Emily thanked them for what they were doing, told them how they exemplified the best of the community. The words might have seemed canned, like those given to the Chamber of Commerce or the Rotary. They surely weren’t meant that way.
“I promise to keep you up to date. You do the same,” she said, referring to the big whiteboard with the color-coded notations of calls that had come in with tips, who’d made the call, how the calls had been handled. None had panned out, but it was the continuing effort that really mattered.
As Emily turned to leave, Alana stopped her by standing up.
“Sheriff Kenyon,” she said, her voice brimming with emotion, “you don’t think that Mandy’s dead, do you?”
The other two women looked at her with sympathy. It was clear that they had already made up their minds about what happened to Mandy.
And who was to blame.
“We’re doing our best to bring her home,” Emily said, looking through the open doorway toward the church sanctuary down the hall. “But you’re in the right place here, I’m afraid. Right now, we need a bit of a miracle.”
It wasn’t that she could feel the warm breath of another person, but Emily could
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Cary McConnell stood in front of her next to her car. It obviously wasn’t a court day for Cherrystone’s brashest and most self-absorbed lawyer. He wore indigo-dyed jeans, a tan jacket over an olive-colored button-down shirt. The cut of everything he wore was athletic—tight enough to show the world what he had, but not so to reveal an extra pound if he’d eaten too much for lunch. The cold breeze mussed up his hair, and for once, he didn’t seem to care. She thought the clothes he was wearing were too thin for the winter weather, but she loathed him so much, she considered him nearly reptilian anyway.
Cary folded his arms. “That’s not a very nice greeting for an old friend.”
Emily reached for her car keys and pulled them from her purse. “Is that what you’re calling me these days?”
He stepped a little closer. “Very funny. Seriously, Emily, this whole Crawford thing is pitting us against each other. I don’t like the guy any more than you do. He’s a client.”
“I’d love to quote you on that,” she said.
Cary smiled. It was a grin as dazzling as ever. It didn’t melt Emily’s heart like it once did, but it was, without a doubt, completely disarming. “Look,” he said, “I feel really bad about my behavior back when we were seeing each other, and even more recently.”
“You should feel bad, Cary. You were a Class A jerk.”
“All right, guilty as charged. I’m here because Cherrystone is too small of a town for us to be bitter about the past. I want you to forgive me. OK?”
Emily pushed the button for the Crown Vic’s automatic locks and they popped up like soldiers at attention. She reached for the door handle. “We’re OK.”
“No, really, I wanted to talk about Mitch. Do you have a minute?”
Emily waved her hand at him, pushing him back from her personal space. “We can’t talk about that. I mean, you don’t want to talk to me about it. Do you?”
“Some things are bothering me. You know, I care about the truth. That’s why I went to law school.”
Emily seriously doubted the revisionist rationale for the profession he chose. She figured that Cary McConnell had gone to law school to make big bucks.
“What is it?” she asked.
Cary looked around, his dark eyes finally landing back on hers. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Trust me. I’m very concerned.”
“You really ought to tell Camille.”
“I don’t know her like I know you.”
The comment made Emily’s skin crawl. She wondered if he was referring to the fact they’d had sex, and not the bond of a long-term friendship.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“Follow my truck, OK?”
“I didn’t know you were driving a
The question was meant to sting a little because all that Cary used to talk about was how expensive his car was and how it was “the most kick-ass car in Cherrystone.”
Cary ignored the intent of her remark. He was good at that, she thought.
“I like hauling stuff around on the weekends,” he said.
“I’ll pass on following you, Cary. Thanks,” she said. Cary was a jerk, maybe as much as his client Mitch Crawford, but he was also an astute judge of people. She remembered how when they were dating he pegged a local mail carrier as Cherrystone’s panty thief—a man who broke into women’s bedrooms to steal their underwear. Cary’s reasoning was a little disturbing at the time, when she thought back on it. All he said was: “I know the type.”
But he had been right. If there was something that was troubling him about the Crawford case, which she assumed he was intimating, then she ought to hear it.
“What’s with you and Chris Collier?” he asked.
The question was out of bounds, inappropriate, pushy.
“None of your business,” Emily said, turning her attention to her Crown Vic and getting inside.
“Sounds like you still care,” he called out.
Emily didn’t bother opening her driver’s window, something she would have done to give a homeless person a five-dollar bill despite the icy weather. She merely mouthed the words she hoped he could read: “The only thing I care about is forgetting that you ever laid a hand on me.”
Chapter Thirteen
He’d been watching her all night. She never paid him a single glance. Her sole focus seemed to be on herself. She’d made several trips with her carbon-copy sisters to the Kappa Chi upstairs bathroom, her purse slung over her shoulder like she was headed into battle. In a way, she was. The frat bathrooms were notoriously filthy. No TP. Just squat, do your business, and flush with a well-placed foot.
Tiffany Jacobs brushed right by him as she made her way to the basement. She could feel the heat of a hundred bodies rise in the dank passageway. She caught the peculiar blend of odors—vomit, beer, pot.
