Once Tom died I couldn’t bear to take Billy Bass off the wall. Once in a while I even turned it on just to hear it sing. It always made me think of Tom. But by now the batteries had died.
Turning away from Billy Bass, I walked down the hall to peek into the laundry room, then the second bath on my left. I saw nothing askew. All the same I stepped inside each room to inspect the window locks.
My bedroom remained. I entered the room, which ran the length of the house from front to back. The bed was still neatly made, its magenta comforter meeting a matching dust ruffle. The drawers of my two dressers were shut, scattered framed pictures of me and Tom untouched. Near the window facing the front yard sat an armchair —my favorite place for reading. The novel I was halfway through sat on the chair. A romance.
Why did I torture myself like that?
More important questions nagged me. Once I found Melissa—then what? How to convince her to come forward now, after six years of hiding such a terrible secret?
I checked all my bedroom windows. Still locked.
On dark impulse, I picked up the phone on the nightstand by my bed. Pushed
The beige-tiled master bathroom looked normal. I lifted aside a window curtain and pressed my face to the glass, peering into the backyard. My two gnarled oak trees bent beneath the deluge like wizened old men. I could barely make out the black wood fence at the rear of my property.
If someone had wanted to approach my house unseen, this was the night to do it. But no way could Hooded Man have come inside without leaving footprints, a trail of water.
Which he easily could have cleaned up.
Another violent shudder possessed my body—both of fear and penetrating cold. I should take a hot shower. But stepping under that nozzle would place me in such a vulnerable position. Naked. Running water masking other sounds.
Time to install a burglar alarm. In the quiet town of Vonita, I’d never before felt unsafe.
As I pulled back from the window I caught sight of my reflection in the glass—a pitiful sight. My chin-length brown hair was plastered to my head, my face looking white and clammy. My dark, frightened eyes appeared sunken, and the lines running from my nose to mouth cut deep. Age fifty-two, nothing. I could have been sixty- five.
I dropped the curtain into place, a needle of despair piercing deep. Linda’s disappearance had been terrible. Tom’s death one year later had aged me. We’d never been able to have children—a crucial loss Linda and I had in common. I’d felt so alone since Tom’s passing. Now this. Suddenly a part of me didn’t want to find Melissa at all. I was just too tired.
Maybe I should move away from this town, start a new life. I could live anywhere in the country, since my work was done from home.
But I’d have to leave Dineen and Jimmy—my only family. And how could I ever live with myself, knowing Baxter Jackson still walked the streets? Linda deserved justice. And if Cherisse had been murdered, so did she. If I did manage to present the Vonita police with evidence of Baxter’s guilt regarding Linda, they’d likely take a second look into Cherisse’s death.
My teeth chattered. I
As I stepped into the tub, a frisson shook my shoulders. I swiveled my head, focused with sharp eyes on the bathroom door. My bedroom and the whole empty house loomed in my mind, full of shadowed corners and unknowns. I hadn’t checked closets.
Where had Hooded Man gone after he’d disappeared? Where was he now?
My jaw tightened. I didn’t want to give in to fears. Hooded Man had relayed his information and was now long gone.
Stubborn imaginings chewed my mind.
Unclothed, skin still wet from the rain, I battled cold worse than ever.
Exhaling aloud, I wrapped myself in a towel and traversed the chilly bathroom tile in my bare feet. I walked out into my bedroom, crossed the room, peered down the hallway. Nothing. Just my house. Lit. Safe.
Why couldn’t I believe that?
With a firm hand I shut my bedroom door. Locked it. No harm in being cautious.
Back in the bathroom, I locked its door also.
The shower pelted hot water, steam rising from the tub. My soaked skin couldn’t bear another minute of cold. I hurried over to the tub and stepped inside. Yanked the shower curtain shut. Eyes closed, heart thumping, I surrendered myself to blessed heat.
SIX
Hot water never felt so good.
I stepped out of the tub, body red and muscles throbbing with heat. The long shower had beat my headache back to a dull pinch. My thoughts had settled into grim determination. I would find Melissa Harkoff. And I would start tonight.
Bruce Whittley and the other skips I was being paid to find would, by necessity, still claim my work days. So what if I lost a little sleep working on Melissa’s case after hours? And for the moment I still had the rest of the weekend.
My fingers itched to get started.
Quickly I dressed in a sweat suit and super-warm socks and blow-dried my hair to keep my head warm. A new and volatile wind moaned around the back corner of my house. It taunted that I would never find Melissa. That she’d made herself as invisible as the brazen air that formed its groaning.
When I shoved those thoughts aside, questions about Hooded Man nibbled my mind. Had he driven out to Stillton and waited to flag me down as I returned from Dineen’s house? If so he’d stashed his car on some turn-off. Or had someone dropped him there, prepared to pick him up after the message was delivered?
A bloody-cheeked mask. Why had he chosen that? Didn’t he know such a visage on a wild-weather night would be frightening? Why not wear a clown mask, or a Richard Nixon, for that matter?
Right, Joanne. As if those would be any less scary.
Whatever the reason, Hooded Man had obviously gone to great lengths to hide his identity. A telephone call would have been so much easier. But he was no doubt paranoid about the number being recorded. Maybe he knew just enough about skip tracing to think I had super capabilities on both of my phone lines. I didn’t. My home line would record a number just like anyone else’s—if the ID wasn’t blocked. But I did also have a “trapline” using an 877 toll-free number, which recorded all incoming numbers whether the ID was blocked or not. Traplines are one of my many crafty tools.
In a skewed sort of way Hooded Man’s paranoia bound us together. We were both scared of what Baxter Jackson would do if he discovered my mission.
I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.
A shudder kicked across my shoulders.
It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn’t exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I’d need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.
In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon—my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sassiness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.
From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of classic rock and clicked
