Not One of Us Read online

  “No. That period of my life is nothing but a blur. Thank God. Why are you so interested? Am I in some kind of trouble after all these years?”

  “Not at all. I’m, uh, a friend of the family who adopted your child.” I rose quickly—there was nothing more to be gained interrogating the woman. “Thank you for your time. I don’t want to keep you from your meeting.”

  I tried to sweep past, but she grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and held on with a surprising firmness. “And Jackson? He’s all right?” A smile lit her eyes. “Does he want to meet me after all these years?”

  “No, I didn’t come to arrange a meeting.”

  Hope washed out of her body in a whoosh, and her shoulders slumped.

  My words were true enough. But I had to leave Grace with something, some small measure of comfort. I wouldn’t be the one responsible for destroying her recovery. Let her live in her respectable little house, attend her AA meetings, and keep the illusion that her son was living a good life.

  I extracted myself from her grip. “Thanks for your time, Grace. Your son was raised by a family who loved him well. I’m sure you made the right choice.”

  Chapter 7

  TEGAN

  “Hey, rookie. Surprised you’re late for work today. How’s your big case going?” Deputy Mullins greeted me with a sardonic grin as I entered the station. Deputies Sinclair and Haywood looked up from the paperwork on their desks.

  “Got it solved yet?” Haywood asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.

  Sinclair had to chime in with his two cents. “Heard you were looking a little green around the gills the other day.”

  “Screw y’all,” I answered cheerily, heading to the coffeepot and pouring a cup. This morning had been a disaster with the twins. Linsey had overslept, and in the rush to eat breakfast and catch the bus, Luke had knocked over an entire carton of orange juice. The kids had tried to help mop up the mess and missed the bus . . . which meant I’d had to drive them to school and get caught up in the mommy lane drop-off for twenty minutes.

  “You need any help with the case?” Mullins asked, openly smirking.

  “I’ll let you know if I do.” I opened a pack of Splenda and stirred my brew. I spared a brief, longing glance at the croissants someone had brought in. These days, I didn’t allow myself real sugar or high-carb pastries. Sometimes I wondered if being slim was worth it. I sipped the coffee as I sat at my desk. About the only good thing I could say was that it was hot and strong. After a restless night thinking about the murder, it was exactly what I needed. Mug in hand, I sat at my desk and logged in.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Tommy Sims killed Strickland,” Mullins said. “Man’s nothing but a hothead. We’ve arrested him half a dozen times over the years for assault and battery.”

  I certainly had no lost love for Sims, but I couldn’t picture him shooting a man in the back of the head as he lay asleep in bed. That was much too premeditated. If Sims ever crossed a line, it would be while in a fistfight that escalated his anger to a white-hot rage. And his weapon would be his hands, not a gun.

  My computer screen lit up, and I opened my email, scanning to see if anything needed an immediate response. Nothing pressing there, nor was there anything on my calendar. Excellent. I wanted to review the notes on the interviews with Tommy and his pals and make a plan of attack. I scribbled a few notes and guzzled more coffee.

  “I almost forgot,” Haywood said in a way-too-casual voice. “Oliver asked to see you immediately when you got in.”

  I practically spat out the coffee in my mouth. “Thanks a lot, guys. You could have told me that ten minutes ago.” I grabbed a notebook, pen, and coffee cup and hurried to the door, sloshing hot liquid down the front of my uniform pants. Terrific. The snickers followed me down the hallway.

  I knocked on Oliver’s door and entered. He was writing on a whiteboard and didn’t bother turning around. “Sorry I’m late . . . rough morning,” I began. “The kids—”

  He raised an arm and brushed away my explanation. “Not important.” Oliver moved to the side of the board, and I read the timeline he’d been working on. He pointed at the first line with a black dry-erase pen and read his scribbles aloud. “One. On April 13, 1991, sixteen-year-old Jackson Ensley was shot in the back of the head after attending a late-night party. His friend Raymond Strickland was arrested the next day and charged with murder. According to the prosecution, the motive in the killing was a dispute over a drug transaction.

  “Two. Strickland is released from prison on parole February 8, 2019. He returns home to attend his mother’s funeral and is killed on April 19 in the same method in which Ensley was murdered.

  “Three. The coroner estimated the time of death to be anytime between ten and eleven thirty p.m. Victim was last seen at approximately ten fifteen on Friday night, when, according to his neighbor, Reba Tankersley, Strickland arrived at his house.

  “Now moving on to possible suspects—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupted. After walking up to the whiteboard, I picked up a spare dry-erase pen on the easel and drew an arrow between the first and second points he’d outlined. “Let’s make an addition between one and two.” I drew an asterisk, labeled it “1.5,” and wrote, May 19, 2006, all three members of the Cormier household are reported missing.

  Oliver frowned. “The Cormier case has no bearing on the Strickland murder.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “But we should keep it in mind, since Strickland made a reference to people disappearing in the bayou. It’s one of the last things he said to one of the last people who saw him alive that night. You probably don’t know since you’re not from around here, but Louis Cormier was widely suspected by townsfolk of being involved in shady business like money laundering for drug traffickers. And since Strickland was a known drug dealer, maybe their paths crossed over the years or they associated with the same underworld criminals.”

  “Don’t let the Cormier case sidetrack you,” he warned. “We need to focus on the most obvious suspects first.”

  “Of course.” Warmth blossomed on my neck. Had I overstepped work boundaries by adding to my boss’s outline? After all, this was my first murder case, and Oliver had solved many while working in Mobile. I sat back down and dutifully made arrangements to interview the bouncer at the Pavilion and check on the details of Letitia Strickland’s will while Oliver would continue digging around to explore a possible drug connection to the crime. I had to admit that the drug angle made sense. Strickland had been a known dealer in his youth and had hinted to Jori Trahern that he was working on closing up some kind of deal before he left town.

  Oliver ran a hand through his white, unruly hair and sighed. “Would’ve helped if Strickland’s cell phone hadn’t gone missing. We could’ve traced his calls for possible leads.”

  “The killer’s got it. Has to.” I scanned through the most recent investigation notes, hoping that the phone records would reveal something of interest. We’d received the records quickly, thanks to Oliver’s connections. He had a mountain of sources everywhere after working in the field for so long. But the record only confirmed the phone’s last location. “The GPS showed it was last active on his street at 10:18 p.m., April 19.”

  “Yep. Our killer disabled it. The phone’s probably at the bottom of some swamp out here.”

  We sat in gloomy silence for a moment.

  “Any fingerprints or other forensic evidence?” I asked.

  “Haven’t heard anything yet from the team. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. Let’s get cracking.”

  “Yes, sir.” I took my leave, eager to resume my investigation. In the hallway, I paused, listening to the familiar muffled sound of computer keyboards and ringing phones behind closed office doors and muted voices from the lobby. What would it hurt to take a look at the old Cormier case files?

  Impulsively, I turned right instead of left and walked the opposite way from the office I shared with the other deputies. One quick glance over my sh
oulder assured me no one else was around. I opened the door leading to the stairwell and headed to the basement, where old files were archived.

  Ginger Ledbetter sat at her battered desk, flipping through a magazine. She hurriedly slipped it under a mountain of paperwork as I approached. “Morning, Tegan. What brings you down here?”

  Ginger had worked at the sheriff’s office longer than anyone else and was deliberately informal when it came to addressing employees. As far as Ginger was concerned, she was the ultimate ruler down here in the basement, the potentate of old records.

  “Morning.” I found myself shifting on my feet uncomfortably. “I’d like to check out a file.”

  “Which one?” she asked, steepling her fingers together and peering at me through her bifocals.

  “The Cormier case.”

  Her eyes widened, and then she snorted in amusement. “Haven’t you got enough on your plate with the Strickland murder? Why you wanna look at the Cormier file?”

  Technically, it was none of her business. Why couldn’t the woman just hand it over without the attitude? I didn’t have to answer her question, but I wasn’t stupid. If I pulled the superior position card, Ginger would hassle me at every opportunity I needed to research old files. I pasted on a smile.

  “Never know where there might be connections in different cases,” I said breezily. “Is it on microfiche?”

  “Yep.”

  My heart sank. I didn’t have time to sit around in the basement reading on the microfiche machine.

  “But I also have it digitally scanned,” Ginger added, a smug smile spreading across her plump face. “You think you’re the first deputy to ever request this file? It’d be a real feather in your cap if you could solve that old case. Every deputy working here for the last thirteen years has read up on the case, so why not you?”

  She turned away from me and typed on her keyboard. After a minute, she swirled back to face me. “There. I sent it to your email. It’s a huge file. Might take a few minutes to load.”

  “Thank you.” My smile was genuine this time.

  “You might not thank me when you get it,” she warned. “That file’s monstrous. Over the years, seems like every citizen in the county has called in with a theory or thinks they’ve spotted one of them. Course, none of it ever panned out. It’s all duly noted in the records.”

  I hadn’t expected this to be easy, but my eagerness to rake through the material plummeted like a rock sinking in water. “Is the file searchable by keyword?” I asked hopefully.

  “Nope.” She laughed. “Good luck, kiddo. Don’t expect you’ll have any more luck with this case than the dozens who’ve looked at the file before you.”

  Her words pinged around inside my brain, mocking my enthusiasm as I trudged back up the stairs. As I reached the landing, I drew a deep breath and squared my shoulders. What I might lack in experience, I’d make up for with hard work. If there was any connection between Ray Strickland and the Cormiers, I would find it.

  Chapter 8

  JORI

  A frisson of unease shivered down my spine as I entered my bedroom, an unsettling deep in my gut that was out of place with the ordinary routine of my day. After speaking with Grace Fairhope yesterday, I’d returned home to an uneventful evening, and this morning had been no different. After Zach was at his day program, I’d spent a couple of hours running errands around town with Mimi and then taken a long walk in the woods. Mimi was in the kitchen now, and Zach was home. Pots and pans rattled as she began to prepare a gumbo that would simmer until suppertime.

  I cocked my head to the side, trying to understand why the fine hairs on the nape of my neck had risen. At first glance, all was in place. The modest room, with its scuffed but clean wooden floors, slightly battered furniture, and an oil lamp on the dresser, had a shabby-chic vibe that was cozy and warm. A small rolltop desk, where I used to do all my schoolwork, was shoved into one corner. Growing up, I’d pretty much regarded my room as shabby and not at all chic, but as an adult, I saw it had a retro charm that some people now paid a hefty price to emulate.

  My quilted bedspread was smooth and unruffled. The book I’d been reading was where I’d left it on my nightstand. My gaze swung to the dresser, but the lace doily, jewelry box, and perfume bottles were in the same spots, if slightly askew. Still, I couldn’t shake the sensation that someone had been in my room. There was a faint but definite musk in the air that hadn’t been there when I’d dressed this morning.

  I looked around the room, noticing that my closet door stood open and all the hanging clothes had been pushed to one side. That had not been my doing. I always kept the closet shut and my clothes tidy. I walked over and saw that the boxes of photos, journals, and old board games I kept on the top shelf had been knocked to the floor.

  Who’d been rifling through my stuff? Zach had no interest in my old junk. He never came in my room and didn’t tolerate anyone entering his bedroom, either, unless invited. Mimi had never been one to come in my room. Ever since junior high, I’d been responsible for cleaning my space and doing my laundry.

  I bent down and picked up scattered Monopoly money and stacks of spilled photographs, intent on tidying the mess. But I paused at the sight of my old notebooks and journals, which lay open as though someone had been reading them.

  Why? Who would care about the journals of a teenage girl? It was hardly gripping reading material. Thank God I’d torn out and burned the section chronicling my last semester of school before leaving the bayou to strike out on my own. Tonight, I’d burn what was left of these journals. The idea of someone violating my privacy made my skin crawl.

  I picked up a couple of notebooks and flipped through them. Random pages had been torn out. I began separating the journals from the rest of the other junk on the floor, but I stopped short when my hands brushed against something sticky. I held up my hands and gasped at the brownish liquid coating my fingers. What the hell? I scrambled backward and then kicked at the pile with my foot.

  A tiny snake, no longer than four inches, was slit down the middle, its organs sagging out of its body. It was skewered onto a cardboard chessboard with a bent safety pin. A single dried flower petal and a note were pinned to its dissected, ruined body. Trembling, I bent back down to read the block letters written in all caps: LET DEAD DOGS LIE.

  Bile rose in my throat, and I jumped backward again, staring at the words in disbelief. Who would do such a thing? Why would they do it?

  Let dead dogs lie. The only possible explanation was that someone had not liked my speaking with Jackson’s mother yesterday, but I hadn’t told anyone about the visit. Not even Mimi, who would have disapproved of my digging around the past.

  And what was up with the flower? I had a sneaking suspicion that the petal had been torn from the pressed corsage Deacon would have pinned to my prom dress if he hadn’t disappeared. I hurried to my jewelry box, where I kept the treasured memento.

  The rose had been crushed into desiccated shreds.

  Tears stung my eyes, and I raked through the ruins. Had anything else been destroyed or gone missing? It wasn’t as though I had anything valuable in this childhood jewelry box. It was only the size of a book, wrapped in lavender satin with a ballerina on top. The brass key on the side wound up, and she spun en pointe in her pink tutu. The box was so old and worn that the music played warped and out of tune. It had been from my mom the Christmas when I was nine. Inside, my small childhood treasures were still there—a pin from Bayou Enigma First Methodist Church for perfect attendance one year; a few tumbled stones from a visit to Rock City, Tennessee, when I was twelve; an empty sample tube of Avon frosted-pink lipstick I used to sneak-wear in junior high after my mom had forbidden me to use makeup; and a cheap bracelet from elementary school with rusted charms.

  The dried corsage had been the last treasure I ever stored in the box. It had seemed a fitting resting place for the posy that symbolized the death of my first love and of my childhood.

  Anger se
eped into my emotions of fear and shock. How dare someone come into my bedroom, go through my private things, and destroy my property? Was it someone I knew? Someone I trusted?

  It had to be. Who else would even know I had old journals and keepsakes? Unless the intruder had browsed and stumbled upon my private mementos while delivering his threat.

  I marched out of my room and into the kitchen. Mimi was humming as she tossed okra and onions into a sizzling cast-iron pan. She glanced up from her work. “Want to chop up the garlic for me?” she asked. Her gaze narrowed, and she held the knife poised in the air. “Something wrong?”

  “Have you been in my room today?” I asked in a hard, flat voice.

  Humph. Her chin lifted, and she began to chop a garlic clove. “No, I have not, missy. What’s with that tone?”

  “Has anyone else been in the house today?”

  “Only Rose. Why?”

  “Someone came in my room and tore up my stuff.”

  The knife hovered over the cutting board. “Zach never goes in your room.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  Mimi dropped the knife on the counter and hastily wiped her hands on her apron. She walked toward me, her face a ghastly gray color. “What stuff?”

  “Nothing of value, just sentimental things. My journals and other private items.”

  Her face turned a shade grayer. I was a little surprised she hadn’t brushed off my complaint, claiming that I must be imagining the entire thing.

  She followed me to my room, and I pointed at the mess on the bottom of the closet. “They went through here and tore pages out of my journal. They also opened my jewelry box and destroyed some dried flowers. But the worst—”

  Mimi bent over for a closer look. Before I could warn her about the bloody carcass, she let out a shriek. “Oh, my God. A dead snake.”

  “Not only that. It’s sliced down the middle and has a note jabbed in its body.”

  Her eyes widened, and a hand went to her throat. Her voice came out in a guttural croak. “What does it say?”