“Katie.” Her eyes meet mine. “Someone was in the barn. Three days ago.”
The hairs at my nape prickle. “Who?”
“I do not know.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was milking and heard the hay chute door slam. When I looked, no one was there. But I saw footprints in the snow.”
“Were the tracks made by a man?”
“I think so. The shoes were large.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“At the time I did not think it important. But now . . .” She averts her gaze, then looks back at me with nervous eyes. “Do you think it could be Daniel? Is he back and killing?”
To consider the possibility that Lapp is not only alive but a possible threat to my family adds an edgy new dimension to the situation. “I don’t know.”
“What if he is angry with us for what we did and seeking revenge?” She lowers her voice. “Katie, I do not wish to burden you with my fears, but I believe the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.”
I flinch. “No.”
“You do not have to tell them . . . all of it.”
Sarah’s gaze remains steadfast on mine. “What if Daniel returns? What if he tries to hurt me or William?” She sets her hand on her swollen abdomen. “I have this child to think of now.”
Dread curdles like sour milk in my gut. I try to think of some way to reassure her. But I have no words. Leaning forward, I take her hand and lower my voice. “Sarah, listen to me. Jacob believes Daniel died that day. I think so, too.”
“Then why were you looking for his body?”
My brain scrambles for answers that aren’t there. “All I can tell you is that I’m good at what I do. Please. Trust me. Let me handle this my way.”
My phone rings again. I look down to find three lines blinking in discord, but my attention stays focused on my sister. “You know I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”
“How can you keep us safe when you don’t even know where he is?”
I hate it that I don’t have the answers she needs. A knock on the door draws my attention. “Sarah, I’m sorry.” I release her hand. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk more about this later.”
“I do not think this will wait.”
“Please, just give me some time.”
The door opens. Mona steps in. “Sorry, Chief, I just wanted to let you know the sheriff called.” She passes pink slips to me.
“Would you ask T.J. to escort Sarah home?” I ask Mona.
Sarah tosses me a sheepish look. “That is not necessary.”
“I’d feel better if he did. The roads are slick in spots.”
Mona offers Sarah a grin. “Come on, Sister Sarah. Let’s find T.J.”
Watching my sister walk away, I try not to be troubled, but I am. Who was in her barn and why? Is she right about Lapp? Has he targeted my family? Are they in danger? The questions taunt me with terrible possibilities.
Sarah’s words echo inside my head like a hammer strike against steel. I tell myself she doesn’t understand the implications of a confession on my part. That it would irrevocably harm my career. My reputation. My credibility. This case. Maybe even land me in jail. That’s not to mention the damage that would be done to my family. If Lapp is dead, it would all be for nothing.
There’s no way dredging up the past will help.
No way at all.
Ten minutes later I find Glock in his office, the phone stuck to his ear. He looks at me when I peek in and raises his finger, telling me to hold on. After a moment, he hangs up and shakes his head. “That was the BCI lab in London.”
“Any luck with the tread or footwear imprints?”
“They got a partial tread that doesn’t match any of the first responders.”
My heart rolls into a staccato. “Can they match it with a manufacturer?”
“Their tire guy is working on it.” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance of IDing the tread.”
The news isn’t great, but I’ll take anything positive at this point. “I’m going to talk to Scott Brower.” Brower was at the Brass Rail the night Amanda Horner disappeared. He’s of particular interest because he’s got an arrest record, one of which involved a knife. “Wanna come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You buying breakfast?”
“As long as it’s fast.”
Ten minutes later we’re in my Explorer heading toward Mr. Lube, where Brower works as a mechanic. Next to me, Glock finishes his breakfast burrito and stuffs the napkin into the bag.
“Any luck with Donny Beck?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I tell him about my conversation with the kid. “I don’t think he did it.”
“He got an alibi?”
“I still need to verify, but I think it’ll pan out.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with Brower.”
Mr. Lube operates out of a ramshackle garage located in the industrial district near the railroad tracks. The parking lot is part asphalt, part gravel and covered with dirty snow, most of which hasn’t been cleared. A blue Nova, circa 1969, sits on concrete blocks. Next to it, a man in brown coveralls has his head stuck beneath the hood of a truck.
I park near the overhead door and we exit the vehicle. Glock huddles more deeply into his uniform jacket. “I hate snow,” he mutters.
A buzzer sounds when we open the door. Behind the counter, a heavyset man with a bad case of rosacea looks up from a box of doughnuts. “Hep ya?”
“I’m looking for Scott Brower.” I show him my badge and try not to notice the goop in the corner of his mouth.
“What’d he do now?”
“I just want to talk to him. Where is he?”
“Garage out back.”
Glock and I turn simultaneously.
“If he did somethin’ I wanna know about it!” the man yells.
I close the door behind us without responding. We follow trampled snow to the rear. The steel building looks as if it survived a tornado—barely. A piece of sheet metal has torn loose and flaps noisily in the wind. I hear the drone of a power tool inside. Hoping Brower is alone, I shove open the door and step inside.
An electric heater blows hot air that stinks of motor oil and diesel fuel. Light filters down from an overhead shop light. Steel shelves line three walls. Pinned above the workbench, a 1999 calendar depicts two nude women engaging in oral sex. Every square inch of space is taken up with either tools or junk. Standing at the table saw in the center of the room, Brower muscles a blade through steel. Sparks fly and scatter.
I wait until he finishes the cut before speaking. “Scott Brower?”
He looks up. To my surprise he’s a nice-looking man. He has a baby face. Puppy-dog eyes. A child’s nose. A bow mouth that’s surprisingly feminine. He’s thirty-two years old but looks younger. His eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “Who’s askin’?”
“The cops.” I show my badge. “I need to ask you some questions.”
