The Last Sister (Columbia River)(46)

“They took her fingerprints to check against any found inside,” Ava said. “Maybe they’ll turn up somewhere.”

“I’ll email forensics and tell them we want the locations where her prints turn up ASAP,” Zander said, opening his laptop. The churning in his stomach had subsided, but now he felt numb and determined to get to the bottom of Emily’s movements.

Is she involved somehow?

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t see her participating in murder. But Emily might have done something to compromise the scene, purposefully or not.

“You’re in android mode now,” Ava commented.

He glanced up. “Android?”

“All business.”

“Make up your mind how you want me to act.” He refocused on his email. Ava’s scrutiny was making him surly.

“We can discuss it on the way to the medical examiner’s office in Portland.”

“I can’t wait,” he groused, risking a glance at her.

She was grinning, her eyes warm with humor, and for the briefest second, he regretted what he’d lost because he’d kept his feelings to himself in the past.

The regrets occurred less and less, but he’d be happier once they completely vanished. Frowning, he sent his email, knowing Ava was right that Emily had caught his notice. But this was no time for feelings. She was a witness, and he had a murderer or two to catch.





19

“Where’d Isaac vanish to?” Madison asked Leo as he flipped hash browns on the griddle.

“Dunno. He was here a minute ago.”

“What do you think about holding a memorial for Lindsay and Sean?” she asked.

The gruff man frowned. “Isn’t that something their families will do?” The shredded potatoes sizzled as he pressed them with his spatula.

“I don’t know, but if they do, I doubt it will be here in Bartonville. They’ll probably hold something in their hometowns. I feel like we need something too.”

“It makes sense. Memorials are for the living, not the dead,” Leo stated with a knowing glance.

He read her perfectly, understanding that she needed closure. Many of the people in town could use the same. They were silent, walking grievers, seeking a place to ease their pain.

Isaac appeared and headed toward the supply room with a box of huge tomato-sauce cans. As he passed, Madison touched his arm, and he flinched away, nearly dropping the box.

“Sorry, Isaac.”

Fear flashed in his wide eyes as he stopped and turned toward her.

He looks scared of me. Why?

“I wanted your opinion on a memorial service for the Fitches,” she said, forcing a small smile to put him at ease. His brief terror had rattled her.

Isaac looked from her to Leo. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” He continued around the corner to their storage area. Isaac had always been skittish, but he’d been so much better over the last six months. It hurt her to see him looking like a kicked puppy again.

Leo shrugged as she sent him a questioning look. “People process things in different ways. I’m sure it’s about Lindsay. Don’t take it personally.”

She didn’t.

Leo had asked Emily to give Isaac a job a year ago, claiming he was a nephew from out of state who needed a fresh start, and Emily had immediately hired him. Several weeks later Leo had confessed he’d found Isaac hiding in a shed on his property and had lied about the nephew story. The bruises, burns, and scars on the boy’s back had kept Leo from sending him home. Leo had done some investigating a few hours south in Isaac’s hometown of Lincoln City. He’d shared with the sisters that he’d learned Isaac’s father was a drunk, and that two of his old girlfriends had brought charges against him for assault. He’d been in and out of jail most of his life.

Isaac had simply left home instead of going to the police.

Emily had promised that Isaac had a job for as long as he wanted.

Three months into Isaac’s employment, Madison had found him reading an article on Leo’s tablet in the break room. When she’d asked what was so interesting, he’d replied, “Nothing,” and then closed the browser and left. Madison had sat in his chair, opened the browser, and clicked on the first page in the history. Her skin had tingled as she read about an assault in Lincoln City. A forty-year-old resident had been attacked with a baseball bat outside a bar. He’d suffered severe head trauma and two crushed ankles. Madison had not recognized the name, but the police were searching for the attacker they’d briefly caught on camera. A grainy image accompanied the story.

The man in the picture wore Leo’s coat. He also wore a hat, so his bald head was covered, but Madison had known the coat. Two years ago, she’d sewn on new buttons after she noticed he’d lost more than half of them. Since then he’d worn it nearly every day. There was nothing identifiable about the coat to anyone else; hundreds of men on the coast wore similar tan canvas coats.

I could be wrong.

She’d closed the story, erased the history, and sat thinking for a long moment. The victim’s last name wasn’t Smith like Isaac’s.

Smith. Could there be a more common name?

Spinning around in her chair, she’d checked the employee coat hooks. Leo had worn a denim jacket with fleece lining that morning.

She never saw the canvas coat again, but she followed the story. The victim would never walk without a heavy limp, and no leads were ever found on his attacker.