The Birthday List(49)

I shook my head, knowing that if I touched him, I’d never keep the tears at bay.

“Poppy, give me your hand.”

“I can’t,” I choked out.

“Poppy,” he whispered. “Give me your hand.”

I didn’t have the strength to resist his gentle voice so I untucked my hand from between my knees and placed it on his. The second his long fingers closed over mine, the first tear fell. Then the second. Then the rest.

I cried for the loss of a family. For the loss of Jamie’s parents as friends.

I cried because Cole’s hand under mine made me feel better.

Better and worse, all at the same time.





“Nothing.” I shut off the TV and tossed the remote on the table.

I had a bitch of a headache from staring at a small screen all afternoon, watching the surveillance tape of Jamie Maysen’s murder for the tenth time today. Just like the nine times before, there was nothing to go on.

As I pinched the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes, hoping the thumping in my skull would go away.

It had been two weeks since I’d taken Poppy to pick up that old Ford from her in-laws. Two weeks and I felt like all I’d done was sit in this goddamn conference room and watch security feeds. Every night, I went home feeling like my head was being split in two.

And tonight wouldn’t be much different.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my temples and started rubbing just as the door opened.

Matt came in and took the chair at my side. “Anything?”

“No.” I dropped my hands. “I’ve been studying the liquor store tape and running it against the parking lot footage we got from the grocery store. No one matching the killer’s description comes in or out within five hours of the murder.”

“Mind if I watch the liquor store footage again?”

“Go for it.”

He swiped up the remote and rewound the video to the beginning, then pressed play. I was grateful there was no sound on the footage. Seeing what happened in that liquor store was gruesome enough without adding a soundtrack to the mix.

The TV screen filled with a grainy video taken from a camera that had been located in an upper corner of the store. The cashier, Kennedy Hastings, was smiling and chatting with Jamie Maysen as he carried over his haul—gin, vodka and margarita mix. He set them down on the counter, then took out a wallet from his back pocket, saying something to Kennedy that made her laugh.

She’d had a pretty smile. Kennedy’s curly brown hair had been cut short but it suited her round, dark face and petite frame. And she was fumbling a little, probably nervous because Poppy’s husband had been a good-looking guy.

Jamie had worn his blond hair a little long, but it went with his laid-back vibe. He was a big guy too, likely as tall as me and with just as much bulk. He was wearing flip-flops and cargo shorts with his Western pearl-snap shirt. And on his left hand, a silver wedding band reflected in the screen.

My insides twisted as the footage spun on. Tragic. That was the word I’d landed on to describe this video. Fucking tragic.

On screen, Jamie handed over some cash to Kennedy just as the killer came into the liquor store. The killer was barely inside the door before he started waving his gun in the air. Jamie said something, you could make out the word don’t, and then took one step forward. The moment he moved, the killer gripped the gun with both hands and shot Jamie in the head. Kennedy’s mouth was wide as she screamed before the killer turned the gun on her and shot her center mass.

Then, with no hesitation, as if he hadn’t just taken two innocent lives, the killer reached across the counter and yanked out all of the cash from the open register drawer.

He’d kept his back to the camera as he backed out of the store. The angle of the camera had never caught his face—just hints of his profile. All we could see was the plain charcoal hoodie and jeans he’d been wearing. When he pulled the cash out from the register, we could make out a sliver of his light-skinned nose and a small tuft of brown hair at his ear. Black sunglasses covered his eyes and black gloves his hands.

With the register empty, he backed out of the store, leaving behind two dead bodies.

Leaving behind a young daughter without a mother and a wife who’d had to bury her husband in a closed-casket funeral.

Matt and I sat quietly, both staring at the screen as it played on. I’d seen a lot of fucked-up things as a cop, but this video was the worst. Maybe it was because I knew Poppy. Maybe it was because I knew what would happen hours later when I showed up on her porch. Maybe it was because the image of her heart breaking right before my eyes was one I’d never forget.

Besides delivering the news to Poppy that her husband had been killed, watching this video over and over was the hardest thing I’d ever done as a police officer.

Matt stopped the video and broke the silence in the room. “That is fucked up.”

I nodded. “And for what? A couple hundred bucks from the register? Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”

Matt shook his head. “We’ve got to find this guy.”

I dug my fingers back into my temples. “I’ve gone through all the tapes from the complex, all the footage we got from the grocery store and all the other shops. I can’t find a glimpse of this guy anywhere.”

Matt sighed. “Which means we’re on to Plan B. Stoplight cameras.”