I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(96)

Getting caught at an active murder scene would not get her any favors, but given that she had very little to lose right now, she stepped into the kitchen. The large room had been designed to be airy and bright, but the air-conditioning had been turned off, creating a stuffy heat that made the large room feel oppressive. Anything that could have fingerprints was covered with the graphite dust used by the crime scene technicians. The coffeepot was still half-full. Yellow tents marked the trail of blood through the kitchen and toward the garage.

“Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster? It’s Nikki McDonald.”

Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Careful to step over the trail of blood, she moved through the downstairs, looking in each room. Outside, she heard a dog bark and a car door slam.

“Mr. Foster?”

She climbed the stairs and stopped at the first door, which was slightly ajar. She pressed her knuckles gently to the door, not wanting to leave her fingerprints. The hinges squeaked open. The skin on the back of her neck tingled. Six months ago, she would not have taken this kind of risk. She would have been behind her anchor desk, reading the news. But six months ago, she’d been collecting a fat paycheck and was not desperate to get back in the game. Instinct shouted at her to run. Desperation told it to shut the hell up.

She moved down the hallway to the bedroom and paused as she stared at the large stain of darkened, dried blood. “Mr. Foster.”

No one responded, but she noticed the light in the bathroom was on. She edged toward the door. And then she smelled it. It was blood. Fresh blood. She pressed open the door with her knuckle, and her gaze went immediately to the bathroom. Mark Foster lay in the dry tub. His wrists had been cut, and he appeared dead.

Her nerves crumbling and her stomach tumbling, she backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, and called the cops.



As Vaughan was driving back to the station, his phone display lit up with Nikki McDonald’s number. Vaughan was tempted to ignore it. The woman had inserted herself into the Marsha Prince investigation, and though the diary appeared genuine, he knew if the case went to court, there could be claims that the reporter had manufactured or tampered with the entries. He did not believe she had, but by her not calling him first, she’d opened them both up to scrutiny.

“Ms. McDonald?” he said.

Spencer lifted her gaze from her phone and looked at him, her head tilted slightly.

“Detective Vaughan, I’m at the Foster home.” She sounded breathless, agitated.

“What are you doing there?” he demanded. “It’s an active crime scene.”

“Foster contacted me. I came here to see him.”

“He shouldn’t be there either.” As he reached the next red light, he did a U-turn and headed back in the direction of the Fosters’ home.

“Look, I’m not calling to debate the finer points of crime scene protection,” she said. “You need to get here quickly. Mark Foster is dead.”

“Dead?”

“I called 911, and the uniforms are here,” she said. “I’m on the front porch.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Foster is dead,” Spencer said, more to herself. “How?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Vaughan pressed the accelerator, flipped on his grille lights, and covered the six miles in minutes. He pulled up in front of the house behind three marked cars, lights flashing. He and Spencer got out and quickly approached a uniformed officer.

“How long have you been here?” Vaughan asked the young officer.

“Five minutes. Paramedics have been called, but there’s no way Foster is alive.”

“How did he die?” Vaughan asked.

“He cut his wrists.”

Vaughan looked past the officer toward Nikki, who was standing next to one of the police vehicles. Her arms were folded over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of interest and worry.

“Ms. McDonald,” Vaughan said.

“Detective. Agent.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why did you enter the residence?”

“Foster said he’d give me an exclusive interview. He said he had a lot to tell me, but not a lot of time.”

“Tell you what?”

“I wish I knew.” She pulled in a breath, as if inhaling a cigarette. “He was dead when I found him.”

“Did you disturb anything while you were in the room?” Vaughan asked.

“You’ll find my fingerprints on the back door, but I didn’t touch anything else. When I found Foster, I called the cops right away and got the hell out.”

“Why didn’t you call when he first contacted you?” he asked.

She leveled her gaze on him. “Because I’m chasing a story, Detective. Like you, I want to do my job the best I can.”

“When you say he contacted you, how did he do it?” Spencer asked.

“He texted.”

“Could he have sent you the text at the beginning of the summer regarding Marsha Prince’s remains?”

“It’s not the same number. I double-checked.”

“What else have you found out during your investigation?” he asked.

“I’ve given it all to you.”

“Were you wearing your camera when you entered the house?”