8:30 p.m.
It was like meeting all your deadlines yet knowing it started all over again on Monday morning. From scratch.
She’d been right about Sierra. And she’d been right about Hannah. Neither made her feel any better about telling Mitch.
Sure, there was a much better chance of finding the teacher’s murderer now that they knew where not to look, but that realization had come with a price tag. Sierra McDermott was now facing prosecution for something she did out of love for someone else. The act was wrong, her motives pure.
Glancing down at her cell phone, she gave in to her curiosity and dialed Mitch’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, ’Lise. How are you holding up?”
The sound of his voice was the hug she’d been craving all evening. “I’m okay. How’s Sierra?”
“Rattled. Upset. Apologetic. Scared.”
“Makes sense.” Elise wandered over to her living room window and peered outside. “Is she going to go to jail?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” He sighed, frustration evident in his words. “I mean, what she did was wrong. But I can kind of see why she did it. She really loves him.”
Elise rested the side of her head on the window frame. “How is Jacob holding up? Sam called him and told him what was about to happen.”
“The kid’s okay. He’s standing by Sierra, holding her hand, stroking her hair. I think knowing just how much she loved him has really hit home for the guy, you know?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I bet he’s going to hate me even more now, huh?”
“No. Actually not at all. I think Sam told him how hard it was for you to do this, but that it had to come out so we can find who murdered Hannah Daltry.”
She stared unseeingly out at the pavement below. “I hope so, I really do. I didn’t want to hurt Sierra or Jacob. Please know that.”
“Aww, baby, of course I know that. You did the right thing.” His voice lowered an octave. “I’m gonna come over and see you as soon as I’m done with all this paperwork and I make sure Sierra is okay.”
“No!” She shook her thoughts into the present. “Please stay there and check on her. She’s going to be so frightened in a cell overnight. I’m fine. Really.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She couldn’t tell him how badly she needed his arms, how strongly she wanted to be held. Because if she did, he’d come, and Sierra needed him more.
When they hung up, she grabbed Hannah’s writing sample and headed for her bedroom. Sleep was a long way off but her bed was where she felt most cozy, most safe. An aura she desperately needed at that moment.
All evening she’d been plagued by thoughts of her teacher, trying desperately to figure out who would want to kill such a kind, creative woman. It simply made no sense.
Slipping out of her sweater and slacks, she stepped into a silky ocean-blue nightgown and climbed under the covers, propping two pillows under her head so she could read.
Once again her eyes were drawn to her teacher’s account of that robbery so long ago. She couldn’t help but wonder if the killer’s identity had been shielded by a mask once again. A series of questions tugged at her thoughts—did the masks make it easier to find closure, or did it make it harder?
And closure was the wrong term. It was obvious from talking to Detective Brunetti and Genevieve Daltry, and from Hannah’s own words, that closure never truly came. Was that because there were no faces to direct anger toward?
She made a mental note of the question, realizing the answer was worthy of a follow-up call to the child psychologist she was using in her article on young crime victims.
The doctor had read Hannah’s essay, commenting on the way the seven-year-old had made associations. By doing that, she was breaking the horror down into manageable chunks.
Work boots like Daddy’s . . . One of the bad guys being scared just like she was . . . Wearing a mask and gloves like a cousin . . . Gunshots sounding like fireworks . . . Blue Squiggle Man tripping over his shoelaces like she did . . . Pushing off the ground with grunts like her grandfather . . .
Leaning back against the pillows, she blew a puff of air out, a strand of her wavy hair flying upward momentarily. It was all so frustrating and heartbreaking all at the same time. Frustrating, because she couldn’t imagine who would want to kill her teacher. Heartbreaking, because the woman had endured so much fear in her life—almost as if fate had marked her as a victim.
She looked down at the page, her eyes riveted on the countless associations made by the little girl.
I knew I shouldn’t stare, Mommy says it’s not polite, but he reminded me of that girl Sara, in the other second-grade room. Maybe that’s why he hung out with bosses. Because he didn’t feel good about himself.
It was the one association she didn’t get. Why did Blue Squiggle Man remind her of a classmate? And what did she mean about that being why he didn’t feel good about himself?
She reread the paragraph four times in an effort to figure it out, but it was no use.
But maybe—
Raising up on her elbow, she leaned over the side of her bed and grabbed the yellow daisy-shaped wire basket on the nightstand. It was her catch-all bucket—the spot where things went after she emptied her pockets at night. She rummaged through the top layer or two until she found the cream-colored card.
Detective Douglas Brunetti
Paleville Police Department
He’d written his home number on the back before she’d left his office. His invitation to call anytime had seemed sincere. She’d know soon enough if that were true.
“Brunetti.”
The comforter slipped from her shoulders as she sat up. “Detective Brunetti, this is Elise Jenkins.”
She hoped the silence meant he was trying to place her name, not that he’d hung up. Fortunately, the silence was short-lived, as his voice took on a friendly, more welcoming tone.
“Yeah, hi there, Elise. I’m glad you called. I stopped by to see Mrs. Daltry the other day and she sang your praises. Thank you for being so gentle with her.”
She felt her face warm at his words. “It was easy. She’s a neat woman.”
“So what can I do for you? Did you come up with more questions for me?”
Her eyes immediately jumped to the essay lying across her lap. “Actually, I have one. Did you know a little girl named Sara? She would have been in the same grade level as Hannah when the robbery took place.”
“Sara . . . no last name?”
“No. I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Hmmmm . . .” A tapping noise replaced talking as Detective Brunetti grew quiet. “Wait a minute, hang on, I’ll be right back.”
Pulling the comforter back to her shoulders, Elise sunk against the pillow. She was anxious for whatever information the detective could share, but it was hard not to follow the other trail of thoughts running through her mind. The trail that led to a scared girl alone in a cell.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to focus on the quiet in her ear. There was nothing she could do for Sierra now.
“Okay, Elise, I’m back. This is one time in life when being a pack rat comes in handy. I’ve got yearbooks from grammar school. I looked up the second-graders from thirty-five years ago. And guess what?”
She sat up. “What?”
“There’s a Sara in the other classroom. Sara James.”
“That’s awesome, thank you so much, Detective Brunetti.” Elise swung her feet out from under the covers and stepped onto the floor. “Any chance she still lives in Paleville?”
“Already looking that up.”
“How’d you know?”
“Detectives, reporters . . .”
She laughed.
“Here we go. There’s a Sara James at fifty-two Huntington Way.”
Elise grabbed a notebook off her dresser and jotted down the address.
“And, because I know you’ll ask, here’s the phone number.”