Not One of Us(25)

We sat in gloomy silence for a moment.

“Any fingerprints or other forensic evidence?” I asked.

“Haven’t heard anything yet from the team. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. Let’s get cracking.”

“Yes, sir.” I took my leave, eager to resume my investigation. In the hallway, I paused, listening to the familiar muffled sound of computer keyboards and ringing phones behind closed office doors and muted voices from the lobby. What would it hurt to take a look at the old Cormier case files?

Impulsively, I turned right instead of left and walked the opposite way from the office I shared with the other deputies. One quick glance over my shoulder assured me no one else was around. I opened the door leading to the stairwell and headed to the basement, where old files were archived.

Ginger Ledbetter sat at her battered desk, flipping through a magazine. She hurriedly slipped it under a mountain of paperwork as I approached. “Morning, Tegan. What brings you down here?”

Ginger had worked at the sheriff’s office longer than anyone else and was deliberately informal when it came to addressing employees. As far as Ginger was concerned, she was the ultimate ruler down here in the basement, the potentate of old records.

“Morning.” I found myself shifting on my feet uncomfortably. “I’d like to check out a file.”

“Which one?” she asked, steepling her fingers together and peering at me through her bifocals.

“The Cormier case.”

Her eyes widened, and then she snorted in amusement. “Haven’t you got enough on your plate with the Strickland murder? Why you wanna look at the Cormier file?”

Technically, it was none of her business. Why couldn’t the woman just hand it over without the attitude? I didn’t have to answer her question, but I wasn’t stupid. If I pulled the superior position card, Ginger would hassle me at every opportunity I needed to research old files. I pasted on a smile.

“Never know where there might be connections in different cases,” I said breezily. “Is it on microfiche?”

“Yep.”

My heart sank. I didn’t have time to sit around in the basement reading on the microfiche machine.

“But I also have it digitally scanned,” Ginger added, a smug smile spreading across her plump face. “You think you’re the first deputy to ever request this file? It’d be a real feather in your cap if you could solve that old case. Every deputy working here for the last thirteen years has read up on the case, so why not you?”

She turned away from me and typed on her keyboard. After a minute, she swirled back to face me. “There. I sent it to your email. It’s a huge file. Might take a few minutes to load.”

“Thank you.” My smile was genuine this time.

“You might not thank me when you get it,” she warned. “That file’s monstrous. Over the years, seems like every citizen in the county has called in with a theory or thinks they’ve spotted one of them. Course, none of it ever panned out. It’s all duly noted in the records.”

I hadn’t expected this to be easy, but my eagerness to rake through the material plummeted like a rock sinking in water. “Is the file searchable by keyword?” I asked hopefully.

“Nope.” She laughed. “Good luck, kiddo. Don’t expect you’ll have any more luck with this case than the dozens who’ve looked at the file before you.”

Her words pinged around inside my brain, mocking my enthusiasm as I trudged back up the stairs. As I reached the landing, I drew a deep breath and squared my shoulders. What I might lack in experience, I’d make up for with hard work. If there was any connection between Ray Strickland and the Cormiers, I would find it.





Chapter 8


JORI


A frisson of unease shivered down my spine as I entered my bedroom, an unsettling deep in my gut that was out of place with the ordinary routine of my day. After speaking with Grace Fairhope yesterday, I’d returned home to an uneventful evening, and this morning had been no different. After Zach was at his day program, I’d spent a couple of hours running errands around town with Mimi and then taken a long walk in the woods. Mimi was in the kitchen now, and Zach was home. Pots and pans rattled as she began to prepare a gumbo that would simmer until suppertime.

I cocked my head to the side, trying to understand why the fine hairs on the nape of my neck had risen. At first glance, all was in place. The modest room, with its scuffed but clean wooden floors, slightly battered furniture, and an oil lamp on the dresser, had a shabby-chic vibe that was cozy and warm. A small rolltop desk, where I used to do all my schoolwork, was shoved into one corner. Growing up, I’d pretty much regarded my room as shabby and not at all chic, but as an adult, I saw it had a retro charm that some people now paid a hefty price to emulate.

My quilted bedspread was smooth and unruffled. The book I’d been reading was where I’d left it on my nightstand. My gaze swung to the dresser, but the lace doily, jewelry box, and perfume bottles were in the same spots, if slightly askew. Still, I couldn’t shake the sensation that someone had been in my room. There was a faint but definite musk in the air that hadn’t been there when I’d dressed this morning.

I looked around the room, noticing that my closet door stood open and all the hanging clothes had been pushed to one side. That had not been my doing. I always kept the closet shut and my clothes tidy. I walked over and saw that the boxes of photos, journals, and old board games I kept on the top shelf had been knocked to the floor.