4:00 p.m.
Think, Elise. Think.
It was a mantra that was on continuous playback in her mind. The words cautioning her to slow down, process the information she’d strung together over the past hour or so.
But it was hard. Particularly when the pieces fit as well as they did.
The question now was what to do. Did she call Mitch and share her fears with him? Or did she see if she could glean even more information before hassling him at work?
She opted for more.
First, the essay. All of a sudden Sierra’s assignment seemed more personal than it had when she’d read it to the class on Saturday. It had drawn Elise in at the time, made her imagine the story that was being shaped. Yet now, it didn’t seem like a story in the making any longer.
She found Sam at his desk, his back to the door as he flipped through last week’s paper.
“Sam? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He swiveled around in his desk and motioned her inside. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
She waved off his invitation to sit, stopping instead at the side of his desk. “Do you happen to have everyone’s assignments from last week’s class? The ones we read aloud?”
“Yeah, I do.” His eyebrows arched upward. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to see Sierra’s.” She wiped her moist palms against her slacks, aware of the way Sam was studying her. “Please. It’s important.”
He spun around in his chair and unzipped the black briefcase to the left of his computer monitor. “They should all be in here. Funny you ask about them. Jacob Brown was in earlier, with an extra copy of his story with his signed permission at the bottom. He wants me to run his essay. I told him we’d do it in conjunction with the story you’re working on now—the one about the survivors of crime and how it affects them.”
She nodded her agreement, her eyes watching his every move as he sorted through the pile of essays in his case. “Yeah, sure, okay.”
“What’s wrong?” Sam pulled Sierra’s essay from the pile and spun back toward Elise, his whole face giving way to worry.
“I think I may have figured out who’s behind the robberies.” She slid the essay from her boss’s outstretched hand, her eyes flying down the words on the page.
It was not what it seemed.
But how could he tell?
All he’d meant to do was help. To make things better.
Yet somehow it went horribly wrong. What was supposed to be better was now worse. What was supposed to help hurt more.
He cowered in a corner, alone, eyeing his mistakes from afar. Desperate to fix things, unsure of how or if it could be done.
Seeking help would bring an end. Ignoring it could bring a loss much greater and provide an unjust freedom.
It was not what it seemed.
But how could he tell?
It was too much. The words seemed almost Greek. She needed help.
Dropping into the empty chair, Elise poured everything out as Sam listened quietly. She explained how she’d suspected Dean at first, how that morphed into a gut feeling about Sierra.
She looked down at the page as she continued. “I mean, if you change the pronoun to ‘she’ it could make sense. She had familiarity with all three locations. She’d be afraid to tell because of the punishment . . . but why? Why would she do it?”
“Well, let’s try to think what could be accomplished from a crime like this. She obviously didn’t need the stuff she stole, or she wouldn’t sell it to Dean for . . . what?”
“A hundred dollars,” she said, not looking up.
“A hundred bucks,” Sam repeated. “We know those computers are worth ten times that. At least. So money wasn’t the motive.”
All he’d meant to do was help. To make things better.
That line bothered her. How would robbery make things better? She posed the question to Sam.
“I don’t know. What does a robbery do? It gets a person some money or some objects . . . it gets attention . . . it—”
“That’s it!” Elise jumped from her seat, her hand gripping the essay tightly. “Oh, my gosh, it makes sense.”
“You lost me.”
“Sam, don’t you see? It’s like Mitch’s aunt said the other night. The robberies gave the news reporters something else to focus on. It brought talk of the fortune-teller murders to a halt for a little while. Only . . .”
“Only what?” Sam asked, his voice rising with excitement.
“Only it backfired. When Hannah was murdered, the television reporters were right back to talking about last year.” Elise paced back and forth as she spoke, her mind running various scenarios. “Besides, I can’t see Sierra hurting a flea, let alone murdering an innocent woman. Taking a few minor objects to help Jacob, maybe. Killing someone, no way.”
“Shhh.” Sam stood up, walked around the desk and raised Elise’s hand so he could reread Sierra’s essay himself. “Look right here.” He pointed to the fourth paragraph.
Yet somehow it went horribly wrong. What was supposed to be better was now worse. What was supposed to help hurt more.
She nodded, her eyes moving farther down the page.
Seeking help would bring an end. Ignoring it could bring a loss much greater and provide an unjust freedom.
It was not what it seemed.
But how could he tell?
“Wait a minute!” Her heart rate accelerated as a thought took hold above all others. “Maybe the murder isn’t related to the robbery. She says it wasn’t what it seemed. But seeking help would bring an end.”
“An end in many ways for her,” Sam chimed in.
“And for her relationship with Jacob.” Elise stared at the words, rereading them over and over again aloud. “Ignoring it could bring a loss much greater and provide an unjust freedom . . . ignoring it could bring a loss much greater and provide an unjust freedom . . .”
“By not admitting her part in the robberies, the person responsible for Hannah Daltry’s death gets off scot-free,” Sam mumbled.
That was it. It all made sense now.
“There’s still one more thing I need to check first. May I use your phone?”
“Absolutely. Sam walked around his desk and pushed the phone in her direction. “Go ahead.”
She knew the number by heart. But it didn’t make the call any easier.
“Detective Burns, please. It’s Elise Jenkins.”
Within seconds Mitch’s warm voice filled her ear. “Hey, ’Lise. I talked to Dean and—”
“Mitch, I have to ask you something.” She gripped the receiver and closed her eyes, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears.
“Okay. Shoot.”
“How did the suspect get into the places he—or she—robbed?”
“Why?”
“Please, Mitch, just answer me.”
“The doors were left unlocked in each instance.”
Her mind scrambled the information. “Is it possible that they were locked, but were unlocked by the suspect?”
There was silence in her ear for a moment.
“Mitch?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Yeah, he could have unlocked them. But he’d have needed keys to both places.”
It was confirmation she expected but didn’t enjoy hearing. “And what about the college? That too?”
“No. That building was open anyway, so students could use the computers when needed. It gets locked after ten. But what’s this about, Elise? What’s going on?”
She inhaled deeply, the enormity of what she was about to say more than she could grasp at that moment. By figuring out the Sierra connection, the murder of Hannah Daltry took on a whole new significance.