Chapter Eight

Jamie sat on the concrete front step of the abandoned house. She couldn’t bear to be so close to Kristen’s body, but she couldn’t move too far away. She felt the pull in opposite directions, wanting to comfort her niece but understanding it would never be possible. She could feel tears threatening, but she used her anger to keep them at bay. She couldn’t unravel again; that would have to wait until later.

A Port Alene sheriff’s department car emerged at the end of the street, red and blue lights flashing, invading the darkness with their demanding, colorful chaos. The car pulled up in front of the abandoned house where Jamie kept watch. The car parked, but the lights remained flashing.

Detective David Herrera stepped out of his squad car, all six foot three of him, and walked toward Jamie, who remained sitting on the stoop. He kneeled down next to her. “You okay, Jamie?”

She shook her head. “No, David. No, I’m not.”

Jamie and Cookie both considered David Herrera to be a stand-up professional, a good man with a good reputation. Her work required keeping a solid relationship with the Port Alene Police Department but doing so in such a way that she didn’t divulge more than necessary in any case. It was akin to walking a tightrope of honesty and discretion.

“She’s inside?” Detective Herrera stood up and extended a hand to Jamie to help her up from the step. She held his hand for only a moment and, once up, released his grip and dusted off her backside.

Jamie pointed over her shoulder at the front door. “She’s in the back bedroom. I didn’t touch anything other than the front and back door. And her. I touched her briefly.”

“You came in through the back?”

“Front door was locked.”

“I called the coroner. He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

Jamie nodded, keeping her hands in her pockets, her mind turning over the last hour’s events. It didn’t feel right—the house, the body, the needle, the two-dollar bill. She contemplated how much to reveal to Herrera. She knew the Port Alene Police Department had rarely been called upon to investigate crimes of any magnitude. Not because they didn’t have the skills or smarts but simply because the environment gave them a daily diet of DUIs, speeding tickets, and bar fights.

And this was personal.

Jamie followed Herrera into the house, and he continued toward the bedroom. Jamie stopped at the hallway, watching while Herrera examined the room, walking carefully around Kristen’s body, taking note of the sparse details of the room.

“I’m not so sure this is what it looks like.” She felt compelled to advocate on Kristen’s behalf and let him know that she wasn’t a junkie. “She doesn’t have a history of using hard drugs. And I know she was scared of needles.”

Jamie relayed the information she’d gleaned from her conversations with Dylan and Beth—that Kristen sometimes dropped off the grid to be alone, that she seemed fine, and that she never dabbled further than prescription drugs and the occasional joint.

Herrera stood over Kristen’s body and looked at her for a moment. He then knelt down, carefully studying her arms.

“See? No track marks,” Jamie said.

Herrera nodded. “People shoot up in all kinds of places. Between the toes, other places hard to see at first glance. We’ll make sure to do a thorough examination.”

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

The numbness infiltrated her bones as she watched Herrera finish his analysis, taking notes as his eyes searched for any small detail that might provide insight.

Herrera emerged from the bedroom. “She doesn’t have any personal belongings with her. If she carried a bag, it isn’t here.”

Jamie had no idea if she carried a bag or not. What she knew about Kristen’s life could fit in a thimble with room to spare. “She’s not wearing any shoes, either.”

“Well, this is Port Alene,” Herrera said. “Shoes and shirts optional. It’s a beach town.”

“Not even flip-flops? Isn’t that a little odd? Would she walk around in this heat without shoes?”

Kristen had no personal belongings with her. Even junkies—and Kristen wasn’t a junkie according to Jamie’s sources—had something they kept close, an item they cared about. They were often fiercely protective of their few possessions.

Jamie’s thoughts returned to the two-dollar bill, her fingers manipulating the clue hidden in her pocket. She didn’t want to hand over the bill, but she also knew that withholding evidence would hinder the investigation. She grasped the bill and held it up for Herrera to see. “I found this in her jeans pocket. You know what this means.”

Herrera accepted the bill from her, his features tight as his eyes examined the bill. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions here, Jamie,” he cautioned. “It doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“But it could.”

“We’ll look into every lead. I promise. But this, on its own, isn’t proof of anything.”

Jamie nodded, understanding that pushing the topic further would lead nowhere. She stood next to the detective, hands in her pockets, which were empty without the bill that had taken space there moments ago.

“Jamie?” Herrera extended his arm, gesturing her to the front door.

She nodded and turned to glance over her shoulder one last time. She moved tentatively back to the bedroom, stopping short of stepping inside. It was painful to be so close.

Detective Herrera moved toward the front door, giving her a moment alone.

“I’m so sorry,” was all Jamie could manage. She blinked against the burning in her eyes and walked to meet Detective Herrera, who followed Jamie outside.

“I’ll call her father and let him know we found Kristen,” Jamie said.

He nodded. “Have him call my office, and we’ll let him know what we find out. And give him my condolences.”

Jamie headed to her car, drove a block, then pulled over. She leaned her crossed arms against the steering wheel and buried her head in them. She couldn’t allow her grief to weaken her. She needed it. It would be the fuel propelling her forward in finding who was behind Kristen’s death.

Kristen was gone.

And someone was going to pay.