Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(32)

“Please find me.”

Macy sat up in her bed. Her shirt was soaked in sweat, and her heart pounded against her chest like a battering ram. She looked around the room and saw her weapon lying on the pillow where she had left it. The room was bathed in shadows. She was alone. Still, she listened and waited. What the hell?

“I’m losing my damn mind.”





CHAPTER TWELVE

Tuesday, November 19, 1:00 a.m.

Under bright stars, Brooke Bennett stood outside the barn where the remains of Tobi Turner had been found last week. She hadn’t been to the Wyatt barn since the day in middle school when she and Cindy Shaw had ridden their bikes out here.

Cindy had spotted a large gray circular beehive. A few bees had buzzed, and the core had hummed with movement. Cindy had kicked a few rocks and then had reached for a piece of roughly hewed wood. “I dare you to hit that nest.”

“Why would I hit the nest?” Brooke had said.

“You saying you’re too scared?”

“I’m not scared.”

Cindy had arched a brow. “Then take a swing.”

The doubt in Cindy’s eye had irritated Brooke. She had been afraid, but she had never backed down from a challenge. “Give me the wood.”

Cindy had held back. “You sure?”

Brooke had snatched it away, cocked the wood like a Louisville Slugger, and whacked the gray cylindrical cone hard. The brittle hive had hit the dirt with a dull thud and split open right down the center. Cindy had run as the bees, fierce and angry, had swarmed. Then, sensing Brooke, they had zeroed in on their intruder.

Brooke had run screaming from the barn, her legs and arms covered with welts. Cindy, a safe distance away, had laughed so hard she had cried.

Brooke had always thought that trouble found some people, while others went looking for it. Cindy had gone looking for trouble. She had been a provocateur, but had always been careful to delegate. To her credit, Cindy had known where the line was drawn.

Brooke clicked on her flashlight and crossed the interior of the barn to the red crime scene tape. As she stared into the partially dismantled chute, she thought about Cindy. By the time Brooke and Cindy had reached high school, they had been running in very different circles. Cindy had been cynical at seventeen. She had drunk hard, and sex had been as automatic as breathing.

But those last few days before Cindy had vanished, she had been stirring up a different kind of trouble. Cindy had been drinking heavily and claimed she knew things. Terrible things.

And when Cindy Shaw had vanished, it should have been a red flag. Tobi Turner had been missing, and the entire town had been searching for her. But no one had cared that the loud troublemaker was finally gone. Brooke knew firsthand how cruel Cindy could be, and she hadn’t cared either.

Brooke knelt by the grave and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it trickle through her fingers. She had always believed Cindy really had run off. The girl had threatened to do it often enough. It had been a surprise to no one.

But now Brooke doubted herself. She saw Cindy through an older, wiser lens and forgave the girl. Now she wanted to know what really happened to Cindy Shaw.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

That’s what Greene would say if she asked him about Cindy. It’s what he had said about the untested rape kits when she found them in the evidence room. When she had pressed Greene a second time about the kits, he had told her to back off. In that moment, something inside of her had changed.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

That advice had rattled in her brain when she had risked a secure future in the sheriff’s department and leaked the information about the rape kits to Nevada and then the media. She’d expected the feds to investigate. She hadn’t expected him to run against Greene. Or to win.

Brooke crossed the frost-covered ground, following the ring of her flashlight to her car. As she reached for the door handle, the wind rustled in the trees. Her hand slid to her weapon as she searched the darkness. She watched for signs of trouble in the sway of the trees and tall grass. Her skin prickled. She tightened her fingers on the grip of her weapon.

Finally, she pushed aside the unexpected case of nerves and got into her car. As she started the engine, she searched the horizon one last time before she shook off the remnants of worry and drove the five miles to her house.

Mom and Matt would be asleep by now, but at least she would be under the same roof with them for a few hours.

She parked by the house, got out of her vehicle, and moved up the stairs before she quietly unlocked the front door. Stepping lightly, she made her way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to find a blue plastic container. Attached to it was a sticky note that read BROOKE.

“Bless you, Mom.” She opened the lid, removed a fried strip of chicken, and bit into it. It was cold, but the flavors were delicious and she was so hungry she was lightheaded. She grabbed a soda and, standing at the kitchen sink, ate her chicken and drained the can.

The clock on the stove read 1:50 a.m. She had three hours to grab some sleep and be back at the office.

Her phone dinged with a text, and she glanced at the screen. It was from Peter Stuart, a reporter based in Roanoke. He was young, midtwenties, and though they’d never met in person, she imagined a newly framed journalism degree from Who Cares University hanging in a small gray cubicle in the center of a newsroom.

DNA results on the rape kits should be back by now.