The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

Twelve years ago, Layla was forced to be Hardy’s bride. That had been her role in the sick little family he had created. Night after night, he’d come to her, demanding his rights as her husband. At first, Layla had screamed. And she must have struggled, because Brooke had heard the crashing around and had treated Layla’s wounds the following day. Her blood had been literally on Brooke’s hands.

After a while, Layla had given up and quit fighting. Her desperate cries had faded into quiet sobs. At the end of the seven months they were held captive, Layla’s voice had been silent in the night.

Brooke buried her face in her hands. Layla didn’t deserve an early death, not after what she’d survived. She’d worked so hard to get through law school. Her dream had been to defend other victims who had given up hope and had nowhere else to turn. Why had she been taken? Why? Brooke dropped her hands. There was no answer. Sometimes, life didn’t make sense.

In a flat voice, she said, “Layla’s dead.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

Sloan didn’t make the mistake of trying to comfort her with a touch or a pat on the shoulder or a hug. He kept his distance. Smart man. She could already feel her grief transforming into anger, and she might lash out at whatever or whoever was in her path. “I should call the sheriff.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Give me directions to the cabin or an address so I can contact the authorities and the ambulance.”

She wrote the information on a sticky note. Her fingers trembled, but she took care to make her penmanship legible. “We don’t have a spare key hidden at the cabin, and the windows are secure. Still, I’d appreciate if they don’t break down the door.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

He stepped away from the desk but didn’t leave the office. Hovering in the doorway, he kept an eye on her. His voice was a smooth murmur as he made phone calls. She overheard him tell someone to treat the cabin like a crime scene.

The image on the computer screen wavered before her eyes, and she forced herself to inhale a steadying breath before she made a promise to Layla Tierney. “You will have justice, my sister. I will find the 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 seemed to be a careful driver but had been talking on his hands-free phone the whole time they were in his SUV. He’d plugged the address for the cabin into his GPS and was relying on the dashboard information for directions rather than asking her. He probably thought he was being efficient. But he wasn’t. If asked, she could have directed him to a shortcut that would have avoided the usual slowdown on Sixth.

Sloan ended his call and looked toward her. “I’ve asked Agent Gimbel to meet us at the cabin.”

“Smart move.” Not only had Agent Gimbel studied their case, but she’d be glad to see him. The older man was a reassuring presence.

“I have one more call.”

“Take your time.”

Brooke would have preferred being in charge. She never enjoyed riding in the passenger seat, but she forced herself to lean back and let the air-conditioning wash over her while she kept her mouth shut. When Sloan took a sharp left turn, she pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out her criticism of his momentarily inattentive driving. She closed her eyes.

Relaxation was impossible. The inside of her head filled with the image of Layla from the computer. Brooke popped her eyes open and blinked hard, hating that high-definition memory. Why can’t I just forget?

Being too smart was a curse. She’d rather be blissfully dumb. But not really. She appreciated her intelligence. The secret was how to use it. Recalling what Sloan had said about details that might be clues, Brooke purposely brought back the vision.

Except for the garish pink lipstick, Layla hadn’t seemed to be wearing much makeup, which was her preference. She seldom bothered with mascara and foundation, preferring a clean face and frequently washed hands. Her personal hygiene habits were even more compulsive than Brooke’s. Had the person who murdered Layla known about that trait? Had he made sure that her hair was freshly washed? Her hands clean? Was he someone who knew her well? Or was he a stalker who had watched her for a long time?

She needed a profile of the killer. Supposedly, that branch of psychology was within the realm of Sloan’s expertise. “We need to get started,” she said, interrupting his phone call.

He excused himself to the person on the phone and looked at her. “Started with what?”

“The profile,” she said. “I want a basis to work from.”

Finally, the SUV hit a path of smooth, unobstructed highway as they approached the foothills. At the end of an arid summer, the vegetation was dull as dirt. He ended his phone call and said, “A profile isn’t guaranteed to be accurate. It provides broad parameters of personality type and behavior.”

“A parameter is just fine. Like I said, I want the profile as a basis—a starting point for the investigation.”

“You can help me.” He shot her a quick glance. “I can’t pull a detailed profile out of my back pocket. I can start with gathering more information about Layla.”

“Like what?” She gestured for him to speed it up. “Ask me questions.”

“From reading Gimbel’s files, I know that she was an orphan with no family ties.”

“Like me.” The demographic was the same. They were both orphans, but Layla’s life was far more complicated. Her parents were both addicts who died together in a car accident when Layla was five or six years old. Brooke had been abandoned at birth—wrapped in a cheap blanket and left outside a fire station. “We both had lousy upbringings but were doing okay until we got kidnapped by a psycho. Move along.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The gentleness of his voice surprised her. She hadn’t expected sympathy or empathy or whatever this was. Her shields went up. “We’re going to be at the cabin in twenty-five minutes or less. What else do you need to know?”

“Tell me about Layla’s social life. Was she a party girl? Did she have a lot of boyfriends or only one special guy?”

“Parties and clubs weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink or do drugs. Two years ago, there was a guy in law school that she got serious about, but nobody recently.”

“Online dating?”

“Never.” Like her, Layla was protective of her privacy. “I don’t understand all these questions about her. Shouldn’t your profile focus on the murderer?”

“The victim comes first. Understanding why the killer attacked her can help in building a profile.” Following the GPS directions, he made a right turn onto a secondary road that went deeper into the pine forests. “It might seem obvious to you that Layla’s murder is tied to the abductions twelve years ago, but the scope of an investigation is widespread. She might have been targeted by someone she knew at school.”

“Then why would they put on that lipstick or the wedding ring?”

“The quick answer is that they were interested in her history and looked up the details on the computer, but there are many other possibilities.”

“You’re being thorough.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded in approval. “I’ll make a list of the men Layla dated in the past couple of years. And another list of professional contacts—people she’s worked for, schoolmates, professors and mentors.”

“Also doctors, therapists and your attorney,” he said. “It’d help if you put it on a thumb drive so we can build a database.”

“All those guys are suspects?”

“Most will be quickly eliminated, but it helps to cover all bases.”

“You can turn off the GPS,” she said. “We’re here.”

The cabin that she and Layla had purchased for their private hideaway perched among the trees on the side of a steep hill. The main road ascended the incline, and her driveway peeled off, cutting straight across the hill, forty-seven yards to her cabin. Several official-looking vehicles, including an ambulance, had gathered at the start of the asphalt driveway but hadn’t driven up to the house.

She looked toward the house, where she counted two men in sheriff’s uniforms and one in a suit like Sloan. “Why didn’t they drive closer?”

“They didn’t want to disturb possible tire tracks or footprints.”

The driveway was mostly asphalt, but there was dirt on either side. Again, she was impressed by the methodical approach used by law enforcement. She unfastened her seat belt and inhaled what she hoped would be a calming breath. In moments, the image on the computer screen would become real. She would see Layla’s motionless form. The only other dead bodies she’d seen had been neatly tucked away in coffins at funerals or displayed scientifically as cadavers when she took an anatomy course.

“You need to stay in the car,” Sloan said.

She felt a glimmer of relief. She wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but she would rather picture her friend laughing or picking flowers or reading a book. It had taken a long time to partially bury her memories of Layla after her nights as Hardy’s “bride.” The thought of her death was worse.

Still, Brooke couldn’t back down. “If you didn’t want my help in your investigation, why did you bring me along?”

“I didn’t want you to race up here, half-cocked and looking for trouble.”

An unfair characterization if she’d ever heard one. “I’m never half-cocked.”

From her fanny pack, she heard the buzz of her cell phone indicating a text message. While engaged in conversation with another person, she usually ignored texts. But she was worried about Franny.

She checked the message and read it twice: Settle down, Brooke, or you’ll be next.

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