The Girl Who Couldn't Forget. Cassie Miles
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bastard who did this to you, and I will make him pay.”
Adrenaline surged through her veins. A wake-up call. This sensation was unlike her panic attacks or the nervous tension that sapped her energy and left her paralyzed. She felt powerful, strong and filled with purpose. There was nothing more she could do for Layla, but she’d make sure the killer was caught and no one else came to harm.
With a few keystrokes, she exited the computer connection to the cabin. If Franny came in here and stumbled across the image of their dead friend, she’d be devastated. Brooke rose from behind her desk and confronted Sloan when he ended his call.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“Please sit, Brooke. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Still standing, she said, “We should get going.”
“You tried to reach Layla at the cabin yesterday. What time?”
“It was after Franny and I left her apartment—between four thirty and four forty-five. The cabin was empty.”
“And today?”
“It was three hours ago, before I made lunch. One of the twins contacted me, and I told her I’d check again.” At the time, she hadn’t been worried. Over the years, she’d grown complacent, believing all of them were safe and could lead relatively normal lives. Clearly, a mistake. “This was my fault. If I’d gone to the cabin this morning, I could have prevented Layla’s murder.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Based on the time I contacted her, she must have been killed during the three-hour window between eleven thirty and right now.”
“I advise against making assumptions,” he said in a firm voice that was both aggravating and authoritative. “Until we investigate and have evidence, we can’t draw conclusions.”
“But it’s obvious.”
“Think about it, Brooke.” Rather than handling her with kid gloves, he seemed to be using a direct approach. “Did you see signs of violence in the cabin?”
She appreciated his candor. “There wouldn’t be blood spatters if she was strangled.”
“But she would have struggled,” he said. “I see no defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No bruises or scratches. We don’t know what happened. Or when. To determine the time of death, we need a coroner’s report.”
“You’re right.”
“She might have died elsewhere and been transported to the cabin.”
Brooke was ashamed that she hadn’t considered all those possibilities. Where was her brain? Her intelligence seemed to have deserted her at a moment when she needed to calm down and concentrate. Sloan was right when he told her not to base her thinking on unfounded suppositions, which was precisely why she needed to go to the crime scene and gather information. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Layla?”
“I can check my phone records, but I think it was four days ago, on Monday. She’d made an appointment to look at a property she might lease as an office and wanted me to come.” Brooke sat behind her desk, brought up her digital calendar and pointed to the notation. “See, right there. It was supposed to be tomorrow at ten in the morning. I should call and cancel.”
Verifying a meeting with a property manager seemed trivial, but Brooke knew she’d make that call before the day was over. She was compelled to take care of details. Life went on even when Layla was dead. Oh, God, this was so unfair. Tears threatened, and she tossed her head, shaking them away. “I’m ready. We should go now.”
“I can’t take you with me, Brooke. Bringing a witness to a crime scene is against the rules.”
The clever man already knew her well enough to present the argument that would be most persuasive. He was aware that she hated to disobey normal conventions. But her need to avenge her friend surpassed her habit of coloring inside the lines. She had to convince him.
“Lipstick,” she said.
“What about lipstick?”
“Layla is wearing a particular color—Rosy Posey—that Hardy liked. She’d never choose that disgusting pinkness for herself. And the shiny, narrow wedding band is almost a perfect match for the one that Hardy forced her to wear.” She could be straightforward, too. “I know more about Layla and the things that happened to us than anyone else. You need me. I can be a valuable asset in your investigation.”
“And I’ll review my findings with you. But you should stay here, where you’re safe. It might be best for you and Franny and the others to go into protective custody.”
“I won’t object if you arrange for a patrol car to park outside and keep an eye on Franny.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’m going to the cabin. Either I can ride with you or I’ll drive myself.” She took a small key from the rectangular wooden pencil box on her desktop, unlocked the lower right drawer and took out her Glock 42 handgun in its holster. “Your choice, Sloan.”
He approached her desk and stopped when he was close enough to reach out and snatch the weapon from her hand. “Do you have the necessary registration and permits?”
“I take the ownership of a weapon seriously,” she said. “Not only have I gone through the certification and qualified as expert in marksmanship, but I have a shooting range in the basement for target practice.”
His eyebrows lifted, and his gray eyes widened. “In the basement?”
“Soundproofed, of course.” She’d managed to surprise him, and that pleased her.
“You don’t need a gun,” he said. “When we get to the cabin, there’ll be several armed officers.”
“When we get there...” She parroted his words, underlining his implied acceptance. He had almost agreed to bring her along. “I promise that I won’t get in the way.”
“Why does it feel like you tricked me?”
Before he changed his mind, she wanted to get him out the door and into the car. Quickly, she slipped into her espadrilles under the desk. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“Leave the weapon here.”
She weighed the alternatives. The gun made her feel safer, but she wanted Sloan on her side. Pushing him too hard might be a mistake. She returned the Glock to her desk drawer, locked it and grabbed her handy-dandy, all-purpose black fanny pack. “Do you have a problem with this?”
“Not if you keep your pepper spray in the holster.”
After he called in a police car to guard the front door and she dashed upstairs to tell Franny to stay put, they were on their way.
* * *
FROM THE STREET in front of Brooke’s house to the cabin was a drive that took seventy minutes, more or less. This afternoon would be more. Traffic snarls, detours and bumper-to-bumper jam-ups slowed their progress. Though impatient, Brooke was grateful for the extra time to figure out exactly what she was doing.
Her first instinct had been to launch herself into the investigation, even though she knew for a fact that impulsive actions were often regrettable. She’d be wise to trust the police and the FBI. After all, it was their job to nab murderers. Sloan would probably be the officer in charge, and he seemed competent.
She studied his profile as he drove. His firm jaw hinted at a determined attitude, and she hoped that trait held true, that he was unstoppable and wouldn’t rest until he caught his man. But she knew better than to count on his physiognomy to understand his character. Hadn’t the notorious serial killer Ted Bundy been an attractive man? She didn’t know Sloan well enough to trust him.
He