Chapter Twenty Seven
Tara sat on the couch, staring at a blank TV as she drank her coffee. She had already been up for a few hours. After her nightmare, she had tossed and turned until she finally accepted that she wasn’t falling back asleep. Her mind was still focused on the case, on Ben Ford, and her feelings that he wasn’t the killer. It doesn’t make sense, she said to herself over and over again. Everything pointed to the fact that the girls willingly went with the killer, so why would they go with him? Where would he have taken them, if not to his home? And where is the location where Sofia had her picture taken? At each thought, her doubts grew stronger, and she remembered her dream. The girl in the water—it was her fear that another victim would be taken because she and Warren had made an error. Her heart stung at the thought.
But as her feelings grew stronger, the same fear of the night before came crawling back into her mind—what if I’m wrong? It was a thought that reminded her she couldn’t do anything rash. If she were to keep searching, she needed to do so without making it known and without doing anything that could be seen as remotely reckless.
Footsteps interrupted her train of thought as John entered the living room, and Tara spun around.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said as he appeared from the hallway. “Did you sleep on the couch?”
He scrunched his face in confusion as he stared at her. He was already dressed for the day in khakis, a fitted button-down shirt, and tie. His hair was already slicked back, and Tara was surprised she hadn’t even heard him get up or getting ready. She must’ve been too enthralled by her thoughts. His question somehow made her feel guilty. She was already feeling distant from him, yet here she was, not even sleeping in the same bed at night, creating a physical distance as well. She knew that part of her dream last night had just been a reiteration of the distance she felt, that she was too preoccupied with her family issues and her job to focus on John. But now wasn’t the time to bring it up.
Tara sighed. “I did. I guess I was just that tired.”
John only nodded as he walked into kitchen. She wasn’t sure what his thoughts were, if he was annoyed that she didn’t come to bed, or if he too felt the distance, and his silence only worried Tara more.
“Is everything all right?” he asked skeptically, but it was as if he were afraid of the answer. His back was still toward her as he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied.
She wasn’t going to burden him with her concerns with the case, and now wasn’t the time to bring up her feelings of distance. She needed to figure out her next move. She looked toward John as he placed the milk back in the fridge and continued to sip on his coffee, when a thought finally struck her—the coffee shop. It was where she and Warren had started. It was where Reese had worked regularly. If Tara’s theory was right, if the victims did know the killer, maybe he did visit her at the shop after all. Tara had already asked the owner questions about who visited or spoke to Reese, but she had never asked her about a photographer. At the realization, Tara jumped to her feet and John spun around. He looked at her questioningly.
“I just realized I have to do something for work,” she said to him as she briskly walked toward the hallway, her focus now only on the case.
“Tara,” she heard, her focus momentarily broken as she spun around to face him. He placed his mug down, pressing his hands onto the island counter. “I really would like to get dinner at some point. It seems like it’s been a while since we had some time together.”
Tara nodded. “I’d like that,” she replied, but his words only gave her an unsettling feeling. He felt the distance too, it was clear to her now, and only she was to blame. But as much as she wanted to discuss it, she didn’t have time. If what she sensed was possibly right, another girl could be in danger. Tara pushed the case into the forefront her mind as she walked down the hall, leaving John behind her.
***
Tara pushed the door of the coffee shop open, causing a set of bells dangling from the entryway to jingle upon her entrance. A lanky teenage boy behind the counter looked toward her as he straightened up, preparing to take her order. It was still early, and only one person was in the store, waiting for their coffee to be made by a young female barista.
Tara walked up to the counter. The boy was about to ask what Tara wanted, but she stopped him with her words. “Is your manager here?” He looked confused and startled, as if he were afraid he had done something wrong, but he nodded.
“I’ll get her,” he responded and turned toward a set of double swinging doors, making eye contact with the barista as he went—the same concern reflecting in each other’s eyes—and then he disappeared. As Tara waited, the girl kept glancing over until she was done making the coffee. She handed it to the customer, who turned to the exit, and the girl’s eyes awkwardly moved to a TV hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room.
Moments later, and the same manager Tara had met with days early stood before her. “Ah, Agent Mills,” she said as she walked forward. “Surprised to see you in here again.” Her long hair, which was braided last time, was tied tightly in a bun.
The cashier and barista
