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Goran gave a sharp nod. “Okay, then. We’ll be in constant contact via text and phone, and both teams will have access to the cameras on Arnett’s house. Anything I’m missing?”
They all exchanged grim glances and shook their heads.
Jo stood. “Then let’s do this.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-SEVEN
When Ossokov’s mother drove back up her driveway, I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or annoyed.
All along I’d struggled with blaming her. She was his mother after all, and it was hard for me to believe that a man who could do the things Cooper Ossokov did had been brought up by a loving, moral woman. But I’d recognized the pain in her face when they took her son to prison. Whatever her role in his creation, she’d more than paid for her crimes. Everything she loved had been taken from her.
Still, it made everything more difficult for me. If they’d arrested her, I could have breathed easier; if they thought they’d caught their culprit, they wouldn’t still be actively searching. But if they were still looking, the list of possible suspects was impossibly small. It was only a matter of when they’d stumble on the right answer. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down for a second.
I spent most of the day putting the finishing touches in place. Living out of a suitcase was less than ideal, but at least it made clean-up fast and easy. After I checked out of the motel, I drove down to Connecticut to purchase the last items I’d need and to do a final plate swap. It wouldn’t help for long—even cops in different states shared information these days. But they wouldn’t be looking so far afield just yet, and the delay it caused might be crucial.
As I drove, I watched the cameras via my cell phone, perched in its holder on my dash. When the police showed up at Lacey’s, I pulled over so I could watch closely. When they came back out with her she was carrying an overnight bag and had wrapped herself in a scarf and glasses like she was avoiding the paparazzi. I snorted—that’s the difference between journalists and law enforcement. Not all journalists, of course—but the penny-ante wannabes like this one who trade in sensationalism—when push came to shove, they ran rather than put themselves in danger for a story. Because it’s easy to be a champion of justice for a cause you know nothing about, to advocate for a man you’ve never met, to stand up for a ‘truth’ when you have no idea what the truth is. At least Arnett had the courage to refuse to be chased out of his house, and the nerve to face the danger head-on. I could respect him for that, at least.
As I pulled back on the road, I recalculated and adjusted my timings. Despite supposedly being on temporary leave, Arnett had gone in to work today, so I needed to take care of everything before he got home. They’d almost certainly be using him for bait again tonight. But I had some bait of my own, and it was time to skewer it onto the hook.
DAY SIX
CHAPTERFIFTY-EIGHT
Can’t tell you how much better stakeouts are when you have a nice, clean bathroom within reach, Jo texted Arnett from the overstuffed chintz armchair in the Arnett’s blue-and-yellow guest bedroom, where she sat in night-lighted darkness.
The central heating’s nice, too, Bob replied from the master bedroom.
Before tonight, I would have mocked you mercilessly for having night lights in your house, but I’d have broken my neck without them.
She checked the time—just past midnight. So far, so good.
Laura got ’em for future grandkids, he replied.
Something about that panged, like a floodlight suddenly shining into dusty corners. The threat they were facing was real—this killer had taken lives in brutal, direct ways, and something about Arnett’s eagerness to throw himself in front of it unsettled her. He had a responsibility as a member of law enforcement, that was true, but he also had a responsibility as a husband and father—and hopefully, a future grandfather. They were both familiar with the struggle to balance professional and personal responsibilities, and she’d watched him strive, conflicted, for compromises and solutions. But now—it was like a soldier who was too willing to run into a fusillade of machine-gun fire.
Like he was a guilty man standing up ready to take his punishment.
She pushed the thought down and tried to come up with something light-hearted to text him back. But her mind couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
Have you heard from Laura and the girls?
Snug as bugs in rugs.
Jo’s eyes skipped around the room, bouncing from the soothing blue bedspread and buffet of cozy pillows to the paintings of flower-filled fields and the white bookshelf interspersed with family pictures. The dim cast of the light took her back to childhood, to evenings spent at grandparents’ and aunts’ and uncles’ houses, when the warmth of family juxtaposed with the disquiet of unfamiliar surroundings and homesickness that wouldn’t let her sleep. She’d get up and creep into the kitchen for a glass of water, really an excuse to slip away from the thoughts spinning around her head; the soft glow felt different and otherworldly, like she was caught in some space-time rift where everyone else had disappeared and left her trapped alone.
Now the isolation came from the distance between her and her closest friend.
She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and told herself to get a grip. She’d told him she believed him—why couldn’t she just let it go?
Because this isn’t about him. It’s about you.
Of course it was about her. She’d spent years learning to trust herself when it came to her relationships, and now her gut and her best friend were telling her different things. How did she reconcile that?
Her phone chimed the arrival of another text.
You need another cup of coffee? I’m about to make more.
No, she texted back.I need to pace myself.
