Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(28)

“Never. There’s always been a phone number. Sometimes he doesn’t get right back to me, but he’s never done anything like this before.”

Mason interrupted. “You’re talking about your brother?”

Unusual light green eyes looked to him.

Holy crap. No wonder Brody’s smitten.

“Yes, and no, I don’t know where he is. But he’s always left me a number to call in the past. Maybe someone got to him…like that guy got to me today.”

Brody carefully took her hands, getting her to look at him. “Jamie, you’ve told me how smart your brother is. I think he’s well aware that someone from his past could one day seek him out. I think that’s part of the reason he left and why he doesn’t let you know how to find him. I have no doubt he’s gone deeper into hiding.”

Mason raised a mental eyebrow at Brody’s soft and reassuring tone. Yep. He’s in deep.

Jamie stared at Brody for a few seconds and then nodded. “We need to warn him, though. He should at least know what happened to me today.”

Mason cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about that.” He waved a hand at two chairs. “Have a seat.”

Ray tactfully and thoroughly led Jamie through the events of the day. Surprisingly, Brody kept his mouth shut but watched everyone in the room like a hawk.

Mason only interrupted once, directing a question to Brody. “You traced his call?”

“Yep.”

“How?”

Brody said nothing and just looked back at Mason.

“Okay. Fine. I suppose you’re still planning a trip to find him?”

Again, Brody just looked at Mason and then asked a question of his own. “Tell me about the tattoos in the pictures.”

Mason noted he didn’t ask what else was in the pictures. He only wanted to hear about the tattoos.

Mason moved Jamie’s sketch of hands and wrists to the center of the table. “There’s a lot more color and detail here than in the pictures. Possibly, he’s added ink.” Mason pulled out four hazy close-ups of wrists that they’d created off the Polaroids. The pictures weren’t the greatest, but anyone could see that the tattoos in the pictures were in the exact same position and same size as the black marks on Jamie’s drawings.

Jamie stared at the close-ups. “Those are them. They’ve been enhanced with design and colors. It must be the same person.”

Mason shook his head, but Ray spoke up first. “No, we have to keep open the possibility that two people could have the same black tattoos. Maybe they’re associated with each other. Maybe some sort of private, sick club.”

Brody snorted.

Mason agreed with Brody’s sentiment, but he knew better than to jump to conclusions. “We know it’s unlikely to be two different people, but we won’t rule it out. Yet. I’ve passed the Polaroids and drawing to a detective in the gang unit. No one knows more about tattoos than this guy. And if nothing jumps out at him from the images, then he knows who to ask and where to look.”

“I doubt it’s gang related,” Brody argued. “We’re talking about a white guy with tattoos from twenty years ago. To me that makes the tattoos sound more military related or foreign.”

Mason nodded. “Agreed. Obviously this guy isn’t a gangbanger, but the people who work with them are our tattoo experts. They’ll know where to turn next. It’s our best lead so far.”

“Why would someone leave something so incriminating as pictures in that place?” Jamie asked. “You said you haven’t found fingerprints anywhere, but you found photos? That doesn’t sound like the same person. This”—Jamie paused, eyebrows narrowing—“crook…murderer…isn’t being consistent if they’re not leaving fingerprints but are leaving pictures.”

“Agreed,” Lusco said. “We might be dealing with more than one person.”

“Someone else had to take the pictures,” Brody added.

“One of the other kids could have been behind the camera.” As Mason spoke, he saw Brody imperceptibly flinch. “Not willingly, of course,” he added.

Jamie’s face flushed. “I’ve seen a lot of child abuse in my position. I do what I do because I want to help kids better their lives. Nothing makes me sicker than a defenseless kid.” She met Mason’s gaze straight on. “My brother was horribly abused, and I’ve sat back, thinking I was letting him heal and doing the right thing by not pushing for answers. It was how my parents handled him, and I continued it. Now I think it’s time for him to actively help. The man who attacked me could still be hurting kids. I don’t care if my brother claims he remembers nothing, I’m gonna drag him to every therapist and hypnotist in the country until he gives you something to help find who killed those children, before this person hurts more.”

She turned to Brody. “I’m ready to go with you to find Chris.”



It was evening by the time Jamie and Michael drove into the outskirts of the dry, beige town of Demming, Oregon. The trip east had taken six hours, and Michael drove the entire stretch. Jamie had offered to take a shift, but he’d turned her down.

“I get antsy if I’m sitting in the passenger seat. Driving helps me focus.”

Their conversation had been minimal. If Michael wasn’t on the phone with an editor or co-worker, his music was blasting through the SUV. His taste was eclectic, ranging from traditional rap to the most heart-stirring classical she’d ever heard. She’d relaxed and simply let him drive, taking the time to study his profile and the world outside.