She limped up the stairs, not bothering a glance toward Mark. The upstairs was still dark, but she had walked this hallway so many times she knew every creak in the floor, the number of steps from the landing to her bedroom, and the location of all the light switches.
The digital display on her nightstand clock read 4:32 a.m. Good. She still had an hour before the house woke up.
She sat on the end of the bed and reached for her laces. As she ducked her head, she had the sense that someone was in the shadows, lurking, watching.
Hadley rose and walked toward her bedroom door. Her sister’s name on her lips as she stared down the long quiet hallway. Her heart pounded in her chest. She listened but heard only the gurgle of the coffee maker downstairs. No one was there. And yet, something was definitely off.
She returned to her bedroom and readied to close and lock the door. But as she took hold of the knob and pushed it closed, the hair on the back of her neck rose. Her skin prickled. And then came the creak of floorboards only a few feet away.
The sound wasn’t coming from the hallway but from behind her.
Someone was in her room.
The phone woke Nikki McDonald, startling her from a hazy, restless sleep. Her body was still buzzing with too much caffeine, and her mind was crammed with ideas about the Marsha Prince story.
She reached automatically for the first of three cells on her nightstand. Blinking away the sleep, she focused on her phone.
What do you think of my tip?
She sat up so quickly the papers piled on her chest slid to the floor. She had received nothing from the tipster who had contacted her early in the summer through her website. And now, he was texting her.
Heart pounding, she drew in a breath. She gave out this cell number to anyone and everyone. It was the number she used when she worked a story, so no surprise that whoever her mystery person was, they had gotten ahold of it.
Nikki texted back: Who is this? How did you know Marsha Prince was in that storage room? She waited for the text bubbles. “Come on. Don’t leave Mama hanging like that.”
And then the trio of rolling bubbles appeared. I know a lot about Marsha Prince.
Who is this?
The bubbles vanished.
She typed, Reward for more information.
“Come on, come on.” She gripped the phone for minutes, staring, waiting, before realizing whoever had contacted her might not be motivated by money. If coins were not going to do the trick, a few ego strokes might.
No one can tell your story like me.
Silence.
She fell back against the mattress, holding the phone to her chest. Whoever this was, this was contact number two. This mystery source was building up his nerve. He wanted something from her but was not ready to ask.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She dialed her contact in the police department.
“Manny Jackson.”
“Manny, this is Nikki McDonald.”
“Long time no talk.” The rough edges softened as he was likely remembering the multiple rounds of bourbon she had bought him while working the Beltway Bomber story three years ago.
“Been on the move.”
“So I hear.”
She rose and paced, making herself smile. “Hey, Manny, got a favor to ask.”
“You always have a favor to ask.” He sounded more amused than put out.
“Hey, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Your department came off looking like heroes when I covered the bomber.” The cops had been heroes. In cinematic fashion, they had found the bomb and disarmed it so quickly she had almost been disappointed. A little explosion or fire would have made for great footage, plus more airtime for her.
“You back on the job at the news station? For what it’s worth, the gal who took your place looks like she’s still in high school.”
She pictured the brunette with the smooth olive skin. “Kelsey Jennings was in high school five years ago.”
“Shit.”
“I might have a shot at returning if you help me with this.”
A sigh shuddered over the line. “What do you need?”
“Marsha Prince.”
The beat of silence went from weary to charged, like she had struck a nerve, and it was sending shocks through his body. “What about her?”
This time her grin was real. “Vaughan came to see me today. He told me the skull I found shoved in the gray trunk was Marsha Prince. How did she die?”
He blew out a breath. “If the detectives know, they aren’t telling.”
“How long has she been dead?” When he hesitated, she added, “Do a down-and-out gal a solid, Manny.”
He chuckled. “No one is sure. Now that they know who she is, they’ll run more tests.”
She paced the carpeted floor, glancing in the mirror as she passed. She sucked in her stomach. “What’s the FBI’s involvement?”
“Strictly support at this point. They did the bust and made the identification. Now, Ms. Prince is Alexandria PD Homicide’s case.”
“Thanks, Manny. I owe you a round.”
“Make it two.” In the background, a phone began to ring. “Got to go.”
“Thanks, baby.”
When the phone went dead, she pressed it to her chest and paced around the room. She owed Vaughan a phone call on this mysterious text, and she would tell him about it. Soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday, August 13, 5:30 a.m.
Northern Virginia
The Day Of
The instant Vaughan woke, he knew she was gone. He should not have been surprised. She never stayed long, but he’d thought last night would be different.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and instantly spotted the note on the mirror. It was written on the back of the fast-food receipt in fluid and graceful handwriting.
Called a car. Didn’t want to wake you.
Spencer. He knew how to make that woman’s body tighten with desire and how to make her moan in a way that told him she was fully attuned to his body. But beyond that, she was still a complete stranger.
He flicked the edge of the note, surprised he had not awoken. Since he had become a cop and father, he had turned into a light sleeper. Both incarnations, like a doctor on call, were summoned at all times of the day and night. His ability to shake off sleep in seconds and then think clearly was well honed. But yesterday had been long, even for him.
He laid the note on his dresser as he glanced at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. It was not like him to be sentimental, but he was sorry he likely would not see her for a while.
He showered, and fifteen minutes later he was dressed, his badge and sidearm on his belt. As the coffee brewed, he scrambled five eggs before he realized Nate was gone. He toasted a bagel and ate alone at the kitchen table.
He filled a travel mug with more coffee and was on the road by six o’clock. Moonlight mingled with the lights looming over I-395 as he looped around the beltway and headed north toward his exit. The traffic was already building, and soon it would slow to a snail’s pace.
With luck, the first wave of files from the Prince case would be in his office. He had been warned that there were a dozen file boxes, but he did not care. He also had the autopsy of the Jane Doe stabbed to death in the motel room to attend. It was going to be another long day.
Fifteen minutes later, he had parked and was in the break room, refilling his coffee. When he flipped on the lights of his office, there were six file boxes stacked in front of his desk. A green sticky note read More to come.
It was too early to call the medical examiner about his Jane Doe from the motel room, so he set his cup down and flipped through the first set of files.
He spent the next hour and a half reading through the detectives’ notes. At the time of Marsha’s disappearance, the detectives had exhausted every lead and tip that had come into the station, but in the end came up with nothing.
Vaughan juxtaposed the image of the blackened skull in the trunk and the smiling face of Marsha Prince. Only a monster would do this to a young, vibrant girl who had been Vaughan’s son’s age when she’d died.
When Nate had been a little boy, he had wanted assurance that monsters were not real. Before Vaughan could confirm they were, his ex-wife had been quick to tell the boy that they were only in storybooks. But Nate had been savvy enough to know even then that she had lied. When Vaughan had been tucking Nate into bed that night, the boy had asked his father about the monsters.
Vaughan could not lie and had simply said, “I got your six, pal.”
“I got yours, too, Dad.”
A knock on Vaughan’s door brought his attention to the present. Detective Cassidy Hughes stood in the doorway. He had worked with Hughes for a year now, and the two got on well. Short with a sinewy frame, Hughes had curly hair and always dressed in well-fitting clothes. Today it was snug jeans, a silk blouse, and heeled boots.
“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she said.
He cleared his throat and shut the dead girl’s file. “What’s up?”
“A real shit storm of biblical proportion.”
Zoe stood in her kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the still-packed boxes she had moved to her townhome six weeks ago.
Technically, she had the day off. Ramsey had told her to kick back for a few days after what had been an endless stream of weeks filled with different cities, police departments, and killers.
Try as she might, she had not been able to sleep more than a couple of hours, so she had risen and made coffee. As she sipped, she cared less about the flavor and more about the punch of caffeine to chase away the fatigue. She really did not want to unpack boxes today any more than she had during the other countless opportunities. Even an armchair psychologist would call this procrastination classic avoidance. She had legally claimed the property and sold a perfectly good condo, but for some reason she could not settle into living here.