Chapter 14

Saturday, March 13

4:00 p.m.

A medical examiner attached to this investigation was missing.

Leigh tried rubbing the study-induced fatigue from her eyes. It was no use. She'd been staring at these same newspaper articles, surveillance photos, and handwritten notes for nearly two hours while Livingstone took the lead on Dr. Jennings's missing persons case. Her head still hurt, but it kept her from replaying what led to the concussion at the same time. She was lucky she hadn't sustained more internal damage during the fall.

She flipped through yet another page. Michelle Cross had kept meticulous notes. Dated, too. From what she'd been able to tell, the victim had stopped collecting information three days before she'd been found on the bridge. It was consistent with the amount of time both her brother and Derek Garrison had been missing. Three days. Police had never been able to figure out where the boys had been held during that time. It was starting to look like not even an elite FBI unit would either. Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt had simply disappeared from their homes without a trace until their bodies had been left for display.

They needed something concrete.

There was a debit card purchase made to a coffee shop on the opposite side of town, but no activity on Michelle's phone at the time. Whether the battery had died or the GPS had been disabled, she didn't know. A barista or a regular in the coffee shop might be able to tell her more. Maybe point her in another direction if Michelle had been meeting with someone.

She surveyed the vast amount of information in front of her. If Michelle Cross's body wasn't the one that'd ended up in the Concord Hospital morgue, she'd say the victim had stalked Chris Ellingson.

Not the other way around.

It was all there. Daily routines, a list of acquaintances and neighbors with interview notes, favored coffee shop and grocery store, car registration details. Even police statements given by Ellingson. The victim had gone the extra mile. All of it seemed to be collected over the past two months according to the dates scribbled in the corners of each page or written on the backs of photos. Hell, the only thing Michelle Cross didn't have was the man's fingerprints. Scratch that. There was a piece of tape with traces of black beneath the clear adhesive attached to one of the note pages. Most likely Chris Ellingson's, but the fine details had been smudged. "A forensic investigator you were not, Michelle. So why go to all this trouble?"

Innocent curiosity as Boucher had claimed? Or something more?

Her phone signaled an incoming message. Hell, she was really starting to hate that sound.

Scooping it off the coffee table, she nearly deleted Elyse's latest attempt to get her to respond. Only this time, the PA's five words stopped her cold.

Cancer took everything from me.

A photo slid into the conversation. One of Elyse—at least what Leigh remembered of the woman during their limited face-to-face interaction—and a baby. Cuddled close, wrapped in one of those lavender-colored minky blankets that shed everywhere. A girl based off the color of the bow much too large for her head. But it wasn't joy the woman in the photo felt while staring down at the infant in her arms. It was pain.

Leigh stared at the screen until the shapes blurred. The screen cleared, turning dark, with Elyse's incoming call. Hesitation and discomfort at witnessing such a heavy moment hovered Leigh's thumb over the screen. Until she found herself answering. She pressed the phone to her ear, not knowing what to say.

"We named her Fiona." Elyse's voice had lost that legendary cheeriness Leigh imagined a lot of patients relied on. "I was diagnosed with stage III uterine cancer seven months into my pregnancy. We'd tried getting pregnant for so long, I didn't want to give her up if there was still a chance. So I refused treatments. I pushed through, but in the end, it didn't matter. The cancer had gotten inside her, too, and she wasn't strong enough to fight. I delivered her knowing she wouldn't take a breath or cry or want to be held. That they were going to take her from me. That photo is all I have of her."

Leigh swiped at her face as she stared off across the conference room Boucher had set up for the team. It was bland. Sterile. Nothing like her childhood living room where she'd found herself crouched at the coffee table doing homework night after night. Where she'd found her father dancing with her mother in front of the ambient glow of the Christmas tree. They'd caught her sneaking out and invited her to join. Soon, Troy had gotten up to see what all the laughter was about, and they'd made a whole night of spinning and dance-offs. She wanted that. She wanted to hold on to those moments—the ones that didn't hurt. She wanted to recreate them for herself. She deserved that, didn't she? After all the dead ends and false leads and questions, she needed that hope at the end of the tunnel. Christmases, birthdays, family dinners. She still had a chance. "When you told me you knew what I was going through…"

"I meant it," Elyse said. "If I could go back, I wouldn't change a thing. I knew the risks, and I made the choice that gave me memories of what it felt like to carry her instead of raising her. You don't have that kind of time, Leigh. The cancer won't wait for you, and if you keep ignoring it, it's going to cost more than you think."

"I'm sorry. For what happened to you, to your daughter." She didn't really know what else to say as the anger doubled its hold around her heart. "But you don't know me. You don't know what I've been through or what I want. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Tell me." Two words had never held so much weight. "You think you're alone in this, Leigh, but you're not. I'm right here. I can help you. Please, let me."

The invitation stabbed through her. She'd accepted it more than once, though not from Elyse. There'd been others over the years. Coworkers. Neighbors in her building. Her last attempt at a relationship. Each time had stoked possibility. Support. Friendship. And each had ended the moment she'd exposed the pain she carried. It'd been too much for them, and now, instead of trying to share that weight, she'd taught herself to shoulder it alone. Leigh's fingers ached from the grip on her phone. "You can help by not contacting me again."

She ended the call.

Leigh shoved away from the table and shook out her legs. The team had cleared out a while ago, leaving her alone in the conference room to chase their own assignments. The room vibrated with the low buzz from the overhead projector, giving her just enough ambient noise to focus. Michelle Cross had given up her family, friends, and let her career fall to the wayside to get to the bottom of an injustice that'd taken place in this town.

Leigh's injustice.

Stepping down to get a better look at the murder board Livingstone had constructed to map out their case, she cherry-picked the victim's driver's license photo from among crime scene photos and a light pattern of the car tracks left at the bridge. The ground had frozen that night then been compromised by cyclists, runners, and early morning walkers, leaving them with little impression to match the treads to any particular vehicle. "What made you alter the course of your entire life? What got your attention?"

Michelle's photo stared back at her. Nothing in the victim's notes highlighted details prior to Chris Ellingson's return to Lebanon. The victim had picked up this obsession with the suspect and this investigation recently. She tacked the photo back in place and turned to the garbage haul in front of her.

Everything they'd taken from Michelle Cross's home had been documented, cross-referenced, and researched. Not even die-hard true crime fans went this far. Streaming the latest forensic files episode or murder documentary on Netflix should've satisfied the victim's urge to witness the inherent darkness of the human condition as millions of watchers could attest. This wasn't just a curiosity for entertainment or escapism as Boucher had claimed.

This was unhealthy. Obsession.

She flipped through another couple of handwritten pages, one section of notes catching her eye. It'd been crossed out, rewritten, then crossed out again. She hadn't given it much attention before, but now… Holding it up to the light, she made out a few words at a time. "Memories are like jagged puzzle pieces. The edges won't align perfectly after twenty years."

Michelle Cross had written the same arrangement below. Only slightly different in the second sentence. "Memories are like jagged puzzle pieces. After twenty years, the edges don't align perfectly."

That'd been crossed out, too. Trying to get the wording just right. Leigh set that page aside on an empty section of table and fished through the stack of handwritten notes. There. Another handwritten page crossed out then rewritten. This one for a different paragraph. A history of Chris Ellingson. Where he'd gone to school, a note about his upbringing in Lebanon. How his mother had neglected and forgotten about him after his father left when Ellingson had only been six years old. His rise from neglected son to the top of his class. His achievements in the mental health field and finally, his downfall.

Michelle Cross had become an expert on a suspected killer.

Leigh held both sheets, one in each hand. Same handwriting. Same manner of speaking. This… This was a story. The victim had been writing an article or manuscript about the case. She discarded the notes and rounded the table to come back to her laptop. That was why the notes were so thorough, why everything had been cross-referenced and double-checked. And why the killer had taken Michelle Cross's laptop. But there were some things that couldn't be erased. "All right, Michelle. Show me what you've got."

Boucher and the department would've already searched through the victim's social platforms to try to construct a timeline of her movements leading up to her death, but without knowing what to look for, they could've scrolled right through. The journalists and authors and podcasters who'd harassed her all had one thing in common: someone interested in taking the story public. A newspaper editor, a book publisher, a media producer. Those came with contracts and money. She scrolled through the litany of photos Michelle Cross had uploaded and landed on one slightly blurred out. Posted a month ago. A female hand, presumably Michelle's, poised over a stack of paper. She couldn't read the header or distinguish the logo, but the photo description told her everything she needed to know. It's official! All those true crime podcasts have paid off. #amwriting #truecrime #bookdeal

A visceral cold ate through her.

Michelle Cross was writing a book about Leigh's father. About her brother. About her.

Strings of tangent thoughts demanded attention, but she couldn't give in to any of them. Her chest tightened to the point she couldn't take a full breath without shuddering. Had Michelle reached out to her? There'd been so many requests for so long, she rarely answered the phone other than from numbers she'd memorized, and she never bothered listening to her voicemails. Afraid and angry of what might be waiting on the other end of the line. As more time had passed, the fewer notifications she'd received. She was sure she would've recognized a Lebanon area code in the mess.

She scrolled down the screen. Comments left on Michelle Cross's post ranged from congratulations and excitement to beratement and warnings.

Leave it alone, Michelle.

I can't believe you're doing this. Haven't we been through enough?

The lofty name of Lebanon implied a sort of exotic open-mindedness and diversity, a place of growth and betterment. It was a lie. The comments proved as much. Instead, the people in this town were traditionalists. They wanted their dinner on the table at 5:00 p.m. sharp, their news delivered in the paper every morning and on time, and their business kept as their own. But Troy's and Derek's deaths had upset that way of life, and they were doing everything in their power to get it back. Showing only what they wanted outsiders to see. Welcoming them but keeping their secrets to themselves. Right up until someone threatened to unravel all their hard work.

A final comment on Michelle's post pulled her to sit up straighter.

You're going to end up like them if you don't stop.

She tapped the profile handle, but the account came up private. No identifying details or a photo about who was behind it. No posts. It was amazing what people thought they could get away with behind an anonymous social media account. Asking for the IP address or account owner wouldn't do any good. Social media platforms were experts at losing federal subpoenas, but she made a note to submit the court-ordered request anyway.

Leigh let her hand fall from the track pad. Michelle Cross had made her book deal public. If getting to the truth of what'd really happened to Leigh's brother and his best friend was the goal, Michelle had set herself in dangerous sights. With the victim's location and an array of other photos taken on her property and around Lebanon, it wouldn't have been hard for someone determined to bury that truth to track her down. Damn it. What had Michelle Cross thought would happen? That she alone would deliver justice and help Lebanon heal from its dark past? That she'd be a hero?

Leigh sat back in her chair. Her elbow accidentally scattered the pile of newspaper articles she'd separated from the victim's notes to the floor. She darted to catch them, only managing to grip one as a dozen photos of her father gazed up at her.

Rugged. That was the word she'd use to describe him then. He didn't resemble an elementary school STEM teacher, just as Chandler Reed didn't resemble a federal investigator. If anything, Joel Brody looked as if he'd rather be climbing a mountain or chopping down the trees behind their house for firewood. Streaks of gray tracked along his temples in one black-and-white photo. She'd teased him about it mercilessly as a teen, calling him a grandpa. He'd countered by telling her the only way he could be a grandpa was if she'd gotten pregnant. That shut her up real fast. Her throat convulsed on a swallow. Working here in Lebanon was the closest she'd been to him in almost two decades. The agreement she'd made with the FBI when she'd signed on with CJIS limited interactions with felons. It was a risk the bureau hadn't wanted to take.

She bent to collect the articles when the headline of the one in her hand became clear.

Montana Town Upended in Search of Missing Boy.

She left the rest of the cutouts at her feet as she read through the first few paragraphs of the article. A small town of 5,400 residents all searching for a five-year-old boy who'd disappeared from his bedroom three months ago. Canine units, septic tank searches, state and county police, prayer circles—no stone had been left unturned according to the writer. And no leads had been found. Even the town's residents had aided in the search.

Leigh turned the thin paper over in her hand. Nothing written on the back to indicate any relevance to Michelle Cross's research. So why had she included it?

All of this—the surveillance photos, the newspaper articles, the daily records—had been centered around proving Chris Ellingson was connected to her father's case and the investigation into her brother's death. What if…

Leigh typed the name of the town into her internet browser. Fruitland, Montana + missing boy. She'd kept tabs on all missing persons cases involving male victims over the age of ten since leaving New Hampshire as Derek Garrison had been the youngest at the time, but a five-year-old? Her heart urged her not to go down this path, but she had to know. She hit Search.

Police Provide Update on Missing Fruitland Boy. A smiling face took over the screen, one with a sharp chin, sandy blonde hair, and gapped front teeth. A smaller photo of the shirt he'd been wearing at the time took up space to the right. Michael Agutter. Missing since last July. His scent was traced by K-9 units to the end of his street but had ended abruptly. Police believed he'd gotten into a white Honda Pilot, although nobody in the neighborhood could identify the driver. There was a reward for over $50,000 upon his safe return, but Leigh's instincts said Michael's parents would never see him again.

Fruitland. It was a small town. Isolated away from main cities just like Lebanon. Strong ties to agriculture. Plenty of places to hide a body if needed. Was this where Chris Ellingson had gone? Was this how he'd tried to cover his tracks?

Footsteps pounded down the hall and breached her focus.

An officer raced past the open conference room door.

Then another.

Grabbing the mess from the floor, she tried to put it back together as best she could before leaving the table. She shut the lid of her laptop and followed the officers out into the hall. The station erupted into a chaotic dance of orders and response.

Something had happened.

She could feel it. A sick cold leaked into her gut. Time seemed to race right in front of her. She was moving toward the front of the station, caught up in the craze.

A third officer pushed past her.

She barely managed to recognize him in the chaos.

Officer Donavon Pierce called back over his shoulder to someone. Maybe her. He shoved through the front double doors and out into the parking lot. The back of one index finger—clear against the glass—had been stained black.

She tried to force her brain to wrap around the situation, but everything was moving so fast. One face stood out among the others.

Boucher wedged the front desk phone between his ear and shoulder, barking orders through the line. "I don't care what you have to do. I need someone from the medical examiner's office now, damn it."

Leigh slid her hand across the worn wood as the entire station seemed to empty into the parking lot. "What's going on?"

The lieutenant settled that unbreakable gaze on her. "We've got another body."