The Girl Who Survived(86)

“But kill the whole damn family?” Watching an older-model Ford Escape slow near the front door of the building, he saw a newspaper being tossed through the driver’s open window. The paper landed on the snow-covered sidewalk outside the front door just as the Escape, engine revving, tires spinning, drove off.

“How else would someone end up with the pot o’ gold and not have to share?”

“I’m pretty sure the police have looked into that angle. I know I have.”

“Wait a minute, you just said yourself you found it hard to believe someone would kill the entire clan for money. I beg to differ. But we’ll see. In the meantime I’ll send the info I got to you, encrypted, and you can go through it yourself.” Which Tate would and compare it with the data he’d collected over the years, as well as what he’d taken from the jump drives he’d lifted from Margrove’s office.

“So I’ll keep looking,” Connell said, and was about to disconnect, but Tate asked, “What about Marlie?”

Connell let out an audible sigh. “So far a dead end. But I’m still searching.”

“Good.”

“And I’ve been searching for Hailey Brown in Modesto,” he admitted.

“And?”

“Nada.”

“None of them that I’ve located in the area match up with the online profile for the woman who’s a follower in Jonas McIntyre’s Facebook fan page.”

Tate already knew this as he’d been checking himself as Jessica Smith, his own alias. The groups were hyped up over Jonas McIntyre’s release and hospitalization and were already screaming that he couldn’t have killed the attorney who had finally secured his release, that no doubt the police would try to pin the murder on him.

Hundreds of fans had commented or “liked” the posts, but many had been silent, and in that group was Hailey Brown of Modesto.

Tate heard a thump overhead, probably the sound of Kara’s dog jumping from the bed to land on the floor. “Gotta go.” Tate ended the connection and grabbed the newspaper from the front walk.

By the time he climbed the stairs to his loft, Kara was awake, her hair a brown tangle, her expression far from friendly as she stood over the coffeemaker in a knee-length sleep shirt, the dog dancing at her feet.

“Just so you know, this is waaay too early for me,” she said. “Even when I teach, I’m not up before six. Never.” She waited as the coffee drizzled into her cup.

“I’m a substitute teacher.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. You know everything about me.”

“Not everything.”

“But you will. Or that’s what you hope for.” She slid Tate a glance as she picked up her cup and blew across the rim.

Tate watched her lips pucker as she chased the steam away, then gingerly took a sip. She eyed him over the rim. “Since you’re dressed, would you mind taking Rhapsody outside?”

“Glad to,” he said.

“And then, once I get myself together, maybe you could give me a ride to the police station.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t even say it. I’ve had time to think, okay? Like it or not, and yes, I think ‘not,’ I have to talk to them, explain what happened. Also, I really want my phone and ID, so I can, you know, communicate with people and get around. I can’t just hang out here and rely on you, for God’s sake.”

“No?” He felt one side of his lips twist upward.

She sent him a withering glance. “No.” But she, too, smiled, and for just a split second it was difficult to remember that he couldn’t trust her.





CHAPTER 24


In the darkness Chad edged to the side of the bed and slid open the drawer of his nightstand. He didn’t want to wake Brittlynn, didn’t want the fight. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that his wife had her back to him, was breathing rhythmically, lost in deep slumber as the old furnace rumbled low and steady, the background noise he counted on.

Good.

The bedside clock glowed a soft blue. 3:57. Early. But Britt wouldn’t wake for another three hours and by that time he’d be long gone, already in Washington State, and possibly Idaho. Ultimately out of the country.

If everything went as planned.

It had to.

His fingers brushed against the leather sheath of his bowie knife and then the smooth grip of his handgun, a sweet little Ruger 9mm, a pocket pistol with incredible accuracy. He retrieved both weapons, glanced again at his slumbering wife on bare feet to the bathroom, where he’d left his clothes hanging on a hook near the door—just as he always did. He dressed quickly in ski pants, sweater and down vest pulled over his thermal underwear, patted its pockets to make certain he had keys and three extra clips for his pistol. He left his cell phone. On purpose. Didn’t trust Britt not to put a tracker on it somehow and he needed to disappear. Really disappear.

He slipped noiselessly into the second bedroom.

From the closet he pulled out his duffel bag, already packed, then moved the never-used skis and, by feel, located the loose floorboard in the closet. It slid out easily, allowing in a rush of cold air and the smell of the earth. He reached inside, twisting his hand to find the plastic packet he’d duct-taped to the underside of the closet floor. Carefully, nerves strung tight, he retrieved the bag, then carefully replaced the floorboard and skis. So that Britt wouldn’t find his hiding spot. Just in case.