Vanishing Girls (Detective Josie Quinn #1)(59)

“No, I’m down in holding. Someone has to babysit June Spencer.”

Relief flooded through her. She strode toward the entrance and made her way to the elevators. “They haven’t moved her yet?”

“Nope. They’re saying maybe tomorrow or the next day. That psych unit in Philly might have a bed by then. Want me to tell Ray to call you?”

“Oh no. Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep trying him. He does this from time to time. Doesn’t want to hear me nag him.”

“Well, he’s an idiot,” Noah said. “Want me to tell him that?”

She had to force a laugh. “Sure. You can tell him that.”

They hung up just as she emerged from the elevators onto the ICU floor. She found Carrieann in the waiting room, her face ashen and tear-streaked. Josie felt a strange weightlessness, like she was made of nothing. Like her pounding heart would propel her right off the ground.

She walked up to Carrieann and gripped her by the shoulders. “What happened? Is he… is he…?” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word, to even think it.

Carrieann seemed to stare right through her. “They found the shooter,” she said.

“But is Luke okay?”

Carrieann nodded. “He’s the same.”

Her relief felt palpable, like a breath she’d been holding for five minutes rather than five seconds. “They found the shooter?”

“They arrested her an hour ago. The press doesn’t know yet.”

Puzzled, Josie said, “Her?”

Now Carrieann met her eyes. “Denise Poole. Did Luke ever mention her? She’s his ex-girlfriend. She was always a little off, a little obsessed with him, but I never thought she’d try something like this.”

The whole world seemed to narrow to a pinprick. Carrieann was still speaking, but all Josie could hear was a roar in her ears, like a bathtub faucet on full blast. A cold sweat broke out along her forehead and upper lip. She pushed past Carrieann and fell into one of the seats lining the walls. She tried to steady herself by focusing on the painting across the spinning room. It was a copy of a Renoir, she thought, with relief, so purposely out of focus. She wondered if this was how Ginger’s memories looked in her mind, faces blurred and indistinct. She wondered about the painting Denise had mentioned.

Whoever was behind all this clearly had no idea that Josie had met with Denise Poole the day before, or Josie would be dead. She would be dead as soon as Denise gave her name as an alibi.

As the roar in her ears receded, Josie looked up at Carrieann, willing herself to focus. She couldn’t give in to her emotions right now. She had to find a way out of this.

“I just can’t believe it,” Carrieann went on. “Denise. I just never thought she could do something like this.”

Josie said blankly, “Because she didn’t.”

Confusion creased Carrieann’s face. “What? What are you saying?”

Josie beckoned Carrieann closer and whispered, “I need your help. Now.”





Chapter Forty-Eight





Three sharp knocks and a boy’s voice called, “You in there?”

Another loud thump on the door and the hand on her throat relaxed. She sucked in as much air as she could. As painful as breathing was, it was a sudden and sweet relief. Another thump and hope filled her battered chest. She tried to call out, but her words were weak and barely audible, even to her own ears.

The voice came again, clearer now. “Dad, you in there?”

This monster had a son? She wondered how old he was and if he would help her. Surely, if he found her, he would help her, take her home.

The man picked up his flashlight and swung open the door just long enough for her to see a boy’s slender frame in the ultra bright sunlight before she was slammed into darkness again and heard the lock click into place. Her hope disintegrated. New tears stung her eyes. The boy was so close. Rescue. Home. She dreamed of being back in the arms of her mother and sister. If only the man hadn’t beaten her so badly, she could have cried out. She lay like a broken doll discarded on the dirt floor, listening for the boy’s voice again.

“I just want to know what you’ve got in there.”





Chapter Forty-Nine





Denton’s holding area was a little-used group of cells in the basement of the police department with an emergency exit leading to the back parking lot. It was mostly reserved for drunk college students and drunks who needed to sleep it off. For prisoners who were being charged, Denton PD relied on the county’s central booking office which was only a few miles away. It was much more secure, manned twenty-four hours, and the sheriff supplied transportation of prisoners to and from court. It saved Denton a lot of time and expense to send people awaiting arraignment to central booking rather than keep them in holding.

That June Spencer was still in their holding was extraordinary. Noah’s claim that they couldn’t find a bed for her in any nearby psychiatric units was bullshit; there had to be one somewhere. What made matters worse was there was no one to fight for June’s rights; her uncle was clinging to life, her mother was in hiding. She couldn’t even speak for herself.

Obviously, they were trying to delay her transfer. Another day or two and she’d likely have some sort of accident—maybe in transit—or perhaps she would find something to kill herself with. At least that’s what they would claim. Then there would be no chance of June recovering enough to testify against any of them.