Silence descended. When Finch spoke again, he sounded slightly humbled. “Not my case. That was Prescott P.D. But she’s on our list. She worked for the post office, didn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you know Dean knew her?”
“I used my secret decoder ring,” she said, and disconnected. She’d given him the tip. He could dig for the details himself.
It took Dean much longer to pick the lock on the back door than he’d thought it would. But Francesca still wasn’t asleep when he entered the house. She was in the bathroom. From where he stood in the hall, he could hear the toilet flush. Then the sink taps went on. She kept muttering to herself, too. She wasn’t happy with someone named Finch. She called him a jerk, said that she was sticking with the investigation whether he liked it or not.
Dean seemed to recall that Finch was one of the investigators. Fortunately, the various people working on the “good” side didn’t get along. He figured they’d be a lot more effective if they did. He was surprised no one had ever come to the salvage yard asking about Julia. She’d been estranged from her family in California—they probably didn’t even know she was dead—but she’d lived and worked at the yard for nearly six months. Any number of people had seen her and would most likely remember her. Why had no one raised the alarm when she’d simply disappeared from the face of the earth?
Because of that appalling lack of interest, Dean had created some missing persons flyers on his computer and had often considered printing them and posting them at the grocery store and post office. Julia deserved that much of a tribute, didn’t she? A small shred of proof that someone had cared about her? She hadn’t been a bad girl. She’d been kinder to him than his own family, acted like the sister Paris never had.
Besides, he enjoyed the thought that seeing Julia’s image in public would give Butch a good scare. At times, he’d even been tempted to locate Julia’s family and divulge the whereabouts of her body. He wasn’t sure they’d care. She’d told some pretty awful stories about them. But revealing what he knew would get rid of Butch. This past year, Dean had been able to tolerate his brother-in-law mostly because he felt he could get rid of him if he really needed to.
But now that he realized his mother was also at risk, he was glad he’d kept his mouth shut. He doubted she had any direct involvement in the murder. His mother had always liked Julia. She was the one who’d taken pity on her and given her a job and a place to live. It was far more likely that she was covering for Butch. She wouldn’t want Paris and Champ to lose their husband and father just because she’d taken in a poor runaway.
Expecting Francesca to come out of the bathroom any minute, he wrapped the ends of the rope he’d brought in his backpack tightly around his hands and pressed himself against the wall. He hated that it had come to this, wished there was some other way. But he had no choice.
Think of Mom. He’d do anything for Elaine, wouldn’t he? Of course. Despite his many shortcomings, he’d always been a loyal son.
But the door to Francesca’s bathroom didn’t open. The tub went on instead. She was taking a bath.
Grateful he’d have a little more time to acclimate and do what he liked best—look around and imagine being romantically involved with a woman of Francesca’s beauty—he moved into her bedroom and searched through her drawers. If he could find Julia’s panties, all would be well. Then he could slip out as quietly as he’d slipped in, and Francesca would never have to know he’d been in her house.
But life was never that easy. Especially his life. He turned her entire room upside down but found nothing. And by then he didn’t dare look anywhere else. Francesca had just pulled the plug on the tub.
He could hear the water drain.
She was getting out.
The sleeping pill Francesca had swallowed before climbing in the bathwater was beginning to take effect. She could feel her body relax, her thoughts slow. Afraid she might slide under the water—which had reportedly happened to Butch’s mother—she’d cut her bath short.
Secret decoder ring. Finch had upset her. But that was nothing new. And why did his opinion matter? There wasn’t any point in dwelling on him or Hunsacker. She’d do everything she felt was necessary on the Bonner case, do what her conscience dictated, regardless of what they had to say about it. If the sheriff’s department felt strongly enough to act on their threats and tried to prosecute her, she’d get a lawyer, a damn good one. She wasn’t without resources.
As for Jonah… She didn’t know what to think about Jonah. Her resistance to acknowledging her feelings about him seemed to be ebbing away with her tension. Every time she closed her eyes he was there, taking her in his arms and making love to her like he used to. It was crazy, but she wanted him now more than ever.
Then there was Adriana, and all the issues of trust and distrust, love and loyalty, their last conversation had dredged up…
Refusing to go over that again, she toweled off. If she allowed herself to dwell on Adriana, the sleeping pill wouldn’t work.
After blow-drying her hair, she pulled on her nightgown and walked into her bedroom. She was so eager to fall into bed, it didn’t occur to her that the lights shouldn’t be off. She was halfway across the room before she realized. Then she stopped.
She’d spoken to Finch in the dark, but she’d turned on the lights after she disconnected so she could grab fresh underwear to put on following her bath. How was it that they were off?
Had she hit the switch as she passed into the hall? That was what she wanted to believe. But she was almost positive she hadn’t. And, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she spotted something that made her blood run cold. Someone had pulled out her dresser drawers. Clothes spilled onto the floor. Her room had been ransacked.
Adrenaline overcame the sedative as Francesca squinted to see if she could locate her iPhone on the nightstand. Should she tiptoe over and get it? Search the blankets for the pepper spray she’d taken to bed with her? Or run out of the house without wasting another second?
She decided to lock her door, reclaim her pepper spray and her phone and hide under the bed to place a distress call. But a quick movement caught her eye, and it dawned on her that whoever had broken in wasn’t just in her house.
He was in her bedroom.
27
Francesca didn’t bother trying to run. She had nowhere to go. Dean had already closed the door and locked it. Because it locked on the inside, she could undo it if she had the opportunity, but that would take a second or two more than dashing through an open doorway.