Chapter 7

Friday, March 12

7:00 a.m.

Leigh had spent the night scouring through past abduction cases and missing persons reports with nothing to show for it once she'd secured the broken bedroom window. If Chris Ellingson had fed his deadly addiction after he'd left Lebanon, the scope of crimes was too broad for her to pinpoint him in a sea of attention-starved killers. Without probable cause, she'd need Director Livingstone's approval to request a warrant for his phone records and financials to pinpoint where he'd been hiding and confirm his alibi. That wasn't happening unless she uncovered solid evidence.

As far as the Behavioral Analysis Unit and Lebanon PD were concerned, the investigation into the murder of two boys had been closed with the arrest of her father. Michelle Cross's and Gresham Schmidt's deaths was an entirely separate case.

Still, the way Chris Ellingson had confronted her last night, how he'd offered to help with the investigation as he'd claimed he had during Troy's and Derek Garrison's… He was hiding something. She could feel it, but feelings didn't convict. Evidence did.

Her phone lit up from the cup holder in the middle console of her rental. She hadn't bothered saving the number into her phone, but she'd seen it enough times to know who was on the other line. Her uterus cramped as though sensing what was coming if she picked up. It would keep going like this. Missed calls. Voicemails. Phone tag. Her doctor's office might physically track her down next. "Shit."

Leigh grabbed for the phone and swiped to answer. "This is Leigh Brody."

"Leigh, hi. I wasn't sure you were going to answer. This is Elyse calling from Dr. Wilson's office," a too-bright voice said. Details of the woman's face bled into focus with every cheery word. They'd met once before. During Leigh's physical. At the time, she hadn't noticed much about the woman in the corner taking notes on her tablet while the doctor had her go over her medical history before the big show, but Leigh had caught the glimpse of a small offering of a smile at hearing the latest symptoms. "I've been trying to reach you for a few days about the results of your ultrasound."

More than a few. Leigh scrubbed at the tiredness in her eyes. Sleep was never a priority when she was in the middle of an investigation. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm on assignment. Haven't really gotten the chance to return calls."

"Well, I'm glad I caught you," Elyse said. "Unfortunately, it's not good news."

The shapes outside her car windows distorted as rain started to peck at the glass. Or was it the lack of oxygen from holding her breath? "It's back."

The words barely scratched the edges of her throat, but Elyse had somehow been able to hear them through the line.

"We believe so. The radiologist who reviewed your ultrasound discovered a series of small masses in the endometrium layer in your uterus. Thankfully, it doesn't look as though it has metastasized." Thankfully. Elyse was trying to hold on to that bubbly quality of her voice. To stay positive. But it was strained. Leigh could hear it in the way she over-pronounced her Ss. "We're still waiting on the results of your Pap smear, but considering your history, I wanted to reach out and let you know about your options and what Dr. Wilson suggests should happen next."

Surgery. Radiation. Chemo. Medications. She'd already been through this once before. She had the scars from countless blisters to prove it. It was supposed to be enough. Her mouth dried at the thought of going through all of that again. The fatigue, the nausea, the hours spent scratching every inch of her skin until it bled. "I already know my options."

"Okay. Well, because you've been through radiation treatment once before, and the cancer hasn't spread outside of your uterus, Dr. Wilson suggests we move on to surgery." That last word hung there for a series of moments.

"You want to take my uterus." Air stalled in her chest. The scene through the windshield darkened with a pre-spring storm moving in, as though sensing the clouds stirring within. Her entire life had been put on hold the moment she'd found Troy's body beneath her home. School had been necessary to get out of Lebanon, but things like friends, staying in touch with aunts and cousins and grandparents, dating, having a family had been buried at the back of her mind in a box meant to be opened one day. As small of a chance she'd ever have the space in her life for more than a twenty-year-old murder, she still wanted those things. All of those things. "No. That's not… That's not an option for me. I'm not having a hysterectomy."

Elyse seemed to struggle then. "Leigh, I understand?—"

"I don't think you do, and I have to go." She ended the call and tossed her cell into the passenger seat to get it as far from her as possible. It lit up again. Same number. Same caller. But she wasn't answering this time. She had a job to do.

Leigh left her cell in the car and hiked the long gravel driveway toward a boxy, two-story house surrounded by thick forest devoid of its leaves this early in the year. Rolling thunder rumbled from a few miles away, but the pickup of wind said the storm would be on top of them soon. Patrol cars angled to block access to the scene while Lebanon PD searched the property and home. A waist-high chain-link fence sectioned off less than half an acre around the house in an expanse of open grass. Coffee warmed both of her hands. A failing attempt to counter encroaching gray skies and dropping temperatures. Uniformed officers had been posted as scene security, and her stomach dropped as recognition flared at the one closest to the gate. "Officer Pierce. I don't suppose we can skip the harassment this morning and pretend you don't know who I am."

The patrol officer didn't respond, shoving the corner of the clipboard into her chest.

She dropped one of the coffees trying to keep the board from falling. The lid broke free and hot liquid splashed across the bottom of her slacks and into her shoes. Great. Frustration and an equal amount of resentment tightened her hand around the clipboard. The coffee was sliding between her toes. She'd literally have to dump them out before stepping into the house so as not to contaminate a potential crime scene. Leigh signed her name, the time, and the date then handed back the clipboard with a maturity her father would've been proud of. Her mother, on the other hand, would've expected her to put those schoolyard boxing lessons to good use for once. "I'll be sure to send you my dry-cleaning bill for that."

She didn't wait for a response and passed through the chain-link gate. Draining the coffee from her low heels as Officer Pierce watched on, she stretched a set of booties over her feet and crossed the threshold into Michelle Cross's home. She'd have to live with coffee-soaked hems. Lebanon PD had been on the scene since last night, but, barred from turning on lights and bringing more equipment into the too-small house, Lieutenant Boucher had restarted the search early this morning.

An officer circled around the dining table off to her right, dusting for latent prints with a fanned white brush and a camera strapped around his neck while another uniform set up a path for investigators to follow into the home to minimize compromises to the scene.

"Watch your step, Brody." Boucher ran a gloved hand over a collection of books stacked on top of one another in the living room to her right.

Worn, sparse furniture. Minimal decor. No signs Michelle Cross lived with a significant other or roommate. Too clean for someone who'd grown up in the house all her life, apart from the stack of books and a single glass left on the kitchen counter at the back of the house. The space felt as though it'd been stripped bare. Purged of memories and anything else that might tell a story.

The lieutenant straightened fully. "You know your pants are soaked, right?"

"You should be a detective." She shouldn't have brought in the second cup of coffee. While studying crime scenes and criminal behavior had consumed her life since she'd left this town, she hadn't physically stepped foot onto a scene until yesterday. Not even while she'd been with Concord PD. There'd been no need as a rookie responding to domestic disturbance calls and writing speeding tickets. Homicide had been for the big boys, and her consultations for departments across the country had focused on predicting criminal behavior, never one requiring her to visit a scene. She was out of her depth here, and it showed. "Figured you could use this, but now I'm realizing I probably shouldn't have brought it in here."

He crossed into the entryway and took the to-go cup, downing the entire serving before handing it back empty. "Appreciate it. Lucky for you, there's not much to contaminate. Place has been cleaned."

"Cleaned?" Leigh surveyed everything in her limited view of the home. The hardwood floors had seen better days, but they did look freshly mopped, and the officer processing prints at the dining table seemed to be coming up empty. She hadn't heard his camera click since she'd come into the room. Most people didn't live like this, and unless Michelle Cross had been planning on being murdered early yesterday morning, she'd bet someone else had cleaned up. "When?"

"Hell if I know." Boucher made a note on a small notebook from his breast pocket. "We've got no fingerprints. No garbage to go through. No landline or answering machine. Same with the car. We found chargers for a cell phone and a laptop, but both devices are missing. Everything's been wiped down. Shit, even the garbage disposal smells of bleach."

"What about the background check?" Leigh followed the outline of markers toward the back of the house. The kitchen was as she'd expected. Tiled countertops with grout that'd once been white, linoleum peeling up at one side of the room, cabinet doors hanging from hinges. Just like any other kitchen in this town, including the one she'd grown up learning how to cook in.

Boucher flipped through his notebook. "Michelle Cross. No criminal record, credit history looks good. No outstanding debts that we could find. Never enlisted with the military, and current employment history and tax records put her with the same company for the past two years as a remote web designer. All in all, nothing there to give us motive as to why she ended up on that bridge. We're still interviewing neighbors on foot to find someone who might've seen or talked to her before she died. But according to her boss, Michelle was using all of her paid time off."

That got her attention. "Did they give a reason why?"

"Said it's been planned for months. Michelle told them she was visiting her sister in Concord for a week. Didn't think anything of our vic not checking in for work."

"Let me guess," she said. "The sister had no idea?"

Boucher pointed at her as though she'd won a prize. "Bingo."

"If Livingstone's right in that the killer stalked Michelle Cross in the weeks—maybe even months—leading up to her death, it makes sense he waited until no one would report Michelle missing. The question is, what was the victim doing the week she was supposed to be in Concord and how did the killer have access to her schedule?" Along with a million others. While the home had obviously been cleaned from ceiling to floor, she couldn't see any signs of a struggle. They'd already established Michelle Cross hadn't been killed at the bridge. Evidence of a piece of tarp and lack of blood at the scene suggested she'd been transported from the murder site. Most likely by car, but not the victim's. It was still in the driveway. Considering the careful planning at the crime scene and the cleaning agent burning her senses here, the killer was too meticulous to have left it behind for police to search or match to any treads left behind. Leigh moved toward a set of stairs leading to the second floor. "She wasn't killed here. You would've already found blood evidence or had neighbors report screams each time she was stabbed."

Boucher seemed to pause. "What makes you think the killer let her scream?"

The past threatened to escape the dark hole she'd dug at the back of her mind, but Leigh forced herself to stay in the moment. She had one shot to prove the man who'd murdered her brother and Derek Garrison had tortured and killed Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt. And she wasn't going to waste it. "Why stab and cut someone over a dozen times if not to watch and hear them suffer? Besides, Dr. Jennings didn't find any adhesive or bruising around Michelle's mouth to suggest she'd been gagged or taped during her exam of the body at the scene."

"Good point." Boucher followed her up the stairs, close on her heels.

Was that approval? The lieutenant's proximity was suffocating and reassuring at the same time. She'd never been comfortable being boxed in, but that small victory of agreement blossomed into hope. They wanted the same thing: to find a killer. Maybe that would be enough. A start to repairing the rift between this town and her family. Because she sure as hell wasn't going to get any consideration from Officer Pierce.

Leigh ignored the cold dampness crowding around her ankles from the spilled coffee. The upstairs was just as stark and empty as the main floor. Silence pressed into the first of two bedrooms.

Empty. Mundane. Barely furnished.

Seemed Michelle Cross saw her life here as temporary despite the decades of memories and time she'd actually spent in the home. Just as Leigh did. Either the victim was looking toward the future, to leaving Lebanon behind, or she was hiding something. Plaster and paint peeled from the ceiling overhead. Typical of homes this old, but the cracks shooting across the ceiling weren't. "Have you already searched up here?"

"Not much to search. This room's empty, found nothing but toiletries in the bathroom." Boucher scanned the room from her side. "Michelle slept in the other bedroom. Same situation. The woman was practically living out of a suitcase."

Goose bumps prickled up her arms, even with her jacket.

"It's colder in this room than anywhere else in the house. Did you notice?" She pointed at the ceiling, tracing the largest fault line from one end of the room to the other. "There's attic space above this room. Michelle must've removed the insulation. Maybe to gain access to the storage up there. It would explain the compromised plaster. Attic spaces aren't usually structured to take much weight."

"If there is, should be an access from one of these rooms." Boucher raised his gaze to the ceiling as they maneuvered back into the narrow hallway and into the other bedroom. He was right. The only signs of life included a barely made-up mattress with a pillow on a diagonal and a crumpled pile of laundry shoved in the corner. She hadn't gotten a look at the upstairs bathroom yet, but one thing was clear: Michelle Cross was living as a stranger in her own home. But why? "Here."

The lieutenant sidestepped into a shallow closet and lifted the thin rectangle of drywall blocking the attic entrance free. Dust rained into her face and hair, but not enough to convince her this cavity hadn't been opened recently. Leigh sidestepped out of the way to get a better view. "We need to get up there."

"Are you volunteering?" Boucher unholstered the flashlight from his service belt and compressed the end. He angled the beam into the cavity. Rafters and pockmarked sheathing that'd seen better days materialized at the other end of the light.

Webs spidered out around the opening with sticky white fingers, and a hollow sensation gutted her stomach. She'd always hated spiders. It wasn't enough the paneled ceiling of her childhood bedroom had been infested with translucent brown funnel spiders and given her night terrors for months, but one had crawled free of her brother's mouth seconds after she'd found him under the house. She'd screamed so forcefully, she'd ripped the skin off the back of her throat. "You're the one with the gun."

"All right." Boucher handed off the flashlight and set one boot into the bottom built-in cubby of the closet. Bracing himself, he climbed higher until his head penetrated the darkened space. "You're right. There's something up here. I'll be damned."

Leigh circled to get a better view. A myriad of possibilities lightninged through her mind. "What is it?"

Boucher hauled himself up through the opening. Joists groaned under his weight, and a new crack splintered from one corner of the attic entry to the back wall of the closet. The lieutenant's outline disappeared a split second before he dipped a hand back through the opening. "Come on. Hand me the flashlight, and I'll pull you up."

The last time she'd gone into a darkened space similar to this, she'd found Troy's body. Muscles down her spine tightened as each second ticked by—too loud—in her head. Boucher was a detective. He would smell her anxiety rising the longer she refused to move. He'd get inside her head. He'd find the dark hole where she'd buried her secrets. No one was allowed in there. Not even her. She'd learned what would happen if she bared that place, but he was still there. Waiting for her.

Leigh surrendered the flashlight, slid her hand into his, and pushed off the same bottom cubby to propel herself upward. The ceiling had struggled to hold Michelle Cross's weight. What would it do with her and the lieutenant's combined? All too soon, she was encapsulated in darkness with nothing but Boucher's hold keeping her grounded. Then he let go.

Her toe hit a cardboard box, and she nearly fell forward, hands splayed to catch herself. She couldn't see anything without the flashlight. A streak of lightning penetrated through the single clouded window off to one side and lit up the crowded space. Boucher's outline solidified off to her right, unmoving. Thunder shook through the house—loud this close to the underside of the roof—and agitated the unease clawing through her. She could taste it in the form of bile at the back of her throat. Leigh took a careful step, sure to keep her weight on the top of the joist spearing this direction. The last thing they needed was to fall through the ceiling. "What is it?"

Boucher angled the flashlight toward the floor. Almost forgotten. "Looks like we found what Michelle Cross was doing in her spare time." The lieutenant stepped out of line and dragged the beam up the wall. "Killer must've missed it."

Concern about their combined weight in a compromised and weakened attic space fled as curiosity and validation pulled her closer. Handwritten notes scribbled across pinned newspaper articles. She didn't have to get a clear view of the headlines to figure out what they said. They'd been burned into her brain every time the morning paper showed up on her porch after her father's arrest. She'd never had the courage to bring the papers inside. To protect her mother. To protect herself. They'd all gone in the garbage still rubber-banded. Leigh raised her hand to the corner of one clipping, trying to smooth it out. It centered a photo of her father, smiling back in his last yearbook photo. Elementary school teacher arrested for deaths of two students. And written in thick marker over the body of the article, a single word. Innocent. Her heart rate ticked higher. "She was investigating Troy's and Derek Garrison's murders."

Why? Michelle Cross wasn't police. She wasn't a private investigator as far as they'd been able to tell. She worked for a tech startup as a web designer, but there was no denying someone from the past had piqued the victim's interest.

"She had a suspect, too." Boucher positioned the flashlight higher up the wall.

Surveillance photos. Dozens of them. Some in color, others black and white. The subject was the same in every single one of them. Younger than he looked now. Thinner. More hair. None recent.

Leigh stepped back to get a full view of Michelle Cross's work and felt the pressure of at least eighteen sets of those cold eyes on her. "She was trying to prove Chris Ellingson killed my brother."