I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(28)

“I grew up with three younger sisters,” Vaughan said. “When you’re the only guy in a house, it’s nice to have your space.”

“I don’t see a computer.” She crossed to the desk and discovered the computer cord still plugged in the wall. “I wonder if he backed it up somewhere?”

“I’ll have Hughes look into it.” He sent the detective a text.

She studied the pictures on Mark Foster’s credenza more closely. “Judging by the scenery, Foster traveled out west to what looks like the Sierra Nevada Mountains, maybe Montana, or possibly Idaho. Just about froze my ass off the winter I was stationed in Butte.”

“How long have you been with the bureau?”

“Six years in the bureau and two years on the criminal profiler squad.” She shifted her gaze to another picture. “Mark Foster likes documenting his big game kills.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s our guy.”

“Didn’t say he was. Just making an observation about the photos and the missing laptop, which might have footage of the intruder on it.”

“Mark Foster knew Marsha Prince, and he was on my list of people to interview once I had my bearings on the case.”

Zoe moved slowly and methodically when she collected homicide evidence. This was not a homicide yet, and she hoped it stayed that way. “Has an Amber Alert been issued for the girl?”

“Yes.”

The first few hours a child or young adult went missing were golden. The circle of evidence was tight and the evidence fresh. The more time that elapsed, the larger that circle became and the more tainted the evidence.

An open datebook revealed several appointments with clients as well as a golf pro and a travel agent. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The two made their way to the next room. This room was decorated in soft purples and grays. The bed was covered in a paisley comforter and unmade. The large pillows were rumpled, and a nearly full cup of coffee sat on the nightstand. Jewelry was scattered over the dresser top, but the surface underneath was polished. In the bathroom, nail polishes were lined up in a neat row along the counter, and the rich supply of makeup was organized in clear containers. A hand towel was neatly folded on the rack.

“Skylar slept in her bed last night,” Zoe said. “She was awake long enough to get a cup of coffee, bring it to her room, and take a couple of sips.”

“And then all hell broke loose.”

She walked around the room, searching for anything that was out of place. She had worked a missing persons case in Nevada, and the key to finding the fourteen-year-old girl had been a collection of coffee shop receipts that had led to the store clerk, who had become obsessed with her. The smallest detail could be the important piece.

“Do you see her cell phone?” Zoe asked.

“No.”

“That’s going to be critical.”

“I hear ya. Kids all have social media pages, and most share far more than they should.”

She fished out her phone and searched a couple of social media apps.

“How many apps do you have?” he asked.

“All of them. I routinely search people I’m investigating. I often learn more about a person from their online profiles than interviewing them or their associates.” She paused and then nodded. “Here she is.” Skylar’s profile page on Instagram had been updated three days ago with a picture of the sun shining on an industrial building. The next update was several days before that, and it featured Skylar and a teenage boy. Their heads were tilted toward each other, and their outstretched hands each created the peace sign.

“Nate posts goofy pictures with his buddies. I worry about his posting enough,” he said. “But if I had a girl to raise, I would likely have gone insane with worry.”

“No pictures of her with her mother,” Zoe said, scrolling through the collection. “There are pictures of Skylar with her dad in the spring, but nothing recently.”

“Kids at that age are doing their best to distance themselves from their parents,” he said.

“Maybe. Mother-and-daughter relationships can be strained even at the best of times.”

As tempted as she was to ruffle the bedsheet and begin moving things around to look for the phone, she had to wait for the forensic team to process the room. “The phone was in her hand yesterday when she came into the house with her father. The case is pink and glittered.”

As she walked around the girl’s room, nothing caught her eye.

They left Skylar’s room behind and continued along the blood trail, which grew heavier with each step closer to the master bedroom.

There were two forensic technicians in the room dressed in lightweight protective gear, gloves, and booties. One tech sketched the room layout while the other photographed.

What struck Zoe immediately was the explosion of red on the carpeting by the dresser. The blood not only pooled on the gray carpet, but it also arched in one defined, parabolic curve on the wall. The downward strike of a weapon created the wound, and drawing it back dispersed the blood. She pictured the knife blade going into the victim and tearing skin, and then, as the killer drew back the blade, the blood flinging onto the wall.

She doubted this blood belonged to the surviving husband, because whoever had been stabbed in this room had been struck in a major artery and immediately suffered massive blood loss. And judging by the profuse amount of blood staining the carpet, that injured party had fallen to their knees and then pitched forward onto the carpet face-first.