My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(17)

“The sheriff’s deputy took possession of everything.”

“But you photographed and catalogued everything?”

“Always. Regular routine.” Rosa gave her a quizzical look. “Tracy?”

Tracy pushed back her chair and slipped the photograph into her briefcase. “Thanks, Kelly. I appreciate this.” She started from the table.

“Tracy?”

She turned back. Rosa continued, “What about her remains?”

Tracy paused and closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead, feeling the onset of a crushing headache. She retook her seat.

After another moment, Rosa asked, “What’s going on?”

Tracy considered what to say, how much to reveal. “It’s better if you don’t know too much, Kelly. You may end up being a witness, and it’s best if your opinions remain untainted by anything I might tell you.”

“A witness?”

Tracy nodded.

Rosa’s eyes narrowed in question, but she apparently decided to let it go. “Okay. But if I could offer a suggestion . . .”

“Please.”

“Let me send her remains directly to a funeral home. It’s easier. You don’t want to have to transport them.”

Twenty years ago, some in Cedar Grove had suggested a service. They’d been seeking closure, but James Crosswhite wouldn’t hear any talk of funerals or funeral homes. He would not hear any discussion that his baby girl was dead. Tracy no longer had any such hope, but now she had something she’d been waiting twenty years for. Hard evidence.

“I think that would be best,” Tracy said.





[page]CHAPTER 14





Early on the morning of the third day after Sarah’s disappearance, Tracy opened the front door to find Roy Calloway standing on the porch, kneading the brim of his hat. From his expression, Tracy knew Calloway had not come bearing good news.

“Morning, Tracy. I need to speak to your father.”

Tracy had dragged her parents home when darkness had made searching the hills above Cedar Grove no longer practical. She had worked beside her father, who had been using his den as their command center. He had called police stations, congressmen, everyone he knew in positions of power. Tracy had called radio stations and newspapers. Sometime after eleven, as her father studied a topographical map, Tracy had curled up in one of the red leather chairs to take a fifteen-minute nap. She had awoken beneath a blanket, the morning sun streaming through the leaded glass. Her father remained seated at his desk, the sandwich she’d made him the night before untouched. He was using a ruler and compass to divide the topographical map into quadrants. She got up to make coffee but found a pot already brewing in the kitchen. Her mother had evidently left earlier that morning without awakening her. About to pour a cup for her father, she’d heard the knock on the front door.

“He’s in his den,” she said.

The sliding doors behind her were already pulling apart, and her father stepped out, fitting his glasses behind each ear. “I’m here,” he said. “Tracy, make some coffee.”

“Mom has a pot brewing.” She followed them into the den.

“Did you speak to him?” her father asked.

“He says he was at home.”

Tracy knew they were talking about Edmund House.

“Can anyone verify that?”

Calloway shook his head. “Parker worked the night shift at the mill and got home late. He says he found Edmund asleep in his bedroom.”

When Calloway didn’t immediately continue, her father said, “But?”

Calloway handed her father Polaroid photographs. “He has scratch marks on the side of his face and the back of his hands.”

Her father held one up to the light. “How did he explain these?”

“He said a piece of wood exploded on him while he was working in the metal shed where Parker makes his furniture. He said it splintered and cut him.”

Her father lowered the picture. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Neither have I.”

“These look like someone raked fingernails across his face and arms.”

“I thought so too.”

“Can you get a search warrant?”

“Vance already tried,” Calloway said, frustration seeping into his voice. “He called Judge Sullivan at home. Sullivan turned him down. He said there wasn’t enough evidence to invade the sanctity of Parker’s home.”

Her father massaged a kink in the back of his neck. “What if I call Sullivan?”

“I wouldn’t. Sullivan goes by the book.”

“He’s been in my damn house, Roy. He comes to my Christmas party.”

“I know.”

“What if he has Sarah there? What if he has her somewhere on that property?”

“He doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s Parker’s property. I asked if I could take a look around, and he gave his consent. I searched every room and every building. She isn’t there and I didn’t see any sign to indicate she had been.”

“There could be other evidence—blood in his car or in the house.”

“There could be, but to bring in a forensic team—”