All the Dark Places(88)
I choke on my tears. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Did he tell you? Have you spoken to him?”
“Yeah. I have actually.”
My skin crawls, and I wrap my untethered arm around my stomach. “You wrote the letter. The letter to Jay that was supposed to be from him.”
“I did.”
Tears start to run down my cheeks. “You hate me that much, Cal?”
He huffs out a breath. “It’s not about you. Why do you think the world revolves around little Melinda? So high and mighty, Molly. You thought you could outrun your past. But you can’t. Nobody can. What’s done is done.” He leans over, so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath. His lips are near my ear, and I shudder. “I’ll be back, sweet Melinda.” He scrambles to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“To see my cheating bitch of a wife,” he says nonchalantly, as though they’re meeting for coffee. His hand reaches behind his back, and he pulls out something that glints in a stray beam of the streetlight. A gun. He tilts it back and forth—to be sure, I guess, that I see it. “Unfortunately, I might need this. Laken’s not a tiny little thing like my mother or the others. She might actually be able to put up a fight.”
He walks to the ladder, turns to face me. “After I see Laken, I’ll come back here to the cellar. This is where it will all end. It’s only appropriate to end this where it started.” He plants one foot on the ladder. “Too bad Jay’s dead. I’d get star billing in his book, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 69
Rita
AFTER BRIEFING EVERYONE ON THE CALLER’S MESSAGE, JOE AND I head to Mrs. Bradley’s house. Her sister is there and has been calling nonstop for an update. We can’t hold her off any longer.
Corrine Alworth meets us on the porch. “Have you found anything?” she asks, her blond hair blowing in the frigid breeze. We follow her inside.
“No. Nothing yet. But we’re pulling out all the stops,” I say with as much hopefulness as I can muster. Her parents, neatly dressed and befuddled, stand silently in the kitchen, looking to us, eyes begging for answers. Dr. Westmore leans against the counter, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand. My eyes meet hers.
“Scott’s on his way,” she says, then clears her throat.
“Okay, everyone, please sit.” Joe and I catch them up on all we know.
Mrs. Alworth chokes out a sob. “Someone’s got her?”
“We believe so.”
She slams the table with her fist. “How could this have happened? You knew she was being harassed!”
“I’m sorry.” I feel about two feet tall. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”
“That’s what you said about Jay’s killer, what, three weeks ago!” Tears of rage and fear tremble on her cheeks.
My stomach burns. She’s right. This investigation has moved entirely too slowly for my liking, and perhaps we should’ve done more to protect Mrs. Bradley. I just don’t know what. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the killer to have his sights on her. If that is indeed who has her.
Joe clears his throat. “We’ve got all of the resources of the Graybridge Police Department and the FBI looking for her.”
Cold comfort, I know, when it’s your loved one, but it’s the best we’ve got.
Mrs. Bradley’s parents wander into the dim living room as if they don’t want to be near us, while Mrs. Alworth paces the kitchen. Dr. Westmore murmurs words of comfort.
The doorbell rings, and Hayes and Alice Branch follow Mrs. Alworth into the kitchen.
“I called him,” Mrs. Alworth says. “He wanted to be here.”
Mr. Branch has cleaned up a little bit from earlier. He’s wearing fresh clothes, but his hair is still wild. Alice’s hair is in two braids, making her look even younger than she is. When she hears that the dog is next door, she and her father walk over to Mrs. Murray’s to claim her.
When they get back, Joe and I question Mr. Branch again. Although he doesn’t have an alibi for last night, he seems distraught and sincere in his answers and desire to help. My gut tells me we can eliminate him.
Scott Westmore strides into the kitchen, his hands covered in dirt. “Sorry,” he says. “I was on a job site. Any news?” His wife walks to his side and fills him in.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Let’s step into the other room. I flip on the dining room light, and Mr. Westmore drops into a chair, perching on the edge as if afraid his dirty clothes will soil the seat. He leans over his clasped hands, his gray bangs shielding his eyes.
“Where were you last night?” Joe asks.
“Home with my wife.”
“What about this afternoon?”
He blows out a breath. “I was on a job site, like I said.”
Joe leans toward him. “Anyone confirm that?”
Mr. Westmore pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “My client. Bill Harris. Here’s his number.”
Before I can make the call, Joe’s phone rings, and he peeks at the screen. “I need to take this,” he says. “You go ahead and take care of him.” He points his chin at Mr. Westmore.