Lecturing a classroom of police officers was far different from fieldwork. Regardless of the personal demons a case like this might summon, she was here to stay.
And most surprising, now that the initial shock was wearing off, she realized she was fascinated by this crime.
As she turned onto the highway, her thoughts drifted to the body and possible theories. This killer had a distinct message and mission and a specific victim in mind. Murder was not enough for him. He was bent on eradicating their identities on all levels.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter as she slowed for a stop sign at a T intersection. She flashed to the blackened skull’s slack jaw welded into an unending silent scream. “Help me!”
Ann trusted that the killer was paying close attention to this investigation. He had deliberately drawn attention to his work, suggesting he craved the fame and notoriety. There had been a media blackout on the first murder; however, a second killing would establish a trend and set off alarm bells in the press. The killer wanted his bodies found.
Had the killer already posted pictures hinting to his crimes? Uploading direct images or videos could trigger warnings with viewers and inquiries from law enforcement, but partial photos of the body or vistas around the crime scene could go unidentified for a long time.
If her university students had taught her anything, it was that everyone now lived in the fame-hungry world of social media. Nothing, including a meal, a drink, or a communal gathering, really happened unless it was documented online.
I’m right here. Can’t you see me? Find me.
A truck whistled by her car in the adjacent lane, snapping her mind back into focus. She turned on her blinker and headed toward the interstate.
With three hours until Nate was finished with camp, she had a bit of time to work on setting up the new house she had rented on Turner Street. The basic pieces of furniture had arrived, but all the little things, including dishes, glasses, sheets, bookshelves, even her bed frame, needed buying.
She was living in chaos, and as tempted as she was to return to her parents’ ranch house, to do so would be admitting they were right—and that she was not ready to live alone.
“Let us protect you and Nate. You’re safer out here on the ranch,” her father had said.
But her mother and father had put their lives on hold last year, and she refused to let them continue. Two weeks ago, when her brother and she had gratefully sent them off on another motor home adventure, she had moved back into town.
As she pressed the accelerator, her last words to her parents rattled in her head: “I’ve been through the worst. I’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
3:45 p.m.
After an hour spent racing through the box store, Ann had managed to buy sheets and a comforter decorated with stars and planets for Nate’s bedroom, glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars for his ceiling, and two high-wattage bedside lights for reading. Also in the cart were plain white towels, bath mats, shower curtains, and a blue-and-white quilt marked 50 percent off. She did not have the energy to choose glasses and plates, so she bought long sleeves of durable paper plates and cups. It had been easy to make basic decisions last year, but now they felt insurmountable.
Analytically, she recognized her behavior as classic avoidance based on a fear of the future. If she were counseling an individual like herself, she would have praised them for the small steps they had accomplished. But she was not a patient, and she was stronger than any stupid anxiety that, honest to God, could not have been worse than it was last year.
As the clerk rang up her order, she noted the young man kept glancing at her as if he recognized her. She injected her steady gaze with challenge until he stopped sneaking looks. When her total rang up, she suppressed a grimace. Until she sold the house on Beech Street, finances were going to be tight.
The shopping cart’s wheels rattled as she pushed her purchases across the parking lot and loaded them in her trunk. At the university, she parked outside the building where Nate was attending a computer camp. She still had a minute to spare.
She savored the warmth of the sun on her face as she watched the side of the gym door, waiting for it to open and the kids to be released.
Her phone rang. She did not recognize the number. Wondering if it might be from the police department, she took a risk and answered. “This is Dr. Bailey.”
“Dr. Bailey? Ann Bailey?” The springs of a chair squeaked as if the caller were shifting forward.
“That is correct.”
“This is Paul Thompson. I’m working on a story about Elijah Weston.”
“How did you get this number?” she asked.
“I’m good at what I do.”
His arrogance scraped her nerves. “Good for you. Don’t call me again.”
“I want to talk. You name the time and the place. I have a few questions.”
Ann hung up and then blocked the number. Her hands were trembling as she thought about Elijah Weston. She had known him in college, slept with him twice, and then, when he was charged with arson, she had testified against him.
Elijah had been out of prison a year, and not a week went by that she did not spot him at least once. He rarely approached her, but his mere presence was a message: “I haven’t forgotten. And you won’t, either.”
The gym door burst open, and the ten kids, ranging in age from ten to thirteen, strolled outside. Some carried their backpacks, others dragged them, all with a tired but contented expression suggesting it had been a good day.
She did not see Nate immediately, and whenever he dallied, adrenaline rushed her body and her relaxed status switched to a full-blown red alert.
Her heart was fast-tracking to fifth gear when she saw her son making his way out of the building. He was sporting his new wire-rimmed glasses and a short haircut that was identical to his cousin Kyle’s and uncle Gideon’s. The combined effect made him look older than the ten-year-old boy standing in front of her.
He spotted her, raised his hand, and tossed her a halfway smile. Not the full-on grin he had a year ago, but not the dismissive smirk of a teenager.
Ann waved back and watched as the other boys hurried to their rides. A couple of twelve-year-olds, Roger and Ben, rushed up to speak to Nate, and her boy actually grinned. Then the boys looked toward Roger’s mother, who shook her head no. There were some exchanged words between the trio, and then Nate nodded, adjusted his backpack, and headed toward Ann’s car.
Her heart twisted. He opened the back door and tossed in his backpack.
“How did it go today?” she asked a little too brightly.
“Fine.” He clicked his seat belt.
“Did you make your solar system presentation?” she asked.
“Yes.” He pushed up his glasses and looked out the window.
“Want to get ice cream?”
“No. Did you get my fishing lures from the house?”
“I did. They’re in the back.”
He glanced over the seat at the bags of newly purchased items. “What about my globe from the house?”
“No, did you want it?”
“Yes. I told you that.”
“I don’t remember. Sorry.”
“You didn’t get it?” he challenged.
“I’ll go by tomorrow.”