“She may have another one at home.” Turning to Billings, I say, “Captain, we need to check out Kara’s home. Will Mr. Becker let us search her bedroom?”
He nods. “I think so. I’ll talk to him when he stops in later.”
“Great.” I look at Dan. “As soon as we get the thumbs-up, we should head out there.”
Stuart, Iowa. “It’s about two hours from here.”
“No problem.” Except for the four hours I’ll have to be in a car with Dan.
“Thanks for meeting us, Gage.”
When I said I’d meet Quinn for coffee, I’d hoped she’d be alone, but I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen again. I think she’s attached at the hip to this guy.
“Mate.” Cooke Thompson reaches out and shakes my hand over the table. “Thanks for taking the time.”
“No problem. But I only have about thirty minutes.” It turns out Kara’s father was more than happy to let us check out her bedroom, so we’re heading out to his place this afternoon. But I need to get a few things together before we take off.
“So, do you have any news?” Quinn’s voice is tentative. “Tayler’s going a little crazy, to be honest.”
Cooke scoffs.
“We have a few leads—”
“Another suspect?” She suddenly sounds excited.
I don’t want to give anything away since we really don’t have anything solid. “We’re checking out all leads.”
She rolls her eyes. “Now you sound like you’ve got a cheat sheet of things to say when you’re not supposed to tell anyone what’s really going on.”
She’s right. “Look.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “We’re seriously checking out everyone.” Hell, we even looked at the video footage of every person who came and went through the front door of Kara’s building. The management has been nice enough to identify those who actually live in the building and those who don’t. Two of our patrol officers have questioned the residents to no avail.
Quinn sighs dramatically. “Okay. I get it.”
The urge to reach out and take hold of her hand is strong, but I keep my hands to myself. “We don’t know enough just yet.”
“But Tayler’s not the killer.” Quinn looks at me, then at Cooke.
“Mate, just drop the charges on Tayler so we can get back to our lives.”
That statement irritates me. “Oh, I’m so sorry that this has upset your lives so much. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Becker how badly you want this to be over.” I mean….
“No.” Cooke shakes his head. “Apologies, mate. I didn’t mean it that way. That’s insensitive of me.”
I nod because yeah, it was.
Cooke looks apologetic. “Just… the girls are beside themselves with worry, which makes me fret.”
“I get it. I do. But you’re just going to have to wait until we know more.” Hell, we may never know who killed her, but hopefully we’ll solve this thing.
“We get that, Gage.” Quinn looks like she’s about to cry. “This is all so….” A tear trickles down her pretty face, and I want to reach out and take it away from her, but the big English oaf gets to it first.
“Love,” he says to her softly. “Gage is going to get the killer.”
I nod because the need to make her stop crying is overwhelming. “I’m going to do my damn best, Quinn. I promise.”
“I know.” She sniffles. “It’s just so bizarre.” She pauses. Looking me in the eye, she blinks like she just realized something. “I think I’m lucky I was out of the country when it happened.” She peers at me expectantly.
She is lucky, because if she’d been around here, she’d be my number one suspect. Well, maybe number two suspect. She had the motive. Kara’s obsession with her would have made anyone snap.
Giving her a small smile, I have to agree. “I’m glad you weren’t here too.” As I stand to leave, I say, “I’ll keep you posted.”
“I know. Thank you, Gage.”
Shit, she sounds defeated, and I hate it.
Looking at my watch, I wave as I head to the door. Turning one more time before I exit, I’m about to smile at Quinn when I see Cooke lean in and kiss my… and kiss Quinn. It’s not a long kiss, but it looks like one that means something. I expect my heart to sink a little at the sight, but for some reason, I’m okay with it.
Chapter Thirteen
Daisy
As I unlock my apartment door, I’m singing to myself. I’m not a great singer, but I can carry a tune, and the one I just heard in my car is catchy. I can’t get it out of my head. That is until I see who’s made themselves at home in my living room.
“Dad.” What is he doing here?
Placing my shopping bags on the floor next to the front door, I step into the living room and see a mess. A big mess that appears to be some of my papers, file folders, and a few notebooks. Not only that, but Mom’s precious Vogue magazine is in shreds on the coffee table in front of him.
Why? Why is he like this?
“What are you wearing?” he says in that tone I hate. The judgmental one.
I look down at myself. “A dress.” A cute green and yellow floral sundress. It’s not my style, but I like it. It reminds me of something someone in one of my books would wear to a garden party. Do people still have garden parties?
“A bit cold to be wearing that flimsy thing, isn’t it?”
I paired it with a jean jacket, so no, it’s not that cold. I choose to ignore his comment. In his defense—which he doesn’t deserve—he’s not used to seeing me in anything other than leggings and oversized sweatshirts. By his thin lips and glare, I’d say he doesn’t like it.
I decide at that moment to ask my own question. “Dad, what’s all this?” I point to the mess. As quickly as I can, I scan the things strewn about to see if
