But Owen wasn’t at home enjoying Sunday afternoon in his expensive air-conditioned home, as Cain had expected. According to his wife, he’d received a call from one of his patients and had gone to the office.
After playing with his three nephews for a few minutes, Cain thanked Lucy and drove to Owen’s medical clinic, hoping to catch his stepbrother just after his patient had left. But whoever it was—a woman, despite the hoarse voice—was still there when he arrived. He could hear her and Owen talking behind the closed door that separated the reception area from the examination room.
You have strep, all right.
Lordy, it’s the middle of the summer. Where’d I get that?
You could’ve picked it up anywhere. I’m going to prescribe an antibiotic that should make you feel better within twenty-four hours. If you don’t notice a marked improvement, give me a call. And take some ibuprofen for the fever as soon as you get home.
Cain turned on the rest of the lights in the lobby and thumbed through a few magazines. Then he got up to see if Owen had bought any new fish for the giant aquarium that filled most of one wall, but he was watching the clock the entire time and brooding over Tiger’s discovery. What would Owen’s response be?
At last, the door opened and Dahlia Daugherty, a fiftyish woman Cain recognized as a checker at the Quick Shop, came out. Her watery eyes and flushed cheeks made her look as ill as she no doubt felt.
“Hi, Cain. When did you come in?” she asked when she saw him.
“A few minutes ago,” he replied, but his attention was fixed on Owen, who stood behind her. His stepbrother didn’t look surprised to see him—but he didn’t look pleased, either.
“Lots of sleep and plenty of liquids,” he reminded Mrs. Daugherty as she shuffled out.
“Hope you feel better,” Cain called.
“Thanks.”
The outer door shut behind her with a quiet click, leaving them in silence except for the whir of the ceiling fan.
Owen studied Cain through the gold wire-frame glasses he wore when he worked. “I take it you’ve heard from Tiger.”
Cain nodded.
“What’d he tell you?” Owen hadn’t bothered to raise the heavy blinds his assistants lowered before leaving every Friday afternoon, and even with the lights on, the place had a closed-up feeling.
“What do you think he told me?” Cain countered.
“About the photograph, of course.”
It was always hard to tell what was going on in Owen’s mind. He insulated himself from the world, hid behind those glasses and that lab coat. Formal, stilted and often easily out of his element—unless he was sitting at his desk behind a tower of books—he rarely revealed anything personal. But that was the worst Cain would ever have thought. That he was a bit antisocial, someone who took refuge in his professional status. Not that he was a killer. “He saw it in your truck.”
“And you’re here to find out why.”
“I’m sure I won’t be the only one who’ll want to know.”
“Have you told anyone about it?”
“Just Sheridan.”
“I suppose now you think I’m the one who’s been trying to frame you.”
“I’m hoping you’re about to convince me otherwise.”
Owen tapped the pen he’d used to write Mrs. Daugherty’s prescription on the counter and didn’t speak.
“Well?” Cain prompted.
“I didn’t take that picture.”
Cain stepped closer. He’d been hoping for this, wanted to believe it. “Who did?”
His stepbrother blinked at him from behind those glasses. “It must’ve been Robert.”
“Why?”
“I let him borrow my truck the other day.”
Cain remembered. At the nursing home. He’d spent the past few days trying not to think about the amount of money Robert had probably wheedled out of Marshall. “And?”
“And he must’ve left it in there.”
“I want to see it,” Cain said.
“I don’t have it.”
“Unless you were covering for someone, yourself or Robert, you’d have it.”
“I’m not covering for anyone. I’ve still got it. I hid it in my garage so no one else would see it until I figured out what it meant.”
Cain blew out a long sigh and began to pace. “Does it tell you anything? When or where it was taken?”
“It’s printed on regular eight-by-ten paper. There’s no date. It was taken after Sheridan returned to town but before the beating. She has no visible injuries.”
“What about location?”
“She’s in her uncle’s house. At the kitchen sink. Whoever snapped the shot did it from outside the window.”
“Is it possible that Robert was stalking her? That he took that picture and left it in your truck? Intentionally or otherwise?”
“Someone was stalking her. I don’t know if it was Robert. When I confronted him about it late last night, he claimed he’s never seen that picture before in his life.”
Cain didn’t care much for Robert, but he had a hard time believing his youngest stepbrother would do anything as violent as what’d happened to Sheridan. And, provided there was a connection between the shooting and her attack, Robert couldn’t have killed Jason. He’d always been large for his age. With a ski mask covering his face, he might have been able to pass for a small man at thirteen. But he’d worshipped Jason. There was no way he would’ve shot him. “When did you first notice that photograph in your truck?”
“When Tiger did, of course. Otherwise, I would’ve removed it a lot sooner.”
“So why’d you act furtive, shove it back in and shut the door?”
Owen remained unflustered. “I didn’t act furtive. I just didn’t want him to see it. I was hoping he hadn’t caught enough of a glimpse to know what he was looking at. I wanted to buy myself some time to examine it.”
It was believable that Owen would treat the situation as he’d described. He was by nature private, methodical, judicious. But Cain had other questions. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
Owen shoved his glasses on to the bridge of his nose. “Because I still don’t know what it means.”
Robert had been drunk the night Sheridan was attacked—so drunk he’d wrecked his car and banged up his face. Had he been so drunk he’d done other things, as well? Were some of his injuries due to Sheridan’s attempts to fight him off?