Without a second to waste, she dialed Dan Asher’s number, but her finger hovered over the send button. She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. She still had no evidence to think that he could be the killer other than him knowing one of the victims and fitting a description that she only envisioned in her mind. But either way, she knew it could be worth talking to him. He had been covering the case. He knew Reese. Maybe he had observed something that would be useful.
Tara finally pressed send. Within moments, he picked up. “Dan Asher,” he said. His voice was lively and professional, the sound of a true reporter.
Tara introduced herself. “From my understanding, you’ve been working on the beach murders?”
“That’s right.” He waited for Tara to elaborate.
“And you knew Reese, I understand, from the coffee shop?”
“Um, yes.” He seemed a bit taken back from the question. “I got coffee there often. I recognized her face as soon as I was shown her photo. Such a shame.” He paused as if letting his words sink in. “What can I help you with?” he asked, his voice bouncing back into its chipper tone.
“I was just wondering if I could pick your brain a bit.” She paused a moment. “Would we be able to meet somewhere?”
The phone fell silent, and an unsettled feeling flowed through Tara, but then again his voice bounced back. “I can give you my address,” he said abruptly. “I’m home now.”
Tara considered it a moment. She had no reason to believe that he was dangerous, but was this going too far? Was she digging too much on her own? Could she get in trouble? The questions rolled around in her head until another pushed its way forward. Was it also risky if she didn’t speak to him? Even if he wasn’t the killer, maybe he knew something valuable? He’s a crime scene reporter, she reminded herself. There’s nothing wrong with seeing what he knows. At that thought, Tara finally responded.
“Sure, I can head over now.” He gave her his address, she thanked him, and they were soon off the phone.
Tara entered the address into the GPS. I’ll have to tell Warren, she thought. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Someone was going to know where she was. This time, just in case, Warren would have the address. She would call him on the way, but as Tara pulled out of the parking lot, she wondered what Warren would think, and if once again she was going too far.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Justine awoke to a fluorescent light beaming in her eyes. Her head pounded, the light only intensifying it, and she groaned in pain as she turned her head away. Her vision was blurred. She did not know where she was. She didn’t remember how she had gotten there, but as she looked in front of her, she knew she was lying on a cold concrete floor. The floor was bare. It outstretched in front of her until meeting a cement wall that was just as bare. A musty smell wafted into her nose. I’m in a basement, she said to herself. Her clothes were damp, and so was the floor she lay on, a mix of sweat and moisture trapped in the room.
She turned her head to the other side. She didn’t even think to sit up. Her mind was still too clouded by confusion. But she needed to see what was around her. Her vision cleared slowly as she focused on the rest of the room. She could see a desk, a chair, a computer. Images taped to the wall around them, but they were too far, and she was too tired to make out what they were. The light above her was the only one in the room, and it cast a shadow over the wall, making whatever hung upon it less visible. But she needed to see, she wanted to know what they were.
She placed her hand on the ground, pushing herself into a sitting position as the room spun. She squinted at the images as she grabbed hold of a beam in the middle of the basement and pulled herself up to standing. As she stood, she heard floorboards creak above her, and a recent familiar feeling flooded into her body as if to shake her mind fully awake—it was fear. It was an instinct. And suddenly the recent events pierced her mind in fractured memories. The flat tire. The ride. The… She stopped herself. She couldn’t quite remember what happened next. She remembered a wrong turn and then an excruciating pain in her head. Her hand moved to her temple, and at the slight graze of her fingers, she winced in pain. Her heart began to pound. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew it wasn’t where she was meant to be.
Again, she looked toward the pictures on the wall and walked toward them, taking a closer look. They were newspaper clippings and printed Internet articles. But as Justine looked even closer, her eyes widened. Each article showed images of young girls that she most certainly recognized. They were the missing girls she had seen from the news, their bodies found on the beach.
Justine suddenly felt sick as she stared at images of the crime scenes, of investigators scavenging the beach for bodies. She stared at the girls’ images. How could I have been so stupid? she said to herself as she remembered getting into the man’s car. It was him all along. The realization made her head spin harder. It was hard to believe. She had served him so many times at the restaurant; he was kind and charming, everyone loved him. As the thoughts ran through her head, reality sank into the pit of her stomach. She knew each of the girls on the
