Paranoid(54)

“I forgive you,” he read the text aloud, his insides chilling. He glanced up at her. “Who sent it?”

“Don’t know. I tried to text and call back—no one responded.”

“Could be a mistake. Sent to the wrong number.” But he didn’t believe it for a second, not with the message—the vile accusation—sprayed across the door.

“I don’t think so.” She glanced out the window. “I should tell you I saw something last night.”

“What?” Real? Or imagined?

The doorbell sounded, and the dog started barking.

Patricia Voss had arrived.

Good. He wanted to hear it all, but thought it would be best if someone else heard the story. Someone with a little distance, someone who hadn’t spent nights beside her in bed as Rachel woke with night terrors, someone who hadn’t had to calm their children when their mother was half crazed with fear, someone objective and professional.

“Reno, hush!” Rachel opened the door, quick introductions were made, and Voss set up a recorder to take Rachel’s statement. They were in the living room, where the clock ticked over the fireplace, nearly buried in the framed pictures of Harper and Dylan crowded upon the mantel. Cade felt an uncomfortable pull remembering when some of the photographs had been taken. Christmas when the kids were just starting elementary school, Harper missing teeth, Dylan sporting a buzz cut that Rachel had hated.

He stood near the couch where Rachel sat, Voss in a winged-back chair at one end of the coffee table, the dog finding a spot on the corner of the rug.

“You have any idea who would have done this?” Voss asked, her pen poised to take notes to back up the recording.

Rachel shook her head. “No. But I think maybe I saw him.”

“Him. A man?” Voss asked and Cade felt his jaw tense.

“It was last night, well, around three in the morning.” She explained about having a bad dream, being awakened by the dog’s barking. Downstairs, she’d looked through the windows in the door to see a man and a dog getting into a car at the end of the street.

“A dog?” Cade repeated, feeling a jolt.

“Can you describe the man?” Voss asked.

“No, it was too dark; he looked . . . average, I guess, and he was carrying something. And, like I said, he was walking his dog.”

“What kind of car?” Cade asked, already guessing.

“Don’t know. Just what looked like a white, or maybe silver, sedan.”

He pressed her. “You get the plate number or notice if it was from Oregon?”

“No.”

Of course not, but his mind was spinning ahead. “And the dog? What kind was it? What breed?”

“I couldn’t say. Small or medium sized, I guess, and light colored.”

“Could it have been a beagle?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Again, it was dark, but maybe. About that size.”

“You know anyone named Frank Quinn?” Cade asked.

“What?” She looked up at him, her lips turned into a frown as she slowly shook her head. “No.”

“He lives on Toulouse Street,” Cade said.

“I said I don’t know him. Why?”

“The other day when I came over?” He explained about the guy looking for his dog, a man who drove a white four-door sedan with Idaho plates, and as he spoke he noticed the panic starting to rise in his ex-wife’s eyes.

“I have no idea who he is,” she said. “You think he’s the same person?”

“Maybe.” He kicked himself for not delving deeper into Frank Quinn. “Tell Voss about the text.”

“What text?” Voss asked.

“This one.” Rachel found her phone and handed it to Voss.

“ ‘I forgive you’? From who?”

“That’s it. I have no idea.” Rachel repeated to Voss what she’d already told Cade, including explaining that she’d tried to contact the caller by phoning and texting back with no response.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she sighed. “It came on the anniversary of my brother’s death. Twenty years ago.”

“I read about what happened in the paper.” Voss’s eyes narrowed.

“So you think whoever called you is forgiving you for being involved in his death?”

“I don’t know.”

Voss pressed. “Who would need to forgive you? Someone who thought you were guilty, right?”

Rachel’s face tightened. “I guess.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Rachel looked away. “I mean, Luke’s dead so it can’t be him.” She didn’t seem convinced.

“Of course not,” Cade said.

“I know, but I had this feeling . . . I don’t know. It sounds crazy, but that someone wants me to believe it’s him.”

“It wasn’t Luke,” he said firmly. She couldn’t go down that impossible track.

“I know.” Her voice was a little sharp. Defensive.

Though it had been twenty years, she’d never really gotten over her half brother’s death; she’d always blamed herself.

“It’s probably someone who took Luke’s death personally,” Voss thought aloud as she underlined something in her notes. “Someone close to him?”