her, clearly uncomfortable with her words, though he didn’t try to argue. She decided to let him off the hook and continued speaking before he could answer.
“I don’t think we’re likely to get anything useful tonight.” She sighed.
“No. We may have to pick this up tomorrow morning. By then, Lizzie will be coherent. Caldwell might have something definitive on a potential sexual assault and we can see if someone tried to pawn Michaela’s laptop or phone.”
“Okay,” Jessie said reluctantly. “One thing we know for sure. Your Chatty Cathy was right. Something definitely isn’t right with this case.”
*
Hannah was awake when Jessie got home.
The girl barely looked up from the movie she was watching when she walked in. It was almost 1 a.m. and tomorrow was a school day but Jessie didn’t have the energy to fight.
“It’s been a long night,” she said. “I’m going to bed. Can you please turn the volume down and try to get some sleep soon so you can function tomorrow?”
Hannah turned the volume down a few notches but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her half-sister’s words. Jessie stood in her bedroom doorway for a moment, debating whether to try again. But ultimately she decided it wasn’t worth it and simply closed the door.
She slept restlessly that night. That wasn’t unusual. For the last few years, she could count on near-nightly nightmares centered on one of the men who had posed a threat to her very life. They were usually a mix of her ex-husband, her father, and Bolton Crutchfield.
But tonight, like so many recent nights, her dreams centered on Hannah. Her mind was filled with a swirl of disconnected images, some of the girl in peril at the hands of a masked assailant, others in which she walked nonchalantly into danger.
But the dream that troubled her the most was the last one, in which Hannah sat at a table, smiling casually as an unidentifiable waiter served her a plate filled with dismembered body parts. She was just lifting a forkful of human flesh to her mouth when Jessie startled awake, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.
The first rays of morning sun streamed in through a crack in the curtains. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and rested her head in her hands. Her skull was pounding and she felt vaguely nauseated. As she reached for ibuprofen and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, she tried not to read too much into the dreams.
She knew from experience that they weren’t so much a predictor as a manifestation of her fears. She was having these dreams because she feared for Hannah’s future, not because of anything she was destined to become.
At least that’s what she told herself.
