Chapter Seven

Jamie and Cookie returned to her Tahoe, but Cookie’s cell phone rang as he opened the car door. He checked the screen then answered the call with the touch of his finger. “Hey, bro, what’s going on?”

Cookie leaned against the outside of Jamie’s Tahoe, his considerable weight resting against the passenger’s door. Jamie stood opposite, on the driver’s side, while Cookie bargained with his brother. She half listened to the one-sided conversation while she checked email on her phone.

“Is he okay?” Cookie asked.

Jamie deleted spam messages and scrolled through what remained, her attention to her phone serving as a cover for her eavesdropping.

“Why can’t Bobo help you? What’s he doing?” Cookie paused, listening. “Okay. I’ll be right over, but you stay put until I get there.” He rubbed his forehead in exasperation as he disconnected.

Jamie could see he was concerned. “Everything okay?”

“Nothing major, but my Uncle Cleo knows better than to do work up high outside his house, but he’s stubborn. Broke his ankle. He knows not to be on a ladder by himself.”

“Stubborn runs in both our families, yeah?”

Cookie rumbled a half laugh, and they both climbed in the car. “Can you take me back over to Hemingway’s so I can get my car? My cousin is dropping Cleo off from the hospital, but then he’s got to go to work. I need to stay with him until my aunt gets off work.” Cookie tapped his hand on the car window, and his head turned away from Jamie as he stared out.

Jamie considered offering more comic relief but decided against it. She could tell Cookie, annoyed as he was about the change in plans, was also genuinely concerned about his uncle. “Sure, no problem. After I drop you off, I’m going to run by that house and see if Kristen’s hiding out there.”

Cookie turned his concern from his Uncle Cleo to Jamie. “Are you sure? If it gets too late, maybe you should wait for me to go with you.”

Jamie waved off his offer. She knew his family needed him, and if Jamie did find Kristen, she preferred to keep their conversation between the two of them. “I’ve got this. She’s probably freeloading in this house, and I’ll tell Brian that the case is closed. I’ll text you if I need anything.”

Jamie pulled into Hemingway’s parking lot and put her vehicle in park. Cookie’s frown appeared permanent, the result of realizing he would be Uncle Cleo’s caretaker for a bit.

“I’ll let Deuce out again before I go. Okay for Marty to keep him here ’til one of us gets back?”

“Sure. I’ll make it up to him later.”

“You’re like an absentee doggie parent. Pretty soon, you’ll start spoiling him with dog toys because you never spend time with him.”

Jamie stifled a laugh. He was right, but she wouldn’t say it out loud. “I’ll make sure to take him on some extra beach trips soon.” She wiggled her hand in Cookie’s direction, shooing him. “Get out of here. I’ll let you know if I find Kristen.”

Cookie leaned across the seat and hugged Jamie, his ample arms squeezing hard. “See you.”

She waited for Cookie to go inside. The foreclosed home was in a neighborhood less than fifteen minutes away. It was getting late, but Jamie wanted to put this case to bed. Kristen was most likely camping out in an empty house or partying with her friends, completely unaware that her family was worried about her.

Just one more stop, Jamie thought. Just one more stop…

 

Jamie drove down Seascapes Avenue, which led to a new housing development that catered to vacationers searching for a summer home. As she pulled into the main entrance, she winced at the homogenous beach-themed entry walls promising a never-ending island holiday. She saw little imagination in the South Texas real estate market these days. People just slapped some baby-blue paint on a starfish, stuck it to a wall, and demanded top dollar for the privilege of tracking sand in the house.

Though she didn’t know the neighborhood well, she figured she could find her way by turning here and there. It wasn’t a huge development—a few blocks of unimaginatively designed abodes with small yards and tacky statues posing as lawn art. The small homes were nestled close enough to allow neighbors to almost peer into one another’s windows with little effort. The thought of living publicly held zero appeal for her.

Jamie followed one road to the end of a cul-de-sac and found the realty sign Beth had mentioned. Like many foreclosures that sat on the market for months, that one appeared shabby and unloved. Weeds had blossomed around the sides of the house, and the windows were dirty and smeared, the blinds down. Jamie could tell from tire tracks in the tall grass that someone had parked there. The tracks also indicated someone had lousy parking skills… or was in a hurry.

She pulled into the empty driveway and reached into her bag to verify that her gun was where it should be. She didn’t like venturing into an unfamiliar setting unprepared.

She moved with caution up the driveway, noting the lack of cars anywhere in the area. Definitely a good place to crash for a little bit. No nosy neighbors, and not much street traffic. At the front door, she saw the realtor’s lockbox hanging from the doorknob. She turned the knob and stopped short. Still locked.

Jamie glanced around then proceeded to the rear of the house. Not much of a back door overhang to speak of, save for a small concrete slab and a porch that must have been built by two drunken college students on break. There was no trash or party litter, nothing dumped around the back to draw attention. She tried the doorknob, and it gave way with a creak. Leaning into the door, Jamie moved slowly and adjusted her weight to minimize the noise announcing her entry.

She stepped inside with care and surveyed the bare room. She saw a breakfast nook, judging from the hanging light’s position and the alcove’s proximity to the kitchen. The stench of old food greeted her, made worse by the closed windows and lack of air conditioning. The atmosphere felt stale, still, and steamy. Jamie decided to leave the back door open to circulate some air because her gag reflex threatened to strike. She moved to the living room, noting the scattered magazines, pizza boxes, and several empty 7-Eleven Slurpee cups attracting ants.

Jamie continued with caution, observing the different brands of take-out food containers. There were no surprises—pizza boxes, yellow boxes from the local fried chicken drive-through. By free crash pad standards, this place isn’t bad. She stopped for a moment, taking note of the stillness in the house. She wondered if Kristen was hiding somewhere in one of the back bedrooms. Maybe her niece worried an intruder had come inside.

“Kristen!” she called out. “Are you here? It’s Jamie!”

No response.

Jamie ignored the knot in her stomach as she moved tentatively down the hall toward the first bedroom. She took a step inside and stopped cold. On the floor, Kristen lay atop a navy blanket, but clearly not at rest. Her body was twisted in an unnatural way. Her face was turned to the wall, but her right arm remained outstretched, palm open, her torso turned toward the open door.

Then Jamie noticed the needle on the floor. She rushed to look at her niece’s face.

Kristen’s eyes were open with a haunting vacancy, gray and glassy.

“No, Kristen, no…” was all she could whisper.

Jamie knelt over her lifeless niece, studying her chest, waiting for it to rise and fall with breath, but only haunting stillness remained. Kristen’s eyes, once flickering with anticipation of things to come, revealed nothing but the end of a turbulent young life. Jamie silently talked back the sobs, grief seizing her heart. Kristen was supposed to be hanging out with friends, not lying cold and alone on the floor of a foreclosed house.

Jamie forced herself to focus on the details of the scene. Careful not to disturb anything, she observed Kristen’s clothing. The girl wore a spring break T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts. Her feet were bare.

Jamie’s instincts told her something was off. Had Kristen really overdosed? Neither Dylan nor Beth had said Kristen dabbled in any hard-core drugs, certainly nothing with needles. Jamie remembered Kristen once telling her how much getting a flu shot had scared her as a kid. Dylan had said she didn’t use serious street drugs and had been clean for some time. Had he lied, or did he just not know what she’d been up to? Jamie’s suspicious mind wondered if something else was at play, or was Kristen simply another body to add to the statistics?

She remained kneeling and began gingerly checking the girl’s pockets, careful to avoid the surprise prick of a needle. As she slipped her hand in the back left pocket, she felt something. A piece of paper. She pulled it out gently and examined it. Jamie focused on the folded two-dollar bill she held between her fingers, a calling card she had seen only once before.

Jamie sat on the ground next to Kristen. The weight of seeing her niece helpless on the ground was a crushing weight. Jamie’s hands came up to cover her face, which contorted in a soundless sob. Her shoulders shook with the regret she’d carried for so long, but no tears came.

Despite her grief, she could have no release, not when it ended this way.

Their relationship.

Kristen’s life.

Jamie would use her pain the only way she knew how. She would discover the truth, regardless of the cost. Her hopes of conciliation with Kristen withered in her hands, and all that remained was grief.

Grief and the desperate need for answers.