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Chapter 8

EIGHT

“That’s piss and paint in one day,” Turner complained as Josie pulled down the street that the Hamptons lived on. Their two-story rancher was located in a development north of Denton University’s campus. It was a quaint, peaceful neighborhood populated by working-class homeowners. Teachers, nurses, tradespeople. Many of the Denton PD’s patrol officers lived on its tree-lined streets. “I bet old Creepy Creeperson enjoyed watching his little sister get paint all over me.”

“I did.”

“Glad to be of service, Quinn.”

Josie glanced at him, feigning seriousness. “It doesn’t sound like you mean that. Moving on, did you get that photo over to Amber?”

“Oh, you mean the press liaison who never actually shows up at work?”

Josie sighed, slowing in front of the address Dougherty had given them. One car was parked in a driveway clearly meant to accommodate two. “You replaced the love of her life, Turner. You sit at his desk.”

“And I’m not as good as him,” he said.

“You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Anyway, must be nice for her to work from home.”

Josie found a spot on the street. She could argue that he practically worked from home given how often he disappeared during shifts, but it was a waste of time. “Did you send the photo or not?”

“Of course I did.” Turner’s phone appeared in his hand. A moment later, he flashed the screen at her. It was a post from one of Denton PD’s social media platforms featuring the photo of Cleo Tate and asking for the public’s help in locating her. Josie skimmed the rest of the text, absorbing the highlights. Abducted from the city park at approximately tena.m. Seen with a white male, 5’9” or 5’10” in a white sedan.

Josie hoped that Brennan had updated Remy Tate as she had asked. They hadn’t told him about the blood found at the scene and had confirmed the abduction after speaking with him. If all he was hiding was an affair, she didn’t want him finding out from social media or the midday news that his wife had been kidnapped.

She turned off the car and hopped out. They walked the small concrete path to the front stoop. Turner reached past her and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he tried again. There were no home surveillance cameras anywhere around the door. They didn’t need one. As a member of the Denton PD, she knew this particular area of the city saw little to no crime.

“Come on,” Turner muttered. He tugged at the handle of the screen door. It creaked open.

“Turner,” said Josie, but she was too late. He pounded a fist against the main door, making it quake in its frame.

Seconds later, a man opened the door, blinking against the daylight. Josie put him at about five foot nine. Blond wavy hair fell across his forehead. Stubble lined his jaw and dotted his upper lip. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes, suggesting he hadn’t slept well in some time. Early to mid-thirties, Josie estimated. His black basketball shorts and gray Denton University Alumni T-shirt showed off the lean, well-muscled arms and legs of a runner.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice raspy as if they had woken him from a nap. He blinked again, eyes dropping to the gun at Josie’s waist. “Oh. Right. Come on in.”

He ushered them inside. “My wife said she called the police but she’s been working all morning. I figured I’d wait until this afternoon and if no one came, I’d call again.”

Josie and Turner didn’t even have a chance to identify themselves or present their credentials. The living room they stepped into was cool and dark, decorated in a soft gray with white accents. Just inside the door was a narrow table filled with sympathy cards. Across from that, a rumpled blanket lay on the far corner of the couch. A box of tissues peeked from its folds. The end table was filled with orange medication bottles, a remote control, and a novel by S.A. Cosby. Behind all of those things stood a large, framed photo of a young woman. It was a school photo taken from the shoulders up. The girl wore a closed-lip smile. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief, making her look as though she was holding back laughter. Pale blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the generic blue background.

“I told you I called!” came a woman’s voice from elsewhere in the house. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

The man started to roll his eyes but quickly stopped when his wife stepped in from what was presumably the kitchen. Long black hair, shot through with gray, cascaded down her back. A green tank top and a pair of denim shorts hugged her sinewy body. They must both be avid runners. She was easily the same height as her husband, and it looked like she had at least ten years on him. The smile stretched across her face was anything but warm and it was directed at her husband.

He turned back to Josie and Turner, looking them over, as if noticing for the first time that they weren’t in uniform. Turner was dressed for church while Josie wore her standard Denton PD polo shirt and khakis. His gaze snagged on Josie’s face. “Aren’t you that reporter? What are you doing here? With all due respect, we’re not up to talking with a?—”

His wife cut him off. “Isaac, please. She’s got a gun! She’s not the reporter.”

“You’re thinking of my sister. Trinity Payne. We’re twins.” Josie took out her credentials, holding them out for their perusal.

Turner flashed his as well as he looked around the room. “We’re not with the press. We’re detectives with Denton PD.”

The woman stepped forward as they put their credentials away and extended a hand. “Please excuse my husband’s rudeness. Sheila Hampton. This is Isaac.”

Turner took her hand first, studying her long elegant fingers as they brushed the sleeve of his jacket. He snatched his hand away as if she’d burned him. He really did have a way with people. If Sheila noticed, she didn’t let on.

Isaac didn’t offer to shake hands. “I wasn’t being rude.”

“You didn’t mean to be rude,” Sheila corrected. “But you were.”

Choosing not to engage, Isaac instead addressed Josie and Turner. “I’m confused. Do they normally send detectives to investigate stolen cars?”

“Usually, one of our patrol officers would take the initial report,” Josie explained, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Turner rubbed at something on the cuff of his suit jacket, frowning. “Hey, lady, did you have something on your hand?”

“Turner,” Josie admonished under her breath.

“Oh, sorry.” Sheila wiped her palms on his shorts. “I thought I washed it all off. It’s glue. I’m an industrial designer.”

“What the heck is that?” Turner asked.

Sheila scratched at a shiny streak on her forearm. More glue, presumably. “We design and develop products. Anything from furniture to medical equipment. Appliances, electronics, you name it. I specialize mostly in safety equipment. I was working on a prototype of a new kind of hearing band. You know, instead of those clunky headphones. For construction sites, mostly. Just trying to stay busy while I’m here.”

“Sheila.” Isaac’s tone held a warning.

Turner said, “You don’t live here?”

“We’re separated,” Sheila explained. “Have been for about a year now. I took a job in New York City. I couldn’t convince him to come with me even though he can do his work from anywhere. He’s a support specialist for a banking app—for a bank that has branches in New York City.”

“Sheila.” This time his voice was a growl.

His wife continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “So when I moved, we separated. I’m only here now because…” She left the sentence unfinished, for the first time looking sad and uncertain. Her nails found the shiny streak again, digging into her skin much harder this time.

Josie’s eyes were drawn back to the cards, all standing like proud little sentinels, proclaiming their battle cries against grief. Thinking of you in your time of loss. With Deepest Sympathy. May you find comfort in your loving memories. The words were as flimsy as the card stock they were printed on.

“You just lost a loved one,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Isaac turned to the photograph on the end table. “Our daughter, Jenna. A month ago. She was about to start college. She had cardiac problems.”

Josie’s heart fluttered as she studied the photo with new perspective. No wonder the room, the house, felt so heavy with sadness.

Turner was focused on something else entirely. “You must have been young when you had her. I mean you, not your wife.”

Josie resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Isaac ignored the question. “I’d rather not talk about Jenna.”

She took the opportunity to redirect the conversation. The clock was ticking for Cleo Tate. Offering Sheila a sympathetic smile, she asked, “Your car was stolen?”

“A white Hyundai sedan?” Turner added. He read off the license plate number that Dougherty had given them.

“That’s the one,” Sheila said. “It’s still registered here.”

Cleo Tate’s abductor was even smarter than Josie thought, which caused a knot in her stomach. Steal a car that can’t be traced to you, abduct a woman in a park with no cameras, and leave a photograph that can never be connected to you. Unless he left prints in the car or on the photograph, they wouldn’t have much to work with in terms of identifying him. Given that he’d already taken so many precautions, Josie doubted he was dumb enough to leave prints behind. Or if he did, they wouldn’t be in AFIS, which would make them useless unless he committed another crime for which he was arrested and printed.

Turner picked at the dried glue residue on his sleeve. “This is a fucking wild goose chase,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?” Isaac said.

Josie plastered on a fake smile. “Nothing. My colleague was just saying that we’ll need to ask you some questions. There is a chance that your vehicle was used in the abduction of a woman in the city park this morning.”

Sheila gasped, one hand flying to her chest. “What? That’s terrible! Are you sure?”

Their television was off. Unless Sheila had spent the morning on social media—and if she had been working all morning—then she probably hadn’t seen the news about Cleo Tate. Isaac had, though, given the way his face paled.

“We’re still investigating,” Josie told Sheila.

Turner looked down at Josie, lowering his voice again. “Good lord. This is going to take forever.”

“You have somewhere else to be?” she shot back, quietly enough not to be heard by the Hamptons. He always acted like he did. Any second now, his phone would come out and he’d start scrolling. Smiling tightly at Sheila, she said, “Tell me about the car.”

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