Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

For a while, she’d stopped coming here. It just felt too awkward, uncomfortable. It never got any easier to speak out loud to her dead husband and child as if they could hear her when she wasn’t sure they could. But she’d persisted, and over the last few months, she actually felt like she’d bonded with them. She had sensed the touch of her daughter’s spirit—or her memory anyway—affect her and help her. She hadn’t yet told Kevin she was seeing someone, and she wouldn’t unless things with Logan became serious. And she had no plans of that happening.

But with the case of Jane Doe and the nightmarish images resurfacing of those poor sex-trafficking victims, she didn’t know who else to talk to. She probably could have gone to Becky’s and chatted with her, but she didn’t want to burden her friend, and the hour was rather late. And, even if it was earlier in the day, she certainly wasn’t about to pour her heart out to a shrink. She’d tried that after Kevin and Lindsey had died, but it hadn’t lasted long. Besides, she just wanted to talk without being interrupted or offered advice. That was one strong advantage of talking to the dead. Though Rideout would disagree and say the dead talked a lot. She supposed they did, in their own way.

She reached the top of the hill, stopped, and breathed in the warm night air. It had her wishing she’d just left her jacket in the car. She took it off now, though, juggling the bouquets from one hand to the other as she pulled her arms out of the sleeves. She tied the coat around her waist and continued toward their graves.

She rounded the stones and noted there were already flowers in each of the holders. Probably from her mother, who visited religiously.

Amanda squeezed a new bouquet in with the one already at Kevin’s stone. Her gaze landed on the inscription as she straightened back up. Beloved Husband and Father, Kevin James.

There were so many times since his death when she’d wished she’d taken his surname and not stuck with her maiden one. It had purely been strategic when she’d made the decision. Her father was the police chief, and his recognizable name would go a long way as she climbed the ranks. At least that had been her reasoning.

She moved her daughter’s bouquet around to make room for the additional blooms she’d brought for her. As she was fussing with the flowers, a small envelope came out of the older arrangement, wedged between her fingers. She smiled, thinking that it was just like her mother to leave a note for her granddaughter.

Amanda gathered the two bunches of flowers in hand, the card temporarily set aside on her thigh as she crouched down. She fed the two bouquets into the holder and went to replace the card. But she stopped cold. The moonlight spilled over the envelope just enough to make out the person to whom it was addressed.

It was Amanda’s name—in type.

A chill tore through her, and she looked over her shoulders, left and right, right and left, left and right again. Suddenly it felt like the night carried eyes.

She rubbed her arms. Maybe she was making too much out of this, but there was a nattering voice in her brain cautioning her. Anyone who knew her and had something to say to her could pick up a phone or show up at her door. Who would have the audacity to leave a message for her here—and why?

She let go of the envelope, and it fell to the grass. She never should have touched the thing. What if it was evidence? A feeling of dread pricked her skin, but as she stared down at it, her curiosity had to be satisfied.

She pulled out her cell phone and turned on the flashlight.

“Here goes,” she said out loud. As if it wasn’t creepy enough that she was haunting a graveyard at night, now she was receiving mail at her daughter’s grave…

She set her phone on her thigh as she picked up the envelope again, resolute, but her fingers were working slowly to peel back the seal. Once the lip was lifted, she withdrew what was inside, and with her other hand, she aimed the flashlight on it. Just a piece of regular copy paper folded in half.

A typed message read, “We’re on the same team. Be grateful that your angel will always stay innocent.”

She dropped the card and her phone. What the hell? She fumbled to pick up both quickly, now concerned about the dew destroying the note and her phone.

She read the letter again as she stood, and her legs quaked unsteadily beneath her.

The card’s sender had to be Jane Doe’s killer, but for what purpose? Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling much like talking to anyone. It was time to leave.

&n

bsp; Fourteen

His adrenaline was pumping, and he felt so very alive. He’d take that as further confirmation he was on the right path. Getting the address for Shannon Fox had been easy, thanks to the internet. Maybe he was being reckless or stupid returning to the same street in less than twenty-four hours.

It was about five thirty in the morning when he parked along a side street a block away. The closer he got to the nurse’s house, and by extension 532 Bill Drive, where he’d killed that girl, the more his hands started to shake. So much for being at complete peace with what he had done. But, for once, he had his mother’s understanding and attention. Possibly even approval. That spurred him forward and helped him focus.

He was dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, and he trotted along the sidewalk toward Fox’s house. Or the Fox… Ah, he liked thinking of her as that. Because that’s what she was. Cunning and scheming, hiding her true intentions behind a good act.

He kept an even pace, not too fast, not too slow. If any curious neighbor saw him, they’d just conclude he was out getting some exercise in the early morning.

He looked at the cop car in front of 532. Even the officer wouldn’t think anything of him if he noticed him. But the sight of the house again, just how untouched it was, had rage blistering within him. But all he could do was move forward, perfect, and get things right this time.

He stopped at the end of Fox’s driveway, running in place and checking his watch, probably appearing as if he was consulting one of those gadgets that tracked heart rate, distance, and calories burned. In his peripheral, he looked at the four-door sedan in the drive, but he also saw a light coming through a second-story window. Someone was certainly home and, by the looks of it, awake. That could prove to be a problem. Did he wait, or come back and try another time?

He jogged in a circle. He didn’t want to put this off. A message needed to be sent, and he had to redeem himself.

He ducked up the driveway with one more furtive glance at 532, this time thinking of the girl who had been inside. He was doing this because of her, because of what she represented.

The end of the driveway butted against a chain-link fence and tall shrubbery. He found a gate, which he unlatched and slipped through. The backyard was banked by large bushes and trees. The branches overhung the space, filling it with shadows like outreaching fingers. The moon was the only source of illumination back here, but that was a good sign. And maybe the light in the house was also a positive omen. It would give him a place to target.