The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

“Listen, I would have said something if I figured it mattered.”

“Would you?” she shoved out.

His eyes narrowed and he scowled. “I need to get back to work, so if you’d kindly get out of here.”

She held his gaze.

“Bye-bye.” He finger-waved and she rolled her eyes and left. Cud was acting strange, even for him.

She settled herself at her desk after grabbing a coffee from the cafeteria. She was curious about Webb’s murder case but found herself more caught up in the enigma of Casey-Anne Ritter’s.

She brought up Casey-Anne’s case file on the computer. The lead investigating detective in Atlanta, Georgia, was a Detective Montgomery Banks. She could spend time reading or she could reach out to the detective for his take. Sure, a lot of years had passed, but he might still have something to offer that wasn’t on record, or something he felt was worth more attention than it had received. She called his number and got voicemail. She left a rather vague message but hinted that a recent murder in Dumfries, Virginia, might be connected with his cold case. Hopefully, that would be enough to prompt a callback.

Next, she opened her email. She was going to look at Palmer’s visitor list, but a new message with an attachment filtered in above it from CSI Emma Blair. It was probably the evidence list that Malone had mentioned. All the subject said was Palmer Investigation.

She opened the email, expecting some pleasantries in the body, but it simply read See attached.

She clicked on the spreadsheet, which was a list of the potential evidence from room ten and its surroundings at Denver’s Motel. She scanned the document and stopped on line sixty-six. A receipt from a Dumfries bar by the name of Happy Time. According to what was noted, the receipt had been found in garbage ou

tside the motel office. It could have belonged to anyone, but she wasn’t that big of a believer in coincidence.

Her insides went cold. That had been Palmer’s watering hole the night of the accident.

“Mommy, Mommy,” Lindsey chortles in the back seat as I snap her seat belt into place.

“You have fun?”

“Loved it.” Lindsey grins and the moonlight picks up something on my daughter’s chin. I wipe it and find sugary syrup that I must have missed before getting her ready to leave. “Love ice cream cake!”

Amanda blinked away the tears that had sprung into her eyes. That had happened just minutes before the accident, as she was getting Lindsey situated in the back seat. They were leaving from Amanda’s sister Kristen’s house. It had been an afternoon and evening of birthday fun as her niece Ava had just turned seven.

Lindsey had been so excited to be a part of the celebration. She’d been to other parties for her friends and cousins, but she hadn’t been old enough to truly appreciate them. Lindsey had just been coming alive when—

No, she couldn’t go down that path. Nothing good would come from that right now.

But Happy Time. She knew that bar—and not for the good. Technically, bartenders and the establishments they work in are legally liable if they overserve a patron who proceeds to get behind the wheel and wind up in an accident. But Happy Time—the business and its employees—had escaped any charges. For being a dive bar, it turned out they had deep-enough pockets to afford a small team of defense lawyers. The fact no one affiliated with Happy Time had paid any fines or served any time was just another miscarriage of justice on top of Palmer’s ridiculous sentence.

She called Trent’s cell to get an ETA on his return to the station. His line rang several times and went to voicemail.

She returned the handset to the cradle. Maybe she should be worried about him, but she was sure he could handle his own. He was probably in the middle of questioning Freddy or Rat. It would be nice to hear something from him though. But she also had to give him some space to be his own detective.

She signed out a department car again and was heading toward Dumfries when her phone rang from a blocked caller. She answered, thinking it could be Trent as she hadn’t exactly had time to program his number into her phone, and cops’ numbers never came up announcing them as police. There was nothing but breathing on the other end of the line. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

Click.

It was probably just Trent trying to call her back or a wrong number, but goose bumps stood on her arms, telling her otherwise. Trent could be in trouble. She flattened her foot on the gas pedal, intent on going direct to Freddy’s house, and then her phone rang again.

“It’s Trent,” her caller said.

She took a few deep breaths. There had been a part of her that for a few moments had feared she might not hear his voice again. She really needed some sleep before paranoia crept in and took full hold.

“Detective Steele?” he prompted.

“Yeah. How are you making out?”

“Still having a chat here with Freddy and Rat.”

“It’s going all right?” She measured her tone, trying not to make it too obvious that she had been concerned with his safety.