After toeing off her shoes, she moved to her computer and pulled up her site. She had written and posted a quick recap of Marsha right after the detective and agent had left her. She checked the comment section and saw two dozen comments. Not stellar, but not terrible.
From the bag she removed the DVDs she had retrieved from storage. She arranged them in chronological order, starting with the first story she had filed on the Prince girl’s disappearance. Today she would create a montage of videos for her site so that her audience could see what it had been like for her to cover it in real time.
She loaded a DVD in the disk drive, and as it queued, she poured herself a glass of wine and plopped three slices of pizza on a plate.
Six months ago, she would never have indulged in the carbs, but months of unemployment had translated into so many bad habits she now doubted she could fit into one of her trademark pencil skirts.
She sat at her small kitchen table and watched as the camera panned from the Princes’ two-story home to her. For a moment, she hit pause, leaning in and staring at her face. Jesus, when had she ever been that young? She looked like Bambi caught in the headlights of a hunter. And the hair. Who had told her bangs looked good on her?
“Time marches on, McDonald.”
She hit play and watched detectives cluster near the house as a grim-faced Hadley peeked out from the curtains of the large front bay window.
“I’m at the home of Larry and Edith Prince. Police are not saying much, but it appears that their nineteen-year-old daughter, Marsha, has vanished. My sources are telling me that the 911 call came in early morning, when Marsha’s mother realized she’d not come home. I’ve spoken to several neighbors, who tell me that they saw Marsha Prince up to two days ago.”
Over the course of the next several reports she had filed, neighbors and friends had had lots to say about the family. She’d learned of Mrs. Prince’s multiple sclerosis and Larry’s financial struggles, but most had conceded the Princes were a normal family. There had been potential sightings of Marsha and tips called into the hotline, but she had never been found.
Nikki drained her glass of wine and crossed back into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. As much as she would like to finish the wine, she needed to start making a list of the people associated with this case.
Her attention shifted back and forth to the pictures she had of the girl and to the images she had taken of the blackened bones nestled in the chest filled with brittle tissue paper. She did not know the actual cause of death but wondered, given the state of the bones, if it even could be determined now.
But someone out there knew exactly how Marsha had died. And it was likely that someone had sent her to the remains because he or she wanted the girl’s story known.
Her fear was that her friendly tipster would lose his nerve and remain as silent as he had been over the last eight weeks. Up until now, her contact had had all the power. Now she needed to get the upper hand. She quickly typed out a public plea on her website to her tipster, suggesting he was a coward if he did not contact her.
Her finger hovered over the “Post” button as she considered what kind of trouble she could be stirring up with an individual who could be unstable.
Seconds ticked, and her nerve actually wavered before she hit the button.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, August 13, 2:30 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
The Day Of
Hadley had arrived home shortly after midnight, barely twenty minutes before Mark had pushed through the front door. She had lain in bed, listening to him move around downstairs, shower in the bath off the hallway, and change into jogger shorts and a T-shirt. The choice of clothing was for Skylar’s benefit. If their daughter caught him on the sofa or downstairs, he could simply say he was out for an early run or had fallen asleep in front of the television. Mark did everything for that kid. He adored her, and Hadley knew if he had to choose between Skylar or her, their daughter would win hands down.
When their girl had had her troubles in Oregon, it had been Mark’s idea to move back east. Hadley had not wanted to return to the East Coast but realized leaving Portland was better than facing the questions and stares. He had reached out to his company and requested a transfer.
Now as she rolled out of bed, minutes after three o’clock in the morning, she glanced briefly toward the spot where her husband had slept until last week. They had both agreed divorce was the only option available, and they were simply waiting for the best time to tell Skylar. He had wanted to wait for a few more weeks to give Skylar a chance to settle into her school year. Hadley had insisted it be done by Friday.
Hadley knew her daughter well enough to know she was very smart and had to have sensed major problems in the marriage.
“Mom, why were the cops here?” Skylar asked. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything you asked.”
“They weren’t here for you,” Hadley said.
“Then why?”
A headache pulsed behind her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her daughter’s temper snapped. “You only say that when there is a problem!”
Hadley now quickly made the bed, smoothing out all evidence of the separate sleeping arrangements. She dressed in jogging shorts, a bra, and a T-shirt, made a notation in a small notebook she used to track her workouts, and then tiptoed past Skylar’s closed door and down the stairs. Mark lay on his side, his back pressed against the cushions and his arms crossed over his chest, as if trying to squeeze his large frame into the too-small space.
In three days, he would move out. All that was left to do was tell Skylar. Neither of them wanted to upend the girl’s life. But Hadley needed a new challenge. A new something to consume her life and thoughts.
Poor Skylar. She had been born to a mother who was damaged. A mother who was OCD about so much irrational shit but who was powerless to ease her grip on control. She was a mother who kept secrets and lied because they made her feel safe and in control. A mother who recognized love but was so consumed by guilt she had forgotten what genuine emotion felt like. Maybe if Hadley had made different choices, Skylar would not have suffered.
Hadley slipped out the back door, closing it behind her but not bothering to lock the door. Even if someone broke into the house, Mark would hear it. And he would know what to do, because he always knew how to fix any problem.
He was Mark the Savior. The Fixer. The Jailer.
She stretched out her calves and Achilles tendons before easing out the back gate. She began with a slow and steady jog down the back street illuminated only by the light of a near full moon. Despite her warming up her muscles, the plantar fasciitis in her right heel sent pain bolting up her leg. Experience had taught her that the discomfort would continue for several miles, and when it vanished, she would miss it. She functioned best when she was hurting.
Her muscles groaned and pulled but finally relaxed, coaxed by the warm morning air. She drew in a deep breath. Normally, she ran five miles, but today she was tempted to go farther. Her body craved the activity that released the endorphins. She ran faster.
The image of Marsha’s reconstructed face jostled into her thoughts. Though the sculpture was good, the face had an artificial look, much like a person prettied up for a coffin viewing. Real but not quite.
Each time she thought about Marsha’s skull under the clay and paint, she imagined her sister watching her through the glassy brown eyes. Marsha’s eyes had always been so trusting, because her sister had believed that no matter what, Hadley had her back.
Hadley stared up at the clear night sky and the full moon, remembering the moon had looked very much like this on the night Marsha had left. It had been clear, pure, and white. Almost perfect.
“Do you have to be such a bitch? You’re never happy, are you?” Marsha asked. “Hadley, it’s not my fault.”
Hadley quickened her pace, trying to chase away memories of her sister. “Go away,” she whispered.
Marsha’s voice echoed again in her head. I just wanted to go out and have fun. You should have warned me.
“Shut up!” Hadley said.
Hadley pumped her arms harder. Ahead, a cat screeched, and another howled back. Sweat began to pool between her breasts.
The image of her sister’s face flashed in her mind. The last time she had seen Marsha, her sister had been headed out the back door to meet a date at a club. Hadley could have said something. But she had not. She had remained silent as she’d watched Marsha drive off. It had never occurred to her that Marsha would not come home. She had thought maybe she would get knocked down a peg or two, but she would come home.
I trusted you! Marsha’s voice echoed.
The memory of the bust’s eyes stalked her. “You’re dead. You’re dead. And it’s not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault.” She whispered the involuntary chant over and over as she pounded the pavement.
She tripped on a small pothole and had to take several quick steps to right herself. “Shit,” she muttered as she refocused on the pavement.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
The pain in her leg returned, and she let it lasso her thoughts. She ran for another hour, and when she entered her front door, her calf was on fire. The scent of coffee surprised her, and she wondered if her husband had set the timer on the coffee maker incorrectly again.