The Last Sister (Columbia River)(63)

Zander wasn’t surprised.

“The rest of his online searches don’t raise any flags for me. Amazon, Home Depot—maybe they mean something to you.”

“Can you get me a list of his browser history and what he’s purchased online in the last three months?”

“No problem.”

“Does he have a calendar?”

“Yeah. Want that too?”

“Please.”

“You got it.” Tim paused. “Lotta photos of him and his wife. Wedding stuff too. Looks like they were real happy. Pictures of him with teenage football players—I can tell they liked their coach. What happened to this couple is horrible.”

The tech’s personal observation caught Zander off guard.

“Computer forensics can be pretty dry,” Tim said hastily, as if he realized he’d stepped over a line. “I try to stay detached, but sometimes it’s next to impossible . . . This is one of those cases.”

“I get it. I can see that with these deaths,” said Zander. The investigation had made the couple come alive for him as well. He believed the small emotional connection was a good thing—more motivation to catch the assholes who had killed them.

“I hope you find who did this.”

“We will.”

“I’ll email you that stuff within the hour.”

Zander ended the call.

He couldn’t analyze the information from Sean’s laptop until he received the reports, so he refocused on the shooting that had caused Emily’s car accident. His mind was a jumble of questions and scenarios.

Emily’s description of the shooter’s actions indicated he’d deliberately shot at them. But who had been his target? Emily or Ava?

If Emily had been his target, was it the same person who had shot Nate Copeland?

If Ava had been the target, was it someone trying to interfere in the investigation? Or could it be someone from a previous investigation of hers?

Or neither? It could have been random.

The fact that the women had been in Emily’s car gave more weight to the theory that Emily was the target.

But how could the shooter have known the women would be on that road?

Their destination had been decided moments before they left. Had they been followed? After which a second person had informed the shooter of their direction?

The road is a locals’ route.

Their shooter was most likely local.

If Emily had been the target, what did the shooter believe she knew or had seen? Something at the Fitch murder site?

Zander ran a hand over his head. It was all speculation; he needed facts.

What if Ava doesn’t make it?

The intrusive thought pushed him over an edge. He jumped to his feet and frantically paced, both hands in his hair as ugly memories broke loose.

Faith. Fiona.

He hated hospitals. His wife, Faith, had spent her last weeks in a hospital, growing sicker and more unrecognizable as the cancer rapidly spread through her body. She’d felt ill for a few months but had blamed it on her pregnancy. When she was finally diagnosed, the cancer was stage four. She refused to abort their twelve-week-old daughter, Fiona, and then refused any cancer treatments that could affect the baby, convinced she could make it through the pregnancy on willpower alone. Every doctor told Zander she wouldn’t make it.

A no-win situation.

They’d been right.

Eight years ago Zander had lost the two most important people in his life.

Am I about to lose another?

Ava knew his history—the vile agony of his wife’s and never-seen daughter’s deaths. Was he about to lose one of the few people left who truly knew him? Abandonment and loneliness pushed him back into his chair, swamping him, and he lowered his head to his hands, willing the horrific images of his dying wife out of his head.

Alone in the curtained bay, he silently fell apart, broken by the wash of agony and heartbreak.

It engulfed him, the pain as fresh and raw as long ago. Sucking in deep, wet breaths, he fought for solace, relief from the pain. Minutes later it finally came, leaving him battered and drained. He grabbed two paper towels from a wall dispenser, appreciating their roughness as he wiped his eyes and nose.

This was why he allowed himself one day a year to mourn his wife. To avoid moments like this.

Fiona and Faith had died on October 30, and the date was now his annual day of hell. He would lock himself away, wallow in alcohol, and revisit old pictures and dreams that had never come true. It was twenty-four hours of misery and torture, but knowing the date would come each year helped him keep it together the rest of the days.

Ava had witnessed him at his absolute lowest on October 30 of last year.

“Oh my God! What happened? Is it Ava?” Emily’s voice rose, startling him as he turned toward the curtained opening. She sat in a wheelchair, a nurse behind her, both of them staring wide-eyed at Zander.

Clearly he looked like shit.

“I haven’t heard anything about Ava yet,” he forced out, wiping his eyes again.

Emily visibly relaxed. “Are you all right?” she whispered, concern in her tone.

Zander glanced at the nurse, who eyed him as if he would fall apart. “Yeah, I’ll tell you later.” He moved his lips into a wooden smile. “What’s the word on your head?”

“The MRI was fine,” Emily told him. “The radiologist is here, so he reviewed it immediately, and outside of the gash in my scalp, I’m okay. They want me watched for the next twenty-four hours, but I can do that at home. I’ll need stitches before I can leave.” She cautiously touched the bandage above her ear as the nurse helped her out of the wheelchair and onto the exam table. Emily moved with ease and seemed to be her confident self again.