“You used to have nightmares when you were little, but they stopped when you were about ten or eleven,” her mother said.
“They never really stopped. I just stopped talking about them.”
Her mother frowned. “You always had the same dream?”
“Yes.” Melina did not like seeing her parents’ deepening frowns. She had never liked seeing them worried, especially about her. Maybe that was why she had stopped talking about the dream, excelled in school, and been a model student at the academy. Somewhere buried in her subconscious was the idea that if she was not perfect, they would not want her. “But it’s nothing like it used to be, and these days, the dream doesn’t bother me that much. I think seeing Elena today just reminded me of how I ended up.”
“Who’s overseeing this child’s case with social services?” her mother asked.
She checked her phone. “The guy’s name is Richard Barnard.”
“I don’t know the name,” her mother said.
“I could make some calls,” her father said.
“That’s kind of what I was hoping, Dad. Better I stay out of it since this is an active homicide investigation.”
“Homicide?” her mother asked. “That poor girl.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I’ll look into it.” Her father’s tone had shifted from dad to cop. “I’ll see to it she gets the best foster home.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Any time, squirt.”
Sonny was glad to be home. It had been nice spending the night at his lady’s house, but it was time to get back into his routine. There had been a season when he could be on the road for months and be content. But as he had gotten older, he’d liked sleeping in his own bed. Liked having his stuff around him.
Restless, he shoved the key into the lock and pushed open the door. He dropped his small duffel bag and flipped on the light.
The instant his gaze scanned the small living room, he knew something was wrong. He quietly closed the front door behind him and reached for the SIG in his waistband under his shirt. He chambered a round and very slowly crossed the pine floor toward the couch and collection of photos he had taken on the road for over fifteen years.
The house was silent except for the slight hum of the refrigerator. He flipped on the kitchen light and confirmed that the space was as neat and clean as he had left it. He liked a clean house. Liked knowing the scent of pine waited for him when he came home.
He jiggled the back doorknob and discovered it was locked. Still, the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he could not shake the feeling that someone had been there.
“Bonnie,” he muttered.
She had been calling him for weeks, but he had ignored her. He had no idea how she had gotten his number but knew damn well how clever the woman could be.
Seeing her had been a kick to the gut. It had taken everything to remain calm. Once he’d checked his emotions, he’d recognized that familiar hangdog expression on her face. She’d had a sob story and when that had not worked on him, she’d cut to the chase. She wanted the key, but once he gave it to her, she would realize he had spent the money.
His fingers itched as he imagined wrapping them around her pencil neck and squeezing until she died. Then the kid had gotten out of the car, looking for Bonnie.
If not for the kid, he would have strangled Bonnie right there. He had sure dreamed of it often enough. But the kid had gotten to him and twisted his heart in ways he had thought were not possible anymore.
She was a cute little thing. She needed a real parent and protecting, something he had never really had. But all that was drowned out by the deep sense of betrayal he still felt toward Bonnie.
He had been a teenager when the cops had cuffed Bonnie’s hands behind her back and led her to the squad car. She was all he had in the world and was the closest thing he had to a mother. When she was taken away, he was scared shitless. He scrounged enough money for a bus and rode it to the city jail. Bonnie had always gotten out of scrapes, and he prayed she’d find a way out of this one.
When he arrived at the city jail, his hands were trembling as he sat in the visitors’ room and waited for Bonnie. When she’d appeared, he’d been so glad to see her.
“Baby, you came to see me,” she said through the thick glass.
“What do I do, Bonnie?” He scooted closer on his seat, wishing he could hug her.
She sniffed and leaned forward a fraction. “Is all our stuff still at the motel?”
“Yes.”
“Pack it up and find a place to live. There’s money in the bottom of the black suitcase. That will do you for a while. There’s also a key. Hang onto it. It’ll take care of us when I get out. In the meantime, you know how to get money. Don’t worry, Sonny.”
She had taught him how to pick pockets, shoplift, and extort money, but she had always been there to distract the mark. And because they had moved around so much, he had no friends, and whatever real family he might have had was long gone. Now he would have to survive by himself. He was alone.
Bonnie was not out soon. Despite her pleas of innocence, she was sent away for seven years. He cried the day she left for prison, and for weeks he barely got by, living on the streets. And then a local minister took him in, fed him, and gave him a warm place to sleep. It was about that time that he was going through the black suitcase again, looking for more money. When he found the key hidden in a side pocket, he threaded it through a chain and wore it around his neck for years.
There were GED classes at the center and people who encouraged him to figure out what he wanted. He had no more excuses not to live a clean life. A job as a roadie with a band followed. He took the key, found the duffel full of money, and used it to build up a pretty damn good life.
He walked toward his bedroom, passing the rows of pictures taken of him on the road. More places than he could remember, but all damn good times.
He carefully pushed open his bedroom door and turned on the light. His gaze swept the room, which at first glance looked intact. He almost thought he had imagined the home invasion stuff when he saw the closet door ajar.
Sonny was a creature of habit and always closed the closet door. His heart beat faster as he moved toward the door and opened it wide. Dropping to his knees in front of the pair of boots, he knew in his gut what he would discover. Bonnie had come back, and she had remembered his habit of stashing cash.
He shook out the pair of black Tecovas boots, and when nothing came out, he shoved his hand into the boot and fished around with his fingers. It was empty.
“You stupid, stupid moron.”
Heat rushed to his face as blood rose in his cheeks. He had been a fool even to answer the door.
Once Bonnie set her sights on someone, they could resign themselves to being screwed every way to Sunday.
He slammed the boot down. It was not the cash that really bothered him but the credit cards. None were his, and they could be traced back to his lady friends.
He ran his hands along the wall and felt for the pickle jar hidden under a blanket. His fingers skimmed over dusty plywood flooring, finding no blanket or jar.
“Shit!”
His heart galloping, he reached for his cell and turned on the flashlight app and searched the darkness. No jar. The space was empty.
“Bonnie,” he hissed.
She had taken his jar of memories, knowing she could use it against him. With the jar, she could easily shatter the life he had built.
He glanced at his phone and double-checked his incoming calls. There was no number that he did not recognize.
He rose and walked to the window and discovered it was unlocked. There were scratch marks along the metal frame. Bonnie had pried it open, climbed in and out with his treasures.
It was Tuesday afternoon. The cops had not come knocking on his door, which meant Bonnie had not gone to the police. Yet. She also had not contacted him, which was not like her. Patience was not one of her virtues.
Whatever game she was playing, she had underestimated him this time. He was no longer a naive young boy desperately seeking her approval. Bonnie did not have a clue who she was fucking with.
He went to the trash in the kitchen and fished out the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper. He typed in the cell number and was ready to hit send when he paused.
There was no tracing the jar back to him. It was her word against his that she had stolen it from his house, and he was always careful to wipe his prints clean from the jar each time he handled it.
Bonnie was running low on money. Otherwise she would not have broken in and taken his cash. And if she used any of the credit cards in the stolen stack, she would bring the cops down on her, not him.
He fished a Ziploc bag from his pocket and opened it. He removed the bloodied wad of paper towels and carefully folded back the layers. Nestled inside was the severed finger. Gently he stroked the cool pale skin. It would not be smart to save this one. If Bonnie talked, the cops would come knocking and they would tear his place apart.
But he could not bear to part with his girlfriend’s gift. He had to find a better hiding place, and if Bonnie came at him again, he would add her finger to his collection.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, August 26, 11:30 a.m.
Melina called Matt for an update on the white van, but the forensic team was still taking it apart. Another call to Jackson told her Bonnie Guthrie remained in the wind.