The Bones She Buried: A completely gripping, heart-stopping crime thriller(68)

She put her phone back into her pocket and put her head in her hands. After a moment, she heard Trinity sigh and felt a manicured hand squeeze her shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly.

“Will it?” Josie croaked. Her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton.

Trinity squeezed her shoulder again and then without looking away from the road, she reached behind Josie’s seat and grabbed her purse. She put it in Josie’s lap. “I’ve got something that will cheer you up.”

Josie raised a brow. “A Coach purse? Not really my style.”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “Just look in there. There’s an envelope. Open it.”

Josie riffled through the contents of Trinity’s purse until she found an unmarked white envelope. She slipped her index finger under the sealed edge and opened it. Inside were several small photos, no more than three by five inches. They were all yellowed and faded, but Josie recognized the faces in the first one immediately—their parents, Christian and Shannon Payne. They were over thirty years younger, thinner, and much less gray, and they beamed at the camera. Each of them held a baby swaddled in a blanket. The other photos were of the babies, their little pink faces peeking out from their bundles. Tears stung Josie’s eyes as her breath caught in her throat.

“It’s us,” she said. “Where did you get these? I thought everything was destroyed in the fire.”

“It was,” Trinity said. “But Mom had a roll of film that she had taken to the Photomat to be developed when our house burned down and we were separated. She remembered a few weeks after the fire. She’s kept them in a safe deposit box ever since because these were the only photos she ever had of you.”

“Of the two of us together,” Josie said.

“Yes. She gave them to me when she was in New York last weekend. I had them scanned so now there are digital copies, but I wanted you to see the originals. You can keep them.”

Josie clutched them to her chest. “Thank you.”

Her heart felt full. As quickly as she had spiraled out of control, Trinity was reeling her back in and grounding her. This was what it felt like to have a real family. Maybe Trinity was right. It would be okay. There might even be a way to solve this awful case before anyone else was killed. Her mind turned to practical matters. She’d have to call Gretchen when her headache subsided a bit and see if she had managed to narrow down her list of Ivans. She’d also have to check in with Mettner to see if he’d had any luck with the hunting and sports retailers and getting a list of customers who had bought size eleven Coyote Run boots. Her fingers stroked the brittle edges of the photographs as she tried to tamp down her disappointment over losing the belt buckle lead. Poor Brody Wolicki. He was just living his life peacefully in his small wooded cabin with no idea at all that he had something a killer wanted to keep secret.

She pulled the photos away from her chest and stared at them again. Her mother had missed her for thirty long years with nothing but these few photographs to sustain her.

“Oh my God,” Josie said suddenly.

Quickly, she tucked the photos back into the envelope. She touched Trinity’s forearm. “Turn around,” she said. “Turn around right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Trinity said.

Josie took out her cell phone and dialed Heather Loughlin. As the phone rang, she said, “Just go back the way we came and I’ll tell you how to get there. I need to get back to the Wolicki scene.”





Forty-Seven





Josie stood outside of Wolicki’s cabin, waiting for Detective Heather Loughlin. The crime scene tape fluttered from tree to tree, cordoning off the cabin, even though the scene had been processed. Trinity wandered around outside the perimeter, talking on her cell phone to various work contacts. Josie’s cell phone rang. Gretchen’s name blinked on the screen.

“What’ve you got?” Josie said when she answered.

“Ivan Ulrich,” Gretchen replied. “I think he’s our guy. His age fits and his mother, who died in 1999, lived in Denton around the time he would have been at St. Agatha’s. I found her obituary, and it actually says she worked at St. Agatha’s, so I’m pretty sure he’s our guy. He lives in Bellewood. I’m contacting Bellewood PD now to let them know Mettner will be coming down that way to interview him. I’ll go with him.”

“Does he have a criminal record?” Josie asked.

“Clean as a whistle,” Gretchen said. “I’m trying to track down some more information on him now—like whether he ever worked for Sutton Stone Enterprises. You hear from their records department?”

“No,” Josie said. “But I’ll give Sutton a call and see if he can expedite their search, and I’ll give him Ivan Ulrich’s name and date of birth. I’ll give him your email address. I think I might have another lead up here on the belt buckle, but it may take me a few hours.”

They hung up and Josie dialed Zachary Sutton who answered right away, listened to her request, and promised to get in contact with his records department immediately. She was saying goodbye when Heather Loughlin pulled up in an unmarked state police vehicle. Heather got out of the car, her face paling when she saw Trinity. “What’s she doing here?”

Josie laughed. “Relax. She’s not here as a reporter. She’s here as my sister. She doesn’t even know anything about the case. I need to get in there and see the photo albums.”