Elijah Weston stood across the street from the one-story house, watching Ann and her son get into their car. He tried not to follow her too much, but there were days when his curiosity was overwhelming. Today, he had come to see the Beech Street house, but he had lucked out and seen her and the boy.
He had first noticed her on campus as she raced across the front courtyard on a cool September day. He had been a freshman and she a senior. Leaves had caught in a gust of wind and swirled around her feet as her blond hair flew behind her like a golden wave. She had taken his heart that second, and despite a decade behind bars, he still loved her.
And the boy. He was growing so fast. He had to be an inch taller than he had been at the beginning of the summer.
As Ann backed out of the driveway, she glanced in her rearview mirror, seemingly making sure the boy had hooked his seat belt. But she let her gaze roam. She was always checking. Always vigilant. She drove off.
He was glad to see her cleaning out the Beech Street house and moving on. That was healthy. The reporters who had deluged the city after her husband died were gone, and the calm was returning to her world.
He lingered, watching the cleaning woman load up her truck with more boxes, and when she finally drove off, he glanced from side to side. It was five thirty in the afternoon, and most of the folks in this neighborhood were still at work. There were no unexpected cars in any of the driveways, hinting that someone might be home and available to see him.
He trotted toward the house and tried the front door, discovering it was unlocked. Grateful for the cleaning lady’s sloppiness, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
After the police had finished their investigations in early winter, he had been tempted to slip into the house several times, but there had been too many reporters and too much curiosity about the house. Now he had it all to himself.
He had never been impressed by the rancher and did not picture Ann living here. But she had been young when she chose it. He wondered when her husband’s frequent absences had turned into disquieting questions and unconscious worries. Had she sensed the depth of his evil? What had finally driven her out of this place?
He walked into the boy’s room and smiled. The periodic table poster reflected the child’s intelligence, whereas the Power Rangers poster and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling marked his youth. The boy had chosen the Red Ranger, same as Elijah had as a boy.
Ann had done a good job with the child, and she had kept their little family afloat during the storm.
He spotted a globe on the desk and picked it up. It was not expensive, but the boy had scratched his initials in the plastic base. The sizing of the countries was incorrect in a charming way.
He turned to a dresser, where a comb stood tucked in a brush, as it must have for the last year. As he should have noted before, there were strands of hair on the brush. Scientists had tested DNA in hair follicles that dated back to the time of the caveman, meaning there had to be enough material here to get a full read on the boy’s DNA.
Elijah pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. He had been drawn to the house because of Ann, but he had come prepared, hoping to find proof of the boy’s paternity.
He put multiple strands of hair in the bag and tucked it in his pocket. Since he had first seen pictures of the boy, he had suspected the child was his. But his priority had been leaving prison, getting established, clearing his name, and suing the state of Montana for wrongful imprisonment. Now that he had both settlement money and a reputation that would mend over time, he could claim what was his.
He tucked the globe under his arm and moved into the room Ann had shared with Clarke. The mattress was askew, and several portions had been cut out of the tufted fabric by the forensic team, looking for samples.
He crossed to the dresser still sporting Ann’s perfume bottles, raised the one with a butterfly glass top to his nose, and inhaled, imagining Ann dabbing it on her bare neck. He put the bottle in his pocket.
Outside a vehicle pulled up and a car door slammed. There would be time to return and see what else he could find. But for now he hurried to the back sliding door, opened it, and carefully closed it before jogging across the small patio and ducking into the woods. He would return soon.
CHAPTER FIVE
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
6:15 p.m.
Bryce pulled up in front of Ann’s new house in the quiet residential neighborhood. It was like many in Missoula. Brick, one story, surrounded by tall shrubs by the front windows. He assumed she was also in a good school district.
Out of the car, he grabbed the file box and strode toward the house. As he rang the bell, several loud thumps echoed inside. His hand slid automatically to his sidearm.
The front door snapped open to a flustered Ann. “Sergeant McCabe. Please come in.”
Thump. Thump.
“What’s that?” he asked, lowering his hand.
“It’s my son. He’s packing for his camping trip.” She brushed back a strand of hair and stepped to the side. When he entered, she closed the door behind him. “The trip is four days, but in Nate’s mind, it’s a yearlong expedition.”
He removed his Stetson, followed her around the corner, and found the boy sitting in the center of the living room rimmed in moving boxes. The kid sat cross-legged, surrounded by what looked like every stitch of clothing he owned. There were also several new fry pans, three flashlights, and a large bag of Twizzlers.
“Nate, this is Sergeant Bryce,” Ann said.
The boy appeared to shift mental gears, stood up, and extended his hand. It might have been the last thing he wanted to do, but his mother’s training ran deep.
Bryce took his hand and shook, discovering the kid had a strong grip. “Good to meet you, Nate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks like you’re headed on a big trip,” Bryce said.
“It’s a four-day camping trip with my uncle and cousin. And Joan. We leave in the morning.”
Bryce could not picture city slicker Joan Mason camping when she regularly complained about the lack of restaurants and bars in Montana. Still, she was going, and in his book got an A for trying to make her relationship with Gideon and his family work.
“The weather is supposed to be nice,” Bryce said.
“The temperatures will range from eighty-five to ninety degrees, and the skies will be partly cloudy,” Nate said. “Zero percent chance of precipitation.”
“A little cloud cover helps when you’re near the water. Cuts the reflection.”
“That’s what Gideon says. What’s in the box?” Nate asked.
“Files for your mom to look over.”
“Let me take those,” Ann said. “I’ll set them in my office.”
“Best to keep the lid on,” Bryce warned.
“Understood.”
As she stepped away, Bryce set his hat on an unopened box, rested his hands on his hips, and inspected what Nate had chosen. “How do you plan on transporting this?”
“I have two big suitcases. It’ll be tight, but I’ll make it work.”
“How far in-country are you going?” Bryce asked.
“The cabin is seventy-one miles northwest of here.” The boy stood back, also placing his hands on his hips.
Bryce shook his head, pretending to consider the value of the suitcases. “I never had much luck in the mountains of Afghanistan with a suitcase. The wheels kept getting stuck in the mud.”