Chapter Nine

Two days, Five and a quarter hours since Abby disappeared

Monday, 7:07 pm

Yesterday had been crazy, sirens going every which way around Fairland. The good thing was when he returned to the barn late last night, Abby was well enough to knock around some more. And his worry that she'd died too quickly only made it all the more sweeter.

News of the arrest was all over town. As he picked up a sandwich at the Quick Stop, the clerk and a customer were going on and on about it.

He tossed the plastic triangle to Abby. She squinted at it.

"Oh, you need your hands, huh?"

He'd let her stare at it while he worked. He had hay bales to unload. Clipping on overalls and pulling on work gloves, he pitched the first bale into the barn. He grunted as he stacked them.

The barn was getting too full. He needed to clear out some room, although his horse balked at staying inside anymore. Stupid horse. He'd had to throw together a little shed for her down by her pasture. But then, she came in handy when he had two cars to deal with. She was always patient, waiting in the trees by the stream until he could get her in the trailer.

Abby tried to open the plastic with her mouth. After two days, she was hungry enough to perform tricks for the food. If he waited much longer, she'd lose her appetite.

With a last grunt, he pitched the final bale to the top of the stack. He wiped sweat from his eyes and dropped his overalls to the ground. Things were going his way. Everyone suspected Thorton. He could be nice to his pretty Abby girl. Swiping the sandwich off the slab, he sat down on a hay bale.

The straw poked him in the ass, but it was nice to be naked after he'd worked up a good sweat. He used his penknife to open the plastic container. "What'll you do for a bite?"

She looked at him through swollen eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

He took a bite and chewed as if considering what he wanted. Her dark eyes followed his hand to his mouth for every piece he took. He'd eaten earlier, but hell, it was fun watching her practically drool over the crappy chicken-salad sandwich.

"Of course, you'll have to come over here."

Chains clinking, she took a couple of sideways steps toward him. Finally, she stopped in front of him, her dark snatch in front of his face. Nasty thing.

He tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich and lifted his balls and put it on the hay underneath them. "You make it fun for me. I might feed you the rest."

She stared at the out-of-reach package in his hand and then looked at his sack, hiding the bit of food. Gingerly, she dropped down to her knees and licked at his balls until she got the morsel of food. He put the next piece between his semi-flaccid cock and his abdomen. Leaning back on his elbows, he watched her work for it.

As she backed up and chewed, he backhanded her. Her head whipped to the side, and her dark hair curtained her face. "You'll have to do better than that if you want more."

He fingered the blade of the knife. It was time she learned it wasn't just for show. Soon he'd be done with her, because Jen would be packing her bags in a few days and he'd be waiting.

~*~

Monday, 9:16 pm

Daniel was close enough, and the evening had darkened, so he could see inside. The lights were on in the kitchen and people milled around. Jennifer's grandfather opened the refrigerator. Jennifer stood in front of the sink. The window over the sink was cracked open a couple of inches, but he couldn't make out words over the incessant rhythm of crickets and June bugs.

He crept a little closer and waited for when she was alone. Her head was bent down, the overhead light glinting off her red-gold hair. He watched her for a minute, but then he was reminded of how they had portrayed him as a stalker at his trials.

When he could no longer see any of her other relatives, he quickly moved forward and tapped lightly on the glass in front of her.

She jumped back, her mouth rounding into an O.

He moved to the back door. He discovered it slightly ajar, and he gave a slight push, opening it further. "Jennifer," he whispered.

"Merde, you scared me." She held up her hand, like a cop stopping traffic.

Merde? He shook his head. Why would she use a foreign curse word? The foreign word reminded him she had spent several years in Switzerland, apparently to avoid testifying in his trial. "Can we talk?"

She cast a glance over her shoulder, then grabbed a dish towel and wiped her hands. She started to say something and then bit her lip, but she made no move toward the back door.

She was dressed nicer than normal, in tailored black slacks and a crisp, white shirt. His gaze lingered on the button just above where the shadow of her bra showed through.

"My father doesn't want you here."

Nothing new in being hated by a female's father. Daniel turned and walked out into her backyard.

Her hesitation jarred him. She had gone out of the country to avoid helping him before, why had he thought she would help him now? Despair shrouded him in a cloak of darkness. He tried to grab a deep breath, but his bruised ribs defeated his efforts.

The door click closed. Dreading that she had stayed inside, he turned. She stood on the back stoop. Folding her arms over her chest, she blocked his view of the slight gap of buttons that interested him.

"I didn't know you were out."

"They couldn't hold me any longer without any evidence." Daniel pulled the folded newspaper he'd found from his deep pants pocket. "Do you know if they ever found this girl?"

Jennifer took the paper and frowned. She turned so the light from the kitchen spilled out on it. He had memorized the headline: Girl Disappears During Fourth of July Street Fair.

Jennifer stepped closer to him. "You don't think this girl is connected, do you?"

Daniel reached for his keys in his pocket, but he didn't have them. Instead he ran his hands through his hair. How horrible was it of him to want this child to be another victim? One who had disappeared when he'd been locked up? "I don't know."

Fear and repulsion churned in him. Terry Dalimar had only been twelve. He walked toward the tree line to the far side of the Monroe's house.

"Daniel? Where are you going?"

He turned around, and she remained firmly in the square of light spilling from the back door. He paced back and was careful to keep his hands where she could see them, the way the guards in prison liked the prisoners to walk in the yard so they could be sure a hidden weapon wasn't going to be pulled. He stopped a good five feet away from her, remaining in the growing darkness.

Jennifer unfolded the paper and read the article, her brow knitted.

"The profile said Brooke's killer was young, and he would have killed again. Unless he's moved away, there had to be other victims in thirteen years." Or had Daniel just been wrong? Wrong to come back, wrong to think the killer would be easy to identify, wrong to hope that his name could ever be totally cleared?

He hated the way people gave him that look when he told them about being found not guilty in a second trial. As if he'd just pulled a legal rabbit out of his hat to beat the charge. No one ever thought that he had been wrongly convicted because the sheriff's department had misplaced evidence or his public defender hadn't had time to read the files he had received. They blamed the small-town sheriff's department for botching the investigation and attributed the not-guilty verdict on the CSI effect of a jury wanting physical evidence that didn't exist. Now Myron doubted him.

"I think I remember this." Jennifer looked thoughtful. "It happened while I was away, but there were allegations of abuse, and the parents started blaming each other. They divorced and left Fairland. I think her mom went out to California to look for Terry."

Daniel didn't know what to think. It wasn't much of anything. The girl could have been a runaway, especially if her home situation was abusive. Even if she had been killed and her body was found, after nine years there wouldn't be enough evidence to determine if foul play was involved, unless she was buried somewhere. Missing children don't bury themselves, but finding a grave in this open countryside would be harder than finding a suspect.

Jennifer held out the newspaper.

He only stepped close enough to take it back, but it was also close enough to see she looked tired. Her shoulders slumped, and under her eyes almost looked bruised. Or was it just the shadows? She wore makeup. Not a lot, but definitely mascara. "I'll go."

"Daniel."

He paused on his way back toward the side of the vacant house.

"She isn't the only girl to go missing around here."

He turned around. Hope mingled with dread.

Jennifer rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold, although it was a pleasant evening, with a lingering warmth from the day.

"Fay Sawyer went missing a few years back. Her body was found, like, three months later—well, really, just her skeleton." Jennifer rubbed her arms harder. "I had dreams when she was first missing, dreams about Brooke. That probably sounds silly."

"Not at all." He trusted feelings. He'd had a bad feeling when Brooke left him that night. At the time, he'd put it down to the growing unease he'd had that he was losing her. He shook it off, not wanting to feel any more maudlin than he already felt. "Wasn't Fay a freshman when we were juniors?"

"Yeah. Actually a pretty big search for her was done because she was a diabetic, and her mother went on TV in Des Moines saying she needed her insulin. A farmer found her car containing her bones when he harvested his corn. She wasn't that far from here. It was just weird."

Jennifer glanced over her shoulder toward her house.

"Do you need to get back inside?" Hope flared in Daniel, and it was a sick hope that there had been other victims, and he tried to stuff it down and bury it deep.

She sat down on the back step and drew up her knees and wrapped her arms under her thighs. She frowned. "I'll have to put the food away soon."

Daniel started to offer to help, but her father didn't want him around. Instead he tried to concentrate on what he'd come here for, to solve Brooke's murder. God, he had to do that or he would end up back in jail, only this time for Abby's murder. He needed to solve this, but he was worried about Jennifer because she suddenly looked fragile.

"How is your mom?" he asked.

Her green eyes glittered in the shadows. "She quit breathing early this morning."

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry." Daniel felt horrible. Her mother had died, and he was pressing her to help solve Brooke's murder. He should have realized by what she was wearing.

Jennifer shook her head. "I'm not."

But she pressed her lips together as if she were trying to hold back sobs.

Daniel sat down beside her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her, but then, he knew that wouldn't really ease her pain. She wouldn't want a man who had just gotten out of jail to touch her. "Are you all right?" Stupid question.

Her eyes were full of dampness and his insides twisted.

"I'm fine." But a tear spilled out and trailed down her cheek, and Daniel couldn't help but reach out and catch it with his thumb.

~*~

Monday, 9:15 pm

MaryAnn had a job. She completed the application and worked her first shift. Scanning items and bagging them with only her left hand was difficult, but she managed, and she'd already worked a full seven hours. With Jennifer unable to work, and the missing girl, the store was shorthanded.

So for the first time in more than thirty years, she actually earned money for herself. As MaryAnn approached her home, her buoyancy diminished and tiredness settled in the muscles of her left shoulder, unused to so much use. She stared at the dark house. Only the den had light spilling from the windows. Harry hadn't even turned on the porch light. She wanted to turn around and return to work or anywhere but home.

Extra cars clustered around the Collinses' house. How sad she'd let her friendship with Kathy slip because Harry felt betrayed by Jen's testimony about his daughter's sexual activities.

MaryAnn had known Brooke was seeing someone, and it wasn't Jason any longer. She'd suspected it was Daniel. She'd seen him behind her house too many times, waiting for Brooke, and Brooke, dashing through the house to grab her running shoes and then primping in front of the mirror before going outside.

MaryAnn reached into her purse and found her prescription bottle. She struggled with the lid but finally managed to get it off and dump a pill in her hand. She tossed it in her mouth and swallowed, needing the relief too much to wait for water. She'd taken one before leaving work, but it hadn't helped. Her car door opened before she reached for the handle.

"Where the hell have you been?" Harry asked.

"I left you a note," said MaryAnn. It had been a cowardly way of informing him of her new job, but she'd avoided the rage before work.

"What about my dinner?"

What about my life? MaryAnn sighed as she climbed out of the car. "I can't really cook anyway. I trust you had some soup."

"But you can work? What the hell is this? You know I don't want you working."

"Yes, and I've agreed to that for far longer than I should. I need to get out and talk to people, and the money won't hurt."

"What will people say?"

"I don't know, Harry. Maybe that it is the twenty-first century and women work outside the home." She reached for the front door.

He wanted to be a chauvinist, but he didn't want to open the door for his wife.

He grabbed her arm. "Don't walk away. I'm not finished talking to you."

"I'm not walking away. I'm going inside. I'm tired. I want to go to bed." She shrugged away from his bruising grip. All she needed was for both arms to not work. "I'd rather not have a shouting match outside."

He pushed the door closed and twisted her around. His face was full of rage.

"If you're going to hurt me, do it here then," she said wearily. "Maybe someone at the Collinses' house will hear me scream."

"I've never hurt you," Harry spit the words at her, his face shocked and angry.

She lifted her right arm and the cast.

He simply changed tactics, rather than acknowledge he'd caused her broken arm. "You can't work, I need the car."

"I'm not going to argue about it, Harry. I've made my decision." She'd made more than one decision. She wanted a divorce. How she would manage with a broken arm and just starting to work, she didn't know, but she'd stayed in this bitter marriage far too long. "I can take you to work, or you can arrange to ride with Greg, she pointed toward their backyard, where across the way, the new bank vice president lived.

He was the only one who'd been willing to buy the house built where Brooke had died, and then only for a song. MaryAnn had never liked the new guy.

She looked at the Collinses' house. Harry had fired Peter Collins after the second trial. Harry had gone out of his way to make sure Peter and Kathy weren't invited to any functions if people expected Harry and her to attend. With Harry being the president of the bank in charge of the locals' car loans, mortgages, and farm equipment liens, and owning a large chunk of downtown Fairland, her husband had an unfair advantage.

She just didn't like what he'd done in the last few years. She couldn't imagine ever feeling complete happiness again, but she had to believe that the bitterness could be less present. Maybe when she laughed, it wouldn't startle her so much. Maybe when she smiled, the muscles wouldn't feel so unused. When was the last time Harry had laughed or told her that he loved her?

She rubbed her hand over his shoulder in a way that once would have signified she was receptive to sex, but he lowered his head.

"I still love you, Harry," she whispered, but she didn't know if she respected him anymore. She was fairly certain love wasn't enough. She didn't want sex so much as she simply wanted to feel alive and connected to another living being, but that wasn't possible with Harry, because he was more dead than alive.

~*~

Monday, 9:16 pm

Jennifer went still as Daniel caught her tear with his thumb. She was all ready to scrub it away with the back of her hand, when he moved first. His leaning toward her had brought his face out of the shadows. The light reflected off his sober concern. But under that was a look of desperation.

His fingertips were warm against the side of her cheek as his thumb brushed across her cheek. She wanted to sway into him, but his expression flickered with uncertainty, and he pulled back, dropping his hand.

He stood and went to shove his hands in his pockets as if that were the only way to keep them to himself, but he had to fold the newspaper to put it in the large outer pants pocket. By the time he finished, his look had turned distant and guarded, and he'd increased the space between them tenfold.

"Let's walk up Millcreek," she said, starting across the lawn. Any other way would take them into town. Her black pumps had low heels and she would prefer to walk on a road, rather than struggle in the grass.

Daniel hung back.

She turned around. "Are you all right? How are your ribs?"

"Sore." he answered. "Do you want to talk about your mother?"

"No." Jennifer turned toward the road beyond her backyard. She folded her arms. She had spent most of the day talking about her mother, explaining the downhill slide and the effects of her disease and going with her father to pick out a plot at the cemetery. And thinking the next time she saw her mother, she would be in a casket.

Last night as she'd gone through the boxes of information, a few things puzzled her. She doubted that Daniel could have been involved in Brooke's murder, but she wanted to understand what had happened.

With grief clawing her, shifting her attention to Brooke's death, muted by time, was easier.

She waited on the road until Daniel joined her. He gave her an inquiring look.

"Since Brooke was found over there"—she pointed to where the new bank vice president lived—"do you think Brooke was coming from this road?"

"Well, yeah, she was driving on Millcreek. We were parked on the other end of the road, and she dropped me at my corner and was heading home."

Jennifer refolded her arms and started forward. "So you think someone stopped her between your house and getting home?"

"Or she stopped for someone." Daniel moved toward the center of the road and walked beside her but with at least a foot between them. "Are you sure you want to talk about this now?"

"I don't know when my next chance will be. I have a house full of relatives with more coming tomorrow. The funeral is on Wednesday and we'll have a visitation on Tuesday."

The three-quarter moon provided enough light to see in the dark twilight. She walked past the last house of the short development. Daniel walked slowly, meandering almost, as if letting her set the pace.

"Do you want me to attend the funeral?" he asked after a while. "At least they didn't take my suit. Or would you rather I stayed away?"

Anger hung in his words, and she didn't know if it was because of what the police had taken or because her father didn't want him around. "I would appreciate you being there."

She feared being in a cavernous chapel with only her relatives to fill the pews. It had been so long since they had been to church that they'd opted for the funeral home to provide the space. But she didn't want to think about her mother. She had a distressing tendency to be able to fall apart in front of Daniel, while she kept it together in front of her father.

"Do you think Brooke came from this direction?" Jennifer paused past the last house and looked back toward the Monroes'. She had seen Daniel standing here so many times at the edge of the trees, waiting for Brooke. "I mean, she was kind of slanted in this direction." She lined her hand up in the angle toward the Monroes' back door.

Daniel's face was stony. "I don't know." He turned his back to the Monroes' house as if he, too, was fighting memories.

"I saw you waiting here for her a lot." Jennifer had seen him kiss Brooke good-bye here many times.

"It was a long time ago."

"I really don't mean to pry into your private memories of Brooke, but I've been trying to understand everything. I read through a bunch of the files last night."

"You have the files? I thought the sheriff's department took them."

"And your laptop. I got there just before they did. I looked at the pictures."

"Do you ever sleep?" He slowly turned back around and studied her face.

"Not enough, not lately. I'll sleep tonight. I won't have to watch Mom." Jennifer scrunched her face up, fighting the release of grief. Why did she keep getting all emotional around Daniel?

She tilted her head as an angry male voice came out of the night. The soft tones of a woman's voice followed.

Daniel tensed.

"The Monroes are fighting again," said Jennifer. She started walking again. "Come on, I'd rather not chance them overhearing us discuss Brooke's murder."

Daniel hesitated. "Do they fight often?"

"He yells, she soothes him, but I think she's about hit the end of her rope."

Mr. Monroe's voice carried louder, more threatening. Daniel took a step forward as if to intercede.

Jennifer stepped in front of him, blocking him. I don't think you are the right person to step in. Or me, for that matter."

Daniel looked down at her as if suddenly too aware that the distance between them had evaporated.

Mr. Monroe's next words carried too clearly. "He's back in town for two days and already a young woman is missing."

Daniel's face twisted, reflecting his pain. Jennifer put her hands on his shoulders, before he turned away again.

"Oh hell, Jen, I can't go back to prison. I thought I could, but I can't do time again." He brought his hand up to stroke her hair.

His gesture surprised her, but she welcomed it like a cat would arch into a hand stroking its back.

"You won't."

"If I don't find Brooke's real killer, they'll hang Abby's disappearance on me. Everyone already has me tried and convicted.

"I don't."

His hand slipped down to the nape of her neck and Jennifer's nerve endings fired to life. She realized that her breasts were practically against his chest and sparks zinged through her.

He pulled her ever so slightly toward him, and Jennifer stepped forward, eager to brush against him, eager for the stabs of pleasure that her pebbling nipples craved.

His dark eyes searched hers for just a beat longer than normal. She rose on her toes. Her eyelids grew heavy and her lips parted to allow her the deeper breaths she suddenly needed. His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered. With a low groan, he pulled her closer, his other hand finding the center of her back and pressing her breasts to his chest. Finally, he dropped his head and found her mouth with his.

He kissed like a lover should, not too quick to plunge in but with a slow finesse that had her yearning for more, long before he fully took the opening she offered. She wanted more. She pushed closer, grabbing his shirt. She wanted open mouths and hot passion; she had wanted this kiss for years.

He made a sound low in his throat like a hungry animal and pulled her tighter against him as if he could blend them into one. She strained on her toes while he lifted her up. He kissed her hungrily as if he, too, had been waiting desperately for this mating of their mouths.

Before she was ready for it to end, he broke away, his eyes wild. He twisted her and pushed her off the side of the road. She stumbled over the brush. He caught her arm and kept her upright as he tugged her into the woods. Her heart pounded at his urgency. Fear clutched at her as she wondered why the plunge into the darkness of the trees.