Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls #3)(30)

“Yes, sir.” Stella turned to the door.

“Be extra careful, Detective,” Horner said. “I don’t like that he’s focused on you.”

That made two of them.

More jittery than she wanted to admit, Stella dropped the envelope and photo at the forensics lab for fingerprinting. Then she drove to Mrs. Green’s house to update Missy’s mother. Heading up the walk, she scanned the street and shivered.

The chief was probably right. The killer had seen her on the news, but being watched by a sadistic murderer gave her a cramp between her shoulder blades. She shook it off and knocked on the door. With Horner as her boss, she had no way to avoid media exposure.

Once again, Stella sat in the familiar kitchen. Mrs. Green’s face was paler and her eyes more vacant.

She handed Stella a cup of coffee. “I appreciate you taking time to give me an update.”

“Have you slept?” Stella asked.

Mrs. Green’s gaze flickered over Stella’s face. “Not really. Have you?”

“No.” Stella sipped. “Did Missy ever talk about cutting?”

“No,” Mrs. Green said. “She never mentioned cutting herself.”

“She was wearing long sleeves when she was found. Did she ever wear shorts or short-sleeve shirts?”

“Yes. She was wearing a miniskirt last Thursday when I took her to lunch. There weren’t any marks on her legs. She never wore short sleeves because of the track marks on her arms.” Mrs. Green blew her nose. “There’s no way Missy would have given herself more scars. She was self-conscious about the marks she already had.” Mrs. Green tossed the tissue in the garbage can. “If you want, you could talk to Missy’s psychiatrist at the rehab center.” She went to a drawer and rummaged through its contents. “Here it is.” She handed Stella a business card that read New Life Center for Hope.

Stella took the card. “Did Missy have a recent boyfriend?”

“No.” Mrs. Green’s tone was emphatic. “She told me she had no time or energy for another person until she had her life in order.”

“How about a past boyfriend?”

“I don’t know much about her life in California.” Mrs. Green twisted her hands. “Do you know how she died?”

“Not yet.” Stella debated how much to reveal to Mrs. Green and as much as she hated to distress her, the woman deserved to hear the truth from Stella—not a news report. “The toxicology reports will take a few weeks.” She covered Mrs. Green’s hands with her own. “But she didn’t do this to herself.”

A tear slid down Mrs. Green’s cheek and dropped off her chin. “Then someone killed her?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it from the beginning.” Mrs. Green sniffed and drew in a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry.” Stella squeezed her hands. “There’s more.”

Mrs. Green’s eyes cringed.

As much as Stella wanted to spare Mrs. Green, the press would eventually publish all the gory details. Stella could think of no way to soften the truth, so she just said it. “Missy was tortured.”

Mrs. Green gasped. Her hands curled into fists. Then her watery eyes turned angry. “Find him.”

“I will.” Stella let herself out. She heard sobbing as she pulled the front door closed. She would not stop until she found the bastard who hurt Missy.

In her car, she called the rehab center. The earliest the psychiatrist could see her was the next morning.

Her phone rang. The display showed an unknown caller.

“Hello?”

“It’s Mac.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the auto body shop waiting to talk to the mechanic.” He sounded depressed. “I found my phone. Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll come there.” She wanted to take a quick look at his Jeep, though the chances were slim the vehicle held any clues.

“OK.”

Ten minutes later, she parked next to a plain-Jane rental sedan. She scanned the large, weedy lot for Mac but didn’t see him. The office was a red brick building that fronted a row of garage bays. She went inside. No one stood behind the counter, but she heard Mac’s voice echoing in the main shop. The smell of oil hit her nose as she walked through a doorway and stopped dead.

Mac and a coverall clad mechanic stood next to his Jeep. He was dressed in his usual snug cargos, T-shirt, and hiking boots, but he was clean-shaven, and his blond hair was swept back from his face in a style GQ would approve.

Had she ever seen him clean-shaven? Once, at his brother’s funeral. But he’d been subdued and not himself. Stella wasn’t sure if she liked him better looking tame or wild, but when his eyes roamed over her, a delicious shiver zinged through her belly. Those eyes . . .

The mechanic walked away, and Mac waited.

Shaking off her shock, Stella crossed the grease-stained concrete and examined the Jeep. Ouch. “What’s the prognosis?”

The front end bore the brunt of the damage. Crumpled hood and fenders. Broken windshield and windows. She peaked inside. A large branch had punctured the passenger window and speared the headrest. The fact that he’d gotten out with minimal injuries was a miracle. If he’d hit that stand of trees just a little differently, he wouldn’t be standing here.