He’d known the kind of pain that few endure. He was proud that he’d sequestered all of that. In the past, he’d done his share of handing out hurt like it was an appetizer to be enjoyed by the recipient. One little poisonous bite at a time was all he needed to find relief from his pain. One gulp. All of that had been a long time ago. But something was stirring inside and he knew that the girl in the center of the photo had become a kind of lightning rod for his anger.
He wrestled with it. Fought it hard. That night as he watched her from across the street, he knew that in the end, he’d have no choice. He’d argue it in his head over and over, and ultimately the dark part of him, the part hidden from all who thought they knew him, was about to become unleashed…again.
He looked down at the photo one more time and knew Jenna Kenyon would be the last to die.
Chapter Two
It was 8:05 A.M., the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department smelled of donuts and coffee. Gloria had brought in a dozen from the bakery across the street, as she did at least five times a month. The donuts were good—sugary, greasy, and lighter than air, of course—making them nearly impossible to resist. Only one person in the department seemed to care about the net result of too many donuts on a cop’s waistline. Emily, of course. At least bagels were a somewhat healthy choice. Why not bagels? Emily knew that her own willpower to stay away from the donuts was a better solution than making a directive that Gloria stop bringing them in.
Although past forty, Emily Kenyon wasn’t ready to “give up” and let the forces of nature and donuts take over her body.
She barely had time to acknowledge the donuts with her usual “Gloria, you shouldn’t have!” before being accosted by Jeanne Parkinson, the county clerk.
“Emily,” Jeanne said, her breath short and her hands fluttering. “Mandy’s still not at work.”
Emily glanced at the wall clock. “It’s only ten past the hour.” She peeled off her coat, gloves, and scarf. Her cheeks were bright pink from the walk from her cruiser to the back door. It was the coldest day of the year, just 18 degrees. The crusty berms of snow on the sidewalk had frozen solid. The sky had cleared.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Jeanne said. “Mandy always came five minutes early. She missed her baby shower yesterday and she’s still not here. I tell you, something’s wrong. She’s missing.”
“Who’s missing?” It was Jason Howard, donut in hand, sugar on his upper lip.
“We don’t know who’s missing,” Emily said. “Or rather, if anyone is missing at all.”
“She’s missing,” Jeanne said. “I know it. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“We’re jumping to conclusions here. I talked to a girl from Mitch Crawford’s dealership. Mitch had talked with Mandy a little while before I called.”
Jeanne brightened a little. She had all the charm of a concrete block, but now and then allowed a trace of human emotion to wash over her face. It was clear that Jeanne the county clerk was very fond of Amanda Crawford.
“Where is she?” she asked. “What did he say?”
Emily felt a surge of embarrassment. “I guess I misspoke. I don’t know what she said to him. I didn’t talk to Mitch. I talked with his customer service manager.”
She knew immediately that her response sounded lame. Yet at the time, it was good enough. She followed procedure. She only swung by the Crawfords’ house as a courtesy to those who’d called in worried about Mandy not showing up for work. For all intents and purposes, Mandy was, in fact, off shopping in Spokane. That’s what her husband said. He ought to know. She wasn’t a missing person. There was nothing more to be done. Mandy Crawford hadn’t hit the twenty-four-hour mark that would mobilize law enforcement from Cherrystone to Spokane.
Jeanne stepped a little closer, not threateningly so—just close enough to let Emily know she was very, very concerned. She was a tall woman with sea-green eyes under overplucked and overarched brows. Not pretty, but swathed in stylish earth-tone Jones New York clothes, she did the best she could with what she had. She’d won the county clerk job fifteen years prior and had no intention of ever giving it up. She had a particular type of toughness that belied the kind of sweetheart she could be. This morning she was almost in tears.
“Look, Emily, I know this girl. She’s in big trouble.” As she looked around the room, each person—Gloria the dispatcher, Jason the deputy, and Emily the sheriff—had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. None would be disappointed.
“She’s dead, I’ll bet. Her husband didn’t want kids. Didn’t want Mandy once she got pregnant. It was as if she ceased to exist from the moment she came back from the doctor with what she thought was great news. Joyful news. I’ll bet the son of a bitch killed her.”
“I didn’t realize that he didn’t want kids,” Emily said. She turned to Jason. “You and I are going over there in five minutes.”
She didn’t have to say where.
Emily Kenyon parked and she and Jason went up the cobbled walkway ringed in pyramidal shrubbery to the front door of the house at 21 Larkspur. Emily hadn’t noticed on her first visit there, but there were some scratches at the base of the door. The Crawfords must have a dog, she thought, as she rang the bell and looked around. The neighborhood was serene, devoid of any activity. In fact, the whole “gated community” seemed out of whack. Why would anyone want to live in a place with a guard posted out front? Especially in Cherrystone, of all places.
Nothing. No answer. No dog barking. No Mitch.
Jason offered to circle the house, and Emily nodded.
She rang once more. Again, nothing.
“All clear back there,” Jason said coming around the south side of the house. “Nice digs. Big pool back there.”
“The inside’s not too shabby, either,” she said. “Let’s head over to the dealership.”
It was after 9:00 A.M. when they arrived, and the sharks in the form of a crew of young men were already circling the car lot, looking for the first bite of the morning. Their pasted-on smiles fell when they noticed it was the sheriff getting out of her hopelessly uncool behemoth of a car. No trade-in here. No getting a ninety-year-old into a car he doesn’t need. Christmas music piped over the car lot. It was José Feliciano signing “Feliz Navidad.” A little peppy for the hour, and certainly wrong for the reason for the visit.
“Mitch around?” Emily asked, as she and Jason approached the dealership’s snowflake-adorned glass front doors.
“Yup,” said a young man in dark green parka over a suit jacket and tie. “He’s in his office.”
A young woman’s voice went out over the loudspeaker. “Eggnog lattes for all customers on the lot right now. Come inside and shake off the chill. It’s our treat!”
Jason followed Emily inside and they walked past three cars festooned with gigantic bows of silver and gold ribbon. One arrow pointed to the manager’s office, another to the service department. A young woman in a Santa hat smiled from her desk.
“Hi, Mrs. Kenyon! I’m Darla! I went to high school with Jenna!”
Every sentence was punctuated with an overkill of enthusiasm. Emily remembered Darla had been a cheerleader.
“Oh, hi, Darla. Didn’t recognize you with your hat.” Emily smiled warmly. “Nice to see you.” She indicated the door behind her horseshoe-shaped desk. “Is he in?”