“Let’s have it,” she replied.
“The DNA from skin cells found under Isabella’s fingernails matched the sample of saliva you sent me,” Jones said. “The findings are consistent with the medical examiner’s report—Isabella fought for her life while she was strangled, scratching and clawing. He’s the one, Vasquez. He killed her.”
Her grip tightened on the phone, and her eyes began to sting. Choking down a sob, she fell back against the seat. She’d had her suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. Aside from that, Camila had felt, deep down in her gut, that the man whose DNA she’d painstakingly retrieved from a coffee cup had been responsible for her sister’s murder two years ago. Now, she had proof.
“Are you still there?”
Jones’ voice snapped her back to reality, and she sat up, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped one eye.
“I’m here. I need those results sent to my email as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I am going to present everything I have here to the Young County D.A.’s office. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my sister.”
“Just watch your step,” Jones warned. “I’m not even supposed to be giving you this information, and you’re still on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation.”
Camila rolled her eyes. “A woman insists on investigating the death of a family member, and, suddenly, she’s crazy?”
“I don’t make the rules,” he retorted. “And breaking them could cost me my job.”
“Keep your panties on,” she muttered. “No one’s going to lose their job. Once I bring this guy down, they’ll be apologizing for not taking me more seriously.”
“I hope you’re right, for both yours and Isabella’s sakes. She deserves justice, and you deserve closure. Good luck, Vasquez.”
“I don’t need luck; I have evidence,” she said before ending the call.
The wallpaper of her home screen showed an old picture of her and Isabella. They’d taken the selfie together years ago while sitting on a park bench. Camila held the phone up while her little sister leaned into her, smiling and squinting a bit with the sun in her eyes. Isabella looked radiant and healthy—a far cry from the drug-addicted, waif-thin thing she’d been forced to identify in the morgue.
Giving the photo a sad smile, she sniffed and blinked back a fresh wave of tears.
“Don’t worry, Izzy,” she whispered. “I won’t let him get away with this.”
She placed her phone into the console beneath the radio, threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the restaurant parking lot. Being one of the few customers leaving at closing time, she found the highway leading back into Wellhollow Springs all but empty. The red taillights of the car in front of her eventually disappeared around one of the many bends in the road, leaving her alone with two walls of pine trees whizzing by on either side.
Glancing at the panel behind the steering wheel, she frowned. The brake light had come on yesterday, and she’d forgotten all about it. She’d been so consumed with her case that she had neglected to have it serviced.
Tomorrow, she told herself.
The moment she’d finished up at the district attorney’s office, she would have her car fixed. Since her administrative leave was indefinite until her superiors decided she was fit to resume duty, she might even stick around Wellhollow Springs for a while. The extended-stay hotel she’d been living in the past month was clean and affordable. Besides, she didn’t want to miss any new developments in the case.
Rounding another bend in the road, she spotted a large, dark shape thrusting up toward the sky from the top of the hill. Baldwin House—the home of millionaire real estate development mogul Douglas Baldwin and his family. His grandfather had made a fortune by building half of Wellhollow Springs, so it seemed appropriate for the family home to overlook it all like the castle of some king looming over the peasants.
Turning her attention back to the road, she found yet another sharp curve and pressed the brake to slow down. She frowned when her foot was met with little resistance, the car neglecting to respond. With a gasp, she jerked the wheel left and just barely made it around the bend. Her heart began to pound, throat constricting as she came upon another turn. She pumped the brake, turning the wheel right. The car went entirely too fast, veering into the metal guardrail and causing sparks to fly. Giving the wheel another jerk, she attempted to decelerate again, her breath coming in short pants as the downward slope of the road became steeper.
The vehicle was out of control now, speeding up into the sixties. It hit the seventies as she bit back screams and sobs of terror, fighting to bring it to a stop. The brakes weren’t responding at all, and another turn loomed ahead, a steep drop-off yawning beyond the guardrail.
“No,” she whispered, clenching the wheel with damp palms. “No, no, no!”
In a last-ditch effort to stop the car, she jerked the wheel to the right, and then yanked up on the emergency brake while speeding around the curve. Her tires screeched, the scent of rubber being burned by asphalt filling her nostrils. The world outside her windows tilted and spun until she couldn’t distinguish the sky from the trees or dark hills. A scream burned in her chest when the sound of metal crunching metal indicated she’d slammed into the guardrail. Her stomach shot up into her throat as the car tipped over, hurtling over the steep incline leading to the valley below her.
The car made impact—once, twice, three times, rolling and bouncing over and over, jostling her mercilessly. Her head bashed against the driver’s side window, causing her teeth to rattle. She must have bit her tongue, because blood filled her mouth at the same time
