“That’s it,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I now realize I’ve been hanging on to a dream, to the memory of a man who no longer exists.”
Closing his eyes, Sebastian let his head fall back. She’d just accused him of being interested in someone else, but it was probably the other way around. “What’s his name?” he asked.
No answer.
“ Constance?”
“Stop it. This isn’t about another man. This is about me being unable to cope with the person you’ve become. It’s over between us,” she snapped and hung up.
Panic, caused by the finality in her voice, tempted Sebastian to call her back. But he didn’t. They’d never agree. Besides, she was better off without him. All he could think about was finding answers to the questions that’d been burning inside him since that hot summer day last year. That was when Emily’s neighbor had gone over to see why Emily hadn’t shown up to carpool for basketball practice and stumbled upon two bodies. They’d been murdered the night before.
Opening his eyes, he focused on the transcripts in the seat next to him. Whoever sent those instant messages and e-mails to Mary claimed to be someone she’d met in the past, someone named Wesley Boss as Constance said, but Mary didn’t remember a Wesley Boss. Their first contact had come through a Web site she used to sell jewelry she made as a hobby, so it could’ve been anyone. After several months of “talking” to this person online, she’d come to the conclusion that it had to be her high-school sweetheart-Malcolm Turner. He knew too much about her to be anyone else.
Sebastian had flown to Sacramento, hoping that the alias Malcolm was using would be enough to find him, but it hadn’t been so far. He’d managed to track down only four men in California named Wesley Boss, three in L.A. and one in Bakersfield. One was an old priest who didn’t even have a computer, one was happily married with five kids, one was a ten-year-old, and the other, the one from Bakersfield, was dying of cancer. Mary had been trying to get Sebastian an address almost from the moment she’d figured out who she was really dealing with, but Malcolm was too cautious. A man with his background knew how risky it was to contact someone from his former life. That made him traceable, if anyone was bothering to look. And Sebastian was doing more than looking-he was scrutinizing every possibility. He’d even hired a private investigator to see if he could trace through whatever means-legal or not-where the e-mails were coming from. But Malcolm was using a remote server. He’d thought of everything.
Popping the transmission into reverse, he backed out of the parking space. Regardless of the cost, he couldn’t give up. Mary was his conduit to the bastard who’d killed Emily and Colton and, right or wrong, he’d keep the promise he made while bearing their coffins to the grave.
Jane had decided to interview Luther on her way home from work, the first task on her list of actions in the missing-girls case. But Oak Park was the most dangerous neighborhood in Sacramento, and Jane was fully aware of it.
The metal of her gun pressed into her waist as she crossed the weed-infested postage stamp of dirt that comprised Luther’s front yard. In the early months after Oliver’s funeral, she’d learned how to shoot-Skye had seen to that-but this was nothing like a visit to the range. She’d never carried her Glock to someone’s house, never approached anyone with the thought that she might have to use it. Until now. Although she was currently undergoing the months-long application process, she didn’t yet have a license to carry a concealed weapon. She was breaking the law. But she hadn’t been able to reach David, and for the sake of the missing girls she couldn’t wait. She was far less afraid of the police than she was of Luther. She had a daughter at home, a twelve-year-old who’d lost enough already. No way would Jane orphan Kate altogether.
Taking a breath to calm the butterflies swirling in her belly, she raised a hand to knock on a door that looked as if the hounds of hell had attempted to scratch it open. It was barely five o’clock, but darkness seemed to creep up on this part of the city much more quickly than the Watt Avenue area, where she worked.
Expecting to hear dogs the size of horses, she wasn’t surprised by the cacophony of barking that rose to her ears as she stood at the very edge of the concrete stoop.
Ro-of. Thump! Roof! Scratch. Ro-of! Roof! Thump.
Unnerved by the ferocity, Jane decided that perhaps this was something she should put off until tomorrow. Maybe Jonathan, the private investigator who donated so much of his time to TLS, would be available then. Or David. She was about to head back to her car when a man’s voice cut through the racket.
“Shut the hell up!”
The dogs fell silent.
Hands clammy with sweat, Jane watched uncertainly as the knob turned and the door opened.
It was darker inside than out, which made it difficult to see anything except the whites of the man’s eyes. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said, “but you don’t belong here.”
Three pit bulls growled at his feet. They weren’t nearly as large as they sounded, but they looked as if they’d tear her limb from limb, given half a chance. Fortunately, they knew better than to attack without permission. They didn’t even push their muzzles into the opening, the way so many dogs did.
The man was definitely in charge. They weren’t about to disobey him…she hoped.
“I’m-” When her voice squeaked, Jane cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m Jane Burke with The Last Stand.”
“Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not interested,” he said and slammed the door.
The bang almost caused her to fall off the stoop. She glanced longingly at her Toyota Camry, parked at the curb, but the vision of Gloria, crying at the office, prompted her to knock again. She couldn’t fold that easily; her client was counting on her.
One dog dared to bark-but ceased abruptly with a high-pitched whine.
Certain the dog had just been kicked, Jane bolted for her car but forced herself to stop midway when the door reopened.
This time the man stepped out onto the porch, where she could see him. But seeing him didn’t make her feel any safer. At least six feet four inches tall, he weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds and had the thick neck and huge biceps of a hulking lineman.
“This better be good,” he said. Behind him, the dogs crouched, baring their teeth in a threatening snarl.
Clasping her trembling hands in front of her, Jane pulled her gaze away from them. “Are you Luther Wilson?”