Dylan Hunter.
I lowered my arms and sagged against the car, relief rushing through me. It wasn’t anyone dangerous.
Thank goodness.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He frowned apologetically. “I was about to say your name when you turned.”
I didn’t doubt his words were true. “What are you doing here?”
Hunter eyed me. “I might ask you the same question.”
“I’m trying to talk to everybody at the apartment complex to find out if anyone saw anything,” I admitted. “You?”
He crossed his arms, his protective walls popping back up. “Even though the FBI has officially taken over this case, I’m trying to picture what may have played out last night. Watching for anything specific to this area. Trying to get a feel for this investigation.”
I nodded and felt my throat tighten as the reality of what had happened hit me once again. “I can’t believe Velma’s gone.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “I know. This guy is getting braver. He’s not leaving as much time between his abductions. I don’t like to think that he’s escalating, but he seems to be.”
“What does that mean for Velma? That she’ll die sooner rather than later?” I felt sick to my stomach as the words left my lips. But I had to know.
“We don’t know. Like I said before, in the past this guy has generally kept his victims alive for at least two weeks. Sometimes, I’m not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.”
“Because we don’t know what’s happening to them in the process,” I finished.
“We do know there are no signs he tortured his victims, though. I suppose that’s something to be thankful for.” Hunter’s words sounded lackluster, like he wanted to believe them but couldn’t quite do so.
I studied Hunter’s face for a moment, contemplating my next question before I spoke. His features all seemed so tight, so melancholy and even distant. “So, have you seen anything out of the ordinary tonight?”
“No, I haven’t. And you shouldn’t be out here alone now.”
“The Beltway Killer just struck,” I said. “It’s not like he’s going to strike again the next day.”
“You and I both know that there’s more at stake here.” Hunter leveled his gaze at me as if challenging me to look away.
Not long ago, I’d told him about my father and my suspicion that his death hadn’t been natural causes like officials had claimed. I couldn’t deny Hunter’s statement. The stakes had never been higher.
“I know,” I said. “There is a lot at stake. But I can’t stop pursuing the truth just because of fear.”
Hunter stepped closer, a new emotion crossing his gaze. “Maybe you are just like me.”
I raised my chin, wondering what he was referring to. The look in his eyes caused my lungs to freeze. We shared a connection—a connection borne of loss and grief. Those emotions could bond people quickly, deeply.
“I can’t make sense of my own life,” he said. “But when I can put together the pieces of tragedy for somebody else, it makes me feel a lot better about myself and my situation. It gives me hope.”
My heart pounded into my chest. Hunter had nailed it. That was one of the reasons I loved being a PI so much. I loved it when things made sense. When they fit.
That didn’t always happen in life. But when you could open and close an investigation . . . the satisfaction was unbelievable.
Something passed between Hunter and me, and I cringed. I wasn’t sure how to bring up the fact that Michael and I were together since Hunter and I weren’t actually dating either. It was all a confusing mess, and I was definitely no relationship expert.
But I remembered why I’d been drawn to him. He was smart, kind, and wounded. Those wounds had ultimately kept us apart.
Hunter stared at me another moment before nodding at the apartment complex behind me. “Who do you need to talk to?”
There it was again. Hunter’s ability to quickly get close and to quickly distance himself. Would he ever let anyone beyond his walls again?
I put the question aside and held up my list. “I have at least six people on the second floor who weren’t home when I came by earlier.”
Hunter nodded. “I’ll go with you to talk to them. Unofficially.”
“You don’t have to do that. I know you have other things to do.” One part of me didn’t want to keep him from his work. Another part of me felt freer to speak with people without his supervision.
He put his hand on my back and led me toward the complex. “I don’t mind. I’d feel better knowing that you were safe.”
I almost roared that I was independent and that I could take care of myself. But I knew that was a fallacy. It didn’t matter if you were male or female, strong or weak, rich or poor. We all needed people to look out for us.
Living here in Storm River had proven just that.
Chapter Ten
An hour later, I left the complex.
Hunter had faithfully stayed beside me as I questioned the residents. But no one had seen anything. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised.
There was only one more person I needed to talk to on the second floor. Everybody else was accounted for. I knew Oscar and Michael also needed to talk to a few people, but I didn’t know which apartments those were. I would need to leave that task to my boss and colleague.
Hunter had walked me back to my car and made sure I was snugly inside. He continued to wait there until I drove away.
Meanwhile, he remained at the apartment complex. No doubt he was going to stay there and look for any other clues he may have missed.
I appreciated his dedication to the case. I wished I could stay and do more also, but I sensed he wanted me to leave. It was just as well. I needed to get home and check on my mom and my sister.
When I walked into my house, my mom and Ruth greeted me from the kitchen table, where they sat together over tea. But, of course, the first thing they noticed was that I wasn’t acting like myself.
“You must have had a rough day.” Ruth squinted as she scrutinized me.
I glanced at them a moment. The two of them appeared to be catching up with each other after busy days. My heart panged with grief for a moment. I missed those moments of normalcy. Moments when I felt like my life would continue forward as expected. In Yerba. With my mom, dad, and sister. Listening to the sounds of the rainforest in the morning and picking fresh fruit for snacks.
You truly didn’t know how good you had it until that good disappeared.
Were those good moments still there? Was I avoiding them? In denial?
I wasn’t sure.
Before I could respond to my sister, a coughing fit overtook her.
More concern rose in me. My sister had cystic fibrosis, a lung disease. She needed a double lung transplant, and she needed it soon. She was on the transplant list and steadily moving up. But we still needed the money to make sure that this surgery happened.
The hospital doing the transplant required a verification of the funds—not only for the surgery itself but for the $2,500-a-month anti-rejection drug that my sister would have to take for the rest of her life.
“It’s been one of those days,” I admitted.