Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls #2)(13)

The address on her license was a formality. She’d never intended to actually live in Scarlet Falls again. She floated from city to city, with no permanent ties to any particular place. In the beginning, she’d liked the feeling of freedom. But Lee’s death had changed everything. Hannah’s world was tilted. Instead of free, she now felt lost. As soon as her promotion came through, she’d start looking for an apartment. It would be in the city, not her hometown, but she couldn’t hurt Grant’s feelings. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to help Ellie get the kids back to bed. You should try to sleep, too.” Grant left the room.

Had it really been two months since she’d visited? How could she let that happen? She stared up at the freshly painted ceiling for a minute, then got up and went into the new bathroom. Grant and Ellie had kept the vintage feel of the house with a modern pedestal sink and a mosaic tile floor in the same pale green and white they’d used in the bedroom. A deep, modern freestanding tub invited her for a soak, and the shower had more jets than an airport. Had this been a bedroom or a closet before her brother had reallocated the space for her? Guilt lay in a thick layer on her skin. She needed to visit more, no matter how painful it was to leave.

As much as she resisted, Grant’s house felt like home. It felt too good. Almost good enough to blot out the image of a frightened teenager Hannah had left behind in Vegas. Almost.

Suddenly, she needed to wash the trip from her skin. She took a hot shower. The clothes in her suitcase were dirty, but she found her battered Syracuse University sweatshirt in one of the dresser drawers. She tugged it on with a pair of yoga pants and thick socks. After the warmth of the desert, the damp of autumn in New York State chilled her to the marrow.

Tired but restless, she fluffed up the pillows and settled in bed with her laptop. Her e-mail account was full, as usual. There were several messages from concerned coworkers and clients who’d heard about the attack in Vegas. She sent quick thank-you notes back.

Her mouse hovered over an e-mail from [email protected]. The subject line read Jewel. Hannah’s hands froze. A wave of cold swept over her skin. Only the police and Royce had been present when Hannah had given her statement. No one else would know the girl’s name—except the girl and the men who took her.

Hannah clicked on the e-mail. The message was short: Help. The end comes Tuesday.





Chapter Five “You sure this is the right address?” Brody shifted his unmarked police car into park at the curb in front of a narrow two-story home. A dozen blocks from the town center, the houses crowded together on small lots. White with black shutters, the place was plain but neat. No trash littered the tiny chain-linked yard. A maple tree had turned to crimson in the center of the small front yard, and its fallen leaves had been raked recently.

In the passenger seat, Chet Thatcher, the only other detective on the small Scarlet Falls PD, checked his paperwork against the brass numbers affixed next to the front door. “This is Jordan Brown’s last known address. Maybe he moved.”

Brody pointed to the small script letters that spelled Brown on the side of the black metal mailbox.

Chet tapped a forefinger on his report. “His parents’ house.”

“What do we know about him?” Brody asked. Chet had been working this case for the last month, but he’d asked for Brody to ride backup today.

“Jordan is twenty. He’s been arrested for burglary and once for narcotics possession. He got out of rehab six months ago.” Chet flipped a page on his clipboard. “A house was burglarized two blocks from here last night. The resident came home to find her window smashed, jewelry and two hundred dollars in cash missing. In her words, Must be that no-good piece-of-shit Brown kid who lives on Tyler Street.”

“Anybody actually see Jordan in the act?” Brody asked.

“No. I don’t have enough probable cause for a warrant, but the theft follows his established pattern of behavior. We arrested him two years ago for breaking into neighbors’ cars to fund his habit.” Chet showed him the kid’s mug shot. “There have been three similar breakins in this neighborhood over the past six weeks.”

“Let’s go see if he’s home.” Chet got out of the car.

Brody stepped out into the street. “No car in the driveway.”

“Maybe Mom and Dad are at work.” Fifty-six years old and balding, Chet had a skinny frame and moved with a jerky, bowlegged stride as if he’d spent his life on horseback. The closest he’d been to a horse was the stands at Saratoga on race day.

Brody knocked on the front door, but the house remained quiet. Chet stepped into the flower bed, cupped his hands over his eyes, and peered in the living room window.

“See anything?” Brody asked.

Chet shook his head. “Maybe no one’s home.”

Behind the door, something slammed. The house rattled. Brody and Chet ran around the side of the house. A thin man in jeans and a black T-shirt raced across the small back lawn and vaulted over the three-foot fence, landing next to three grade-schoolers playing in a sandbox. He paused on the other side and glanced over his shoulder. Brody recognized Jordan Brown from his photo.

“Stop! Police!” Brody yelled.

The kid bolted, and Brody followed, tossing the car keys at Chet. Brody chased the kid through a neighbor’s side yard into the next street. Jordan ducked around a group of kids playing baseball and sprinted into another yard. He passed a shed and turned into a grass alley that ran between two fenced lots. Brody skidded through the sharp left, his dress shoes sliding on the muddy ground. He almost collided with Jordan. The kid had stopped short. A Dumpster blocked the exit. On both sides, six-foot-high wooden fencing blocked Jordan’s escape. He’d never get over an obstacle that high before Brody could get his hands on him.