The Bones She Buried: A completely gripping, heart-stopping crime thriller(29)

“What did you believe?” Josie asked.

“I don’t know. I used to think my mom was right but as I got older, I wasn’t so sure. Now, I don’t know what to think. I mean, don’t they say that people who are going to kill themselves don’t talk about it beforehand, one day they just up and do it? I’ve read a lot of stuff on the topic of suicide since then. Maybe he just decided to do it. The police said he didn’t have any marks on his body—well, there was some bruising on his back, shoulders and arms, but they said it likely came from his body smashing against rocks and tree branches in the river and near the shore. They couldn’t prove that he had been in a struggle.”

“Was he a good swimmer?” Mettner asked.

“Passable.”

“What did your uncle think?” Josie asked.

“That he went there to meet someone and that person either killed him and dumped his body in the river or held him down and drowned him.”

“The cause of death was drowning, wasn’t it?” Mettner asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who did your uncle think he was going to meet?” Josie asked.

“Don’t know. We never could figure that out. My mom and Uncle Drew checked his emails at work and at home, his offices at work and at home, talked to his assistant, his colleagues, his students, looked through his phone. From what I remember, they didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I mean, if they did, they didn’t tell me. What I always wondered was, like, if he was going to meet someone, wouldn’t there be some record of it? A phone call? An email? Something?”

“You would think,” Josie said.

She thought of the mystery woman Drew Pratt had met with at the craft fair on the day he disappeared. There hadn’t been any indication that Drew had meant to meet up with anyone either. Had he known the mystery woman before he went to the craft fair? Had he gone there with the intention of meeting her or had he just run into her? Regardless, it was doubtful that the mystery woman had killed Drew Pratt. Both the Pratt brothers were over six foot. It would have taken someone either very strong, very skilled, or both to overpower them. Even if she had found a way of killing them that didn’t involve the need for brute strength, like poisoning them, she would have needed help disposing of their bodies.

The rustle of a paper evidence bag brought Josie’s attention back to the table. Mettner snapped on gloves and reached inside, bringing out the plastic bag they’d found in Colette’s sewing machine, minus the flash drive, which had been sent off to be tested for fingerprints after the contents were downloaded. Mettner held it out for Mason to see, instructing him not to touch it, and smoothing the plastic so he could get a better look at it. “Does this look like your dad’s arrowhead, by any chance?”

Mason squinted at it, standing up and leaning over to get a closer look. “Where did you get this?”

“We recently found it at the scene of a crime,” Josie said. “We can’t get prints from it because of its uneven surface. Even though it’s pretty smooth, it’s got enough edges to make it nearly impossible to lift from. We’re trying to figure out its significance.”

Mason pointed to the bag. “Can you turn that over?”

Mettner turned the bag over in his hands and held it out for him to see. Mason pointed to the bottom edge. “Right there,” he said, his voice a gasp. Josie leaned in and saw a faint black mark along the bottom of the edge of the arrowhead that she hadn’t noticed before. Mason repeated, “Where did you find this? What crime scene?”

“Is this your father’s?” Mettner said.

Tears welled in Mason’s eyes. “Yes, I think it is. He was painting the outside of our house one summer—I was just a kid, maybe ten or eleven—and he had left it sitting on the table on the porch. I thought I’d help him by painting the siding out there, but I ended up spilling this dark blue paint on his beloved arrowhead. I thought he was going to kill me. He was so upset. He got most of it off. All except that one little fleck. It always bothered him.”

Josie and Mettner looked at one another, eyes wide. Colette Fraley had been in possession of two personal items belonging to two men—one dead, the other missing for twelve years. The words went unspoken between them, but Josie knew Mettner was thinking the same thing she was: what the hell was Colette involved in?





Twenty





“Does the name Colette Fraley mean anything to you?” Josie asked Mason Pratt.

He shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of her. Who is she?”

Josie said, “She was the woman who was murdered last week. The crime scene and circumstances were very similar to Beth’s. We found your father’s arrowhead hidden inside her house.”

“With this belt buckle,” Mettner said, shifting the bag in his hands so Mason could have a look. “Do you recognize it?”

He leaned further across the table, craning his neck to get a better look. Mettner turned it over in his hands a few times so Mason could study it. Finally, Mason said, “No. What’s this got to do with Beth—or my dad?”

While Mettner placed the baggie back into the evidence bag, Josie said, “There was another item in that bag. It was a flash drive with the name Pratt written on it. We believe it belonged to your uncle Drew.”