“What does that mean?”
“Not sure,” she said. “You driving or flying over?”
“I’ll be there for dinner. I’m driving.”
They exchanged their “I love yous” and Emily snapped her phone shut and signed out of the evidence room. Despite the lack of sleep, she felt energized. Why re-sew the top end of the bag?
Gloria Bergstrom was fixing coffee in the break room when Emily emerged from the basement. “The best little dispatcher in Cherrystone” as she called herself, was wearing a pretty black-and-white wool dress with a toffee-colored cardigan.
“You look lovely. Something special about today?” Emily said.
Gloria filled the coffee carafe with water and poured it into the coffeemaker.
“Not at all. Every now and then I dress up just to prove that I still can.” She smiled and Emily returned the favor. “Hey, you’re in mighty early today. What’s up with that?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Personal or professional?”
Gloria had a knack of cutting to the chase. She knew that Emily and Chris had gone through their ups and downs. Although Emily tried to keep a reasonably tight lid on her personal life, privacy was hard to come by in a small place like Cherrystone. Besides, during those ups and downs, Emily’s mood sometimes betrayed her need to stay professionally detached from those who worked for her. Working day in and day out, Gloria, however, had become family.
“Professional, thankfully,” Emily said.
“Crawford, of course. I’ve lost sleep over that one, too.”
Emily rinsed out a mug and watched the brown stream of fresh coffee fill the carafe. She explained how’d she’d gone into the evidence vault and how she’d seen the irregularities of the tearing on the nylon sleeping bag.
“Interesting,” Gloria said, trying to mull it over, but coming up empty. “But what does it mean?”
Emily poured her coffee and looked for a package of Equal. “The only explanation I can find is that the square of fabric that’s missing once held a monogram.”
Gloria, once more, looked mystified. “A monogram? Who monograms their sleeping bags?”
Emily gave up on the Equal and poured some sugar into her black coffee.
“Someone with a big ego and too much money, that’s who.”
Recognition clicked behind Gloria’s eyes. “Mitch Crawford?”
“Seems like the type to me. I’ll dig into that some more. See what Jason can turn up with embroidery shops around here.”
Gloria smiled and let out a laugh. “Oh boy, he’ll love that one.”
Emily laughed, too. Jason had expected a lot more out of police work than running around sporting-goods stores and embroidery businesses.
“This is the kind of excitement that never makes TV,” she said, disappearing down the hallway.
Chapter Fifty-two
Garden Grove
The invitation to be heard was almost too much. Michael Barton looked at the comment feature on Jenna Kenyon’s blog. He read what some of the other readers had to say.
Jenna! You rock! You are the most awesome consultant in the whole world. I don’t know what we would do without you and your advice!
—Cherie, BZ, Biloxi
Hey! If you ever come back to Huntsville, we have to hook up! You are smart, funny, and a blast to hang out with. Don’t forget your BZ sis Megan!
—Megan, BZ, Huntsville
I have some more ideas to brainstorm with you. I’ll send you a PowerPoint with the particulars! You know me, I love bullet points!
—Donatella, BZ, Bowling Green
Michael clicked the pencil icon that indicated he could leave a comment. A window popped open. The blank space stared at him. Yeah, he wanted to leave a comment. But what he had to say wasn’t going to be so upbeat. What he wanted to say could be traced back through his Internet provider or IP address.
He started to type.
Hi bitch! You think that you’re something pretty special, don’t you? You think that you’re so smart, talented, pretty. You’re a piece of garbage, that’s what you are. I’d like to use a dull knife and take my time hacking off your head from your bony ass body. I’d like to take dynamite and stuff it in every orifice and light the goddamn fuse. You’re nothing. You and your sisters think that you rule the world. But you don’t. I won’t let you. You’re indifferent to anyone who doesn’t fit into your predetermined plan. Bitch! Do you even remember Sarah? Do you ever think about her? Pretty soon you will. Believe me, it will be the last thing you ever think about!
He heard his wife stirring. Olivia was coming down the stairs. He minimized the window and opened another file. He looked up and smiled.
“Hi, baby,” she said, “it’s late. I want you to come to bed.” Her beautiful dark skin glistened from a bath. She smelled of the faintest hint of lavender. As she put her hand on his shoulder and tugged, her nipple protruded from the slit of her robe.
Michael looked in her eyes. “Hold that thought,” he said. “I’ll be right up.”
“You better. I’m a lonely girl.”
“I’ll power down now.”
Olivia disappeared up the stairs and he went back to Jenna Kenyon’s blog. He waved the curser over the box that said “post.” It was so tempting. He wanted so much for that girl to know that her fate was something to fear. Her future belonged to him.
He closed out the blog without saving it.
No need to warn her, of course. No need to get caught.
Chapter Fifty-three
Something was wrong and Olivia Barton could feel it in her bones. The first indicators were trivial, silly almost. She smelled cigarette smoke on Michael’s clothes and asked him about it. He said someone at work smoked in the conference room. She knew that was a lie. Human Solutions, like all California employers, offered a totally smoke-free environment. She figured he’d been stressed out and started smoking again. It pained her. He’d quit before Danny was born.
“I want to live a long life to take care of my boy,” he said.
Why are you smoking now? What’s going on with you?
As the uncharacteristic behaviors escalated, she began to worry. Worry turned into action. She knew that some wives pick their husband’s pockets hoping to find something that will indicate a love affair. Olivia knew something was awry with Michael, but an intimate physical betrayal was simply not at the top of her list. She sought more clues as to the changes in his behavior that she worried indicated a possible breakdown. Something was wrong. She wondered if there had been some trigger that had brought back problems long since buried.
She’d seen an episode on Dr. Phil about repressed memory syndrome and how childhood trauma is frequently revisited in adulthood. Sometimes a woman or man relives the incidents of the past that they’ve never quite resolved. They become stuck in dramas that quietly play in their heads. No one knows it. No one but the victim. Shame is a silencer.
The things that told Olivia that a problem was percolating were small but powerful. She remembered how she’d noticed on at least two occasions that Michael had stripped the bed of its sheets and laundered them. One time, he said he’d spilled coffee. Another time, when she detected the smell of urine, he said that Simon, the cat, had peed on the bed. It was possible, of course. But Simon never did it again. He went missing shortly after that.