Drop Dead Gorgeous

I dip my chin, my misery and desperation loving his company. I run out to my car and grab a file folder from the passenger seat. Back inside, Barnes looks the pieced-together invoice over carefully.

“This is the online pharmacy Zoey was talking about?” he asks, pointing to the logo.

“Yeah, and you can see it went to Yvette Horne at her home address,” I add.

“Hmm . . . what about this? Did you two Sherlocks look into this?” Barnes asks.

“What?”

“The billing information. This credit card number—it’s all blocked out except for the last four digits, but this isn’t Yvette’s credit card or debit card. Not Richard’s either.”

“How’d you know that?”

Barnes looks at me like I’m stupider than a box of dumbass. “First thing you do in a questionable death is investigate the spouse. I’ve been through their bank records, investments, credit cards . . . all of it. And that’s not Yvette Horne’s.”

“Then whose is it?” Alver butts in from his perch.

Barnes snatches his phone up once again, dialing numbers and directing Alver. “Call Judge Hopkins. I’m gonna need a court order for this.”

“He’s here this late?” I interrupt to ask.

Alver chuckles. “It’s his wife’s book club night, so he stays out of the house while they talk about Fifty Shades of whatever color they’re doing these days.”

Thankfully, he’s already dialed the phone while he explained and he turns to give me his back while telling Judge Hopkins what’s happening.

Sheriff Barnes says into the phone, “Operator.” After a moment, he sighs and says through gritted teeth, “Customer service agent.” To me, he whispers, “Damn automated phone system. What happened to the days when someone answered the phone?”

I don’t get a chance to explain that if that were still the case, he probably wouldn’t get a live person this late at night anyway, because he straightens and talks to whoever is on the other end of the line. “I need a supervisor. Now. This is a police matter.”

He licks his lips, ready to tear someone a new asshole if need be to get the information he wants. “This is Sheriff Jeff Barnes of the Williamson County Sheriff’s department. I have an invoice here from your company. I know where it was shipped to, but I need to know who paid for it.” He pauses and then nods even though they can’t see him. “Yeah, I can fax over a court order, but I’ve got a missing county employee that says I need you to tell me that name right now.” His order is stern, not allowing for argument, and even I would give him the information if I had it.

Luckily, the person on the other end of the phone seems to agree. “Thank you. I’ll fax that over shortly.” Barnes slams the phone back to its cradle. “It’s that Turner fellow. He paid for those supplement things.”

“Which means he ordered the supplement in Yvette’s name and had it delivered to her house.” The image of him walking out the front door with Yvette trailing behind him flashes in my mind. “He goes there to see Yvette or the dog. He could’ve ordered it and then gotten it out of the mailbox or off the porch himself.”

Barnes twists his mustache as he thinks. “You think he’s framing Yvette? Or in on it with her?”

Before I can tease apart an opinion, Barnes’s radio goes off. “Sheriff, I’m at Mayfield’s and the gate’s open. Want me to wait for backup or proceed?”

I want to answer, yell at the officer to go inside and save Zoey. The sooner, the better because there’s no telling what could happen in the meantime. Saving her any second of pain or fear, preventing any small amount of risk to her, is worth it.

“Hold steady. Stay quiet and do a recon perimeter check. Report back in five. I’m on my way.” Barnes is already standing and running for the door. He’s faster than I would’ve given him credit for, but I’m right on his heels.

Surprisingly, Alver’s behind me, doing his best to keep up. “Let’s roll, boys.”

Outside, I go for the front seat. “Shotgun!”

Alver pushes me out of the way. “Age before no damn badge. You ain’t sitting in the front seat.”

I don’t want to waste time arguing, so I end up speeding down the street in the backseat of a cop car with the lights flashing and sirens screaming. Five minutes later, Sheriff Barnes’s radio goes off again and a whispering voice says, “Jeff, we got a situation out here. One suspect—male, thirties, six-foot-two or three, two-hundred pounds easy, blond hair, black shirt. He’s losing his shit, sir.”

“Sebastian,” I whisper, and Barnes’s eyes shoot to the rearview mirror.

“Zoey?” Barnes says into the radio.

The answering silence is painful, that moment on the edge where you know you’re going to fall but are helpless to do anything to fight it.