*The Sinclair Brothers

*The Sinclair Brothers

“Jodie?”

Harrison spoke quietly, but there was a steel edge to his voice, and she turned to face him again, her breath catching as she met his eyes. Eyes that looked deep into hers and seemed to see all the secrets she tried hard to keep hidden. The insecurity. The fear. The feeling she’d gotten on the wrong path.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Whatever you know, whatever you’re hiding, you’re going to have to tell me eventually.”

“Maybe, but not today.” Not a lie, but not quite the truth either. Telling Harrison would mean admitting that she was scared. More scared than she’d been in a long time.

Harrison stared her down for a moment, his eyes searching her face. “Fair enough, but you may as well know that there are very few secrets the dead can hide from me. I’m not too shabby about getting the truth from the living either. If what’s bothering you has something to do with this case, you won’t be able to keep it from me for long.”

WITHOUT A TRACE: Will a young mother’s disappearance bring a bayou town together…or tear it apart?

What Sarah Saw—Margaret Daley, January 2009

Framed!—Robin Caroll, February 2009

Cold Case Murder—Shirlee McCoy, March 2009

A Cloud of Suspicion—Patricia Davids, April 2009

Deadly Competition—Roxanne Rustand, May 2009

Her Last Chance—Terri Reed, June 2009

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SHIRLEE MCCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Washington State and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

Cold Case Murder
Shirlee McCoy

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Shirlee McCoy for her contribution to the Without a Trace miniseries.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.

—Galatians 5:1

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

New Orleans, Louisiana

FBI Headquarters, Missing Persons Unit

At night, if she dreamed at all, Jodie Gilmore dreamed of Loomis, Louisiana—the thick, ugly scent of the swamp in summer heat, the shadowy gloom of stately manor homes gone to ruin, the tension that shrouded the little town. There were secrets there. And demons. Not the made-up kind. The real-life, haunt-you-forever kind. The kind that came from loss and heartache and loneliness. It didn’t matter that she’d left town the day she’d turned eighteen or that ten years had passed since then, Jodie still shuddered every time she thought of the place. The day she had gotten into her beat-up Mustang and headed for wherever the road would take her, she promised she’d never return.

It seemed she was about to break that promise.

“Well? What are your thoughts?” Miles Jordan’s voice held a note of impatience, and Jodie scanned the contents of the missing person’s file for the second time since she’d walked into her supervisor’s office, hoping that this time the words would stick.

Leah Farley. Twenty-eight. Widowed mother of a three-year-old girl. Went missing two weeks after her husband was found dead. Last seen in Loomis, Louisiana.

Jodie set the file down and met her supervisor’s emotionless gray eyes. “It looks pretty straightforward. The woman killed her husband, tried to make it look like a suicide and ran when the investigation revealed the truth.”

“Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions, Agent Gilmore. As the file indicates, Leah Farley’s shoe was found on the grounds of a house out by the swamplands near a boarded-up tunnel on the porch of a house that once served as part of the Underground Railroad. There was blood on it.”

Jodie didn’t ask what house. She didn’t need to. She knew. Just as she knew every nook and cranny of the town she’d grown up in. What she didn’t know was why her mother had run from it twenty-five years ago. “The blood is probably her husband’s.”

“Like I said, let’s not jump to conclusions.” Miles steepled his fingers beneath his chin and eyed her from across the table. “There’s been a lot going on in Loomis. A couple of murders, an attempted kidnapping. The local PD is investigating, and we’re working in conjunction with them, assuming the incidents aren’t simply a succession of unrelated crimes.”

“Sam Pierce is the lead on this?”

“Right. He’s feeling like the locals would be more comfortable with someone they know. Maybe with you there, they’ll open up and talk a little more.”

“People in Loomis don’t talk. Not even to each other.” The words escaped, and Miles’s lips tightened into a hard line.

“Agent Gilmore, your assignment is to work as liaison between our team and the people of Loomis. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not, sir.” Only six months into her FBI career and still on probation, Jodie couldn’t afford to get a reputation for balking at assignments. Not when she’d worked so hard to get where she was.

“Good. Go home. Pack your things and head out.”

“Now?” That was a million years too soon.

“Yes. Good luck, agent.” His curt nod was a dismissal Jodie couldn’t ignore, and she stepped blindly out the office door. The die had been cast. The decision made. There was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She was going back to Loomis whether she liked it or not.

And she didn’t like it.

She didn’t like it at all.

ONE

Loomis, Louisiana

Early March

Even with the windows of her car rolled up, Jodie could smell the bayou. Heavy moist air with a bite of decay to it. Not as bad as it got in the heat of the summer but bad enough to make her nose wrinkle. Or maybe it was disgust that was doing that. There were plenty of places she’d imagined the FBI might send her, but back to Loomis wasn’t one of them. Here she was, returning to the one place she’d been determined never to visit again.

She turned onto a narrow dirt driveway that wound uphill and away from the bayou, braking lightly as she neared a neglected farmhouse that stood in the center of an overgrown clearing near the swamp. Abandoned decades ago, it had been vacant for more years than Jodie had been alive. A tunnel dug beneath the house led to a room that had once served as a stop on the Underground Railroad. Later it had served other, less altruistic purposes—as a storage place for moonshine during prohibition, a drug den for hippies in the sixties. Eventually, the town council voted to have the tunnel and the house boarded up.

What the missing woman, Leah Farley, had been doing there, Jodie didn’t know. She planned to find out, though. And quickly. The sooner she helped Sam Pierce solve the case, the sooner she could wipe the Loomis dirt off her feet and get back to her life.

Rain drizzled from the sky as Jodie climbed out of her car and started across the yard. Despite her misgivings about being back in Loomis, anticipation hummed through her. Working for the FBI had been her dream for as long as she could remember. Solving cases, putting bad guys behind bars, was what she was meant to do. Even if she had to do it in Loomis.

“Agent Gilmore, glad you could make it to the party.” A tall, dark-haired man she recognized stepped out onto the porch, and Jodie smiled a greeting as she picked her way up dry-rotted porch stairs.

“It’s good to be included, Agent Pierce.”

“How about I call you Jodie and you call me Sam? It’ll make things easier.” He smiled, and Jodie could see why so many women in the New Orleans office had set their sights on the handsome agent. Recently, rumors had been circulating that he’d gotten engaged to a child psychologist in Loomis. True or not, it wasn’t any of Jodie’s concern. She didn’t waste time on men and relationships. Not anymore.

“Whatever you say, Sam. Did you find anything in the house?”

“We did.”

“Leah Farley?”

“No. And no evidence that she’s been inside.”

“So what did you find?” Curious, Jodie followed Sam into the musty foyer, her mind racing with possibilities. Ransom note. Clothing. Forensic evidence. Any of those could help bring the case to a successful end.

“We found two bodies.”

“Two bodies?” She glanced around the dust-covered foyer, half expecting to see the remains lying nearby.

“Skeletons, to be more accurate. They’re in a hidden room down in the basement. They’ve been there for a while. Decades probably.”

“Did they have identification?”

“Not that we could see, but the sheriff agreed not to let anyone touch the remains yet. I’ve got a man coming in from New Orleans to do that. A forensic anthropologist.”

“When will he get here?”

“Shouldn’t be long. I called him an hour ago.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at the scene while we wait?” Now that she was in Loomis, Jodie wanted out of it. Waiting for someone to come along and help make that happen didn’t work for her.

“Sure. It’s this way.”

Half-rotted boards creaked beneath her feet as Jodie followed Sam into the basement. The sound shivered along her spine, reminding her of all the stories she’d heard about the house when she was a kid, stories about spooks and haunts and things that went bump in the night. Jodie had always known them for what they were—a perfect way to keep kids from exploring a house that might not be structurally sound. Still, she had to admit the place was creepy, its shadowy corners concealing more than they revealed.

“Careful on these stairs, Jodie. Some of them are completely rotted through.” Sam led her into a basement lit by electric torches and gestured to a hole in the far wall. “There’s the tunnel. There were boards covering it, but it looked like they’d been taken down and replaced quickly. We’ve already got them tagged as evidence.”

Several uniformed officers were standing in the room, none of them familiar to Jodie. She had to admit she was relieved. Eventually she’d have to face people from her past, but she’d rather it be later than sooner.

She crossed the room and surveyed the opening. Five feet high. Maybe three feet wide. “It would be a tight squeeze for someone carrying a body.”

“But not so tight it would be impossible. Especially not if the body was being dragged. After so long, there isn’t evidence to indicate that’s what happened, but we can’t say it didn’t, either. Hopefully Cahill will shed some light on things.”

“Cahill?”

“The forensic anthropologist I told you about. He’ll recreate the scene based on what he finds, then work to identify our victims. Come on in, but watch your head.” He stooped down and walked into the tunnel.

Jodie borrowed a flashlight one of the officers offered and followed. “Our victims? Isn’t the case a local matter?”

“It should be, but since we were in here following up on the Leah Farley case, the sheriff asked if we’d be willing to help with victim identification. I agreed.”

“Who’s the sheriff around here now?” She hoped not the same one who’d been sheriff when Jodie was growing up.

“Bradford Reed.”

Of course it was the same sheriff. Otherwise things, would have been a little too comfortable. “I remember him.”

“Good. The Leah Farley case may be connected to the murders that have occurred in town. Getting along with the local PD is imperative.”

Then you shouldn’t have called me in to help.

Jodie didn’t say what she was thinking. There was no way she wanted to explain her teenage years. The subtle rebellions that had, more often than not, gotten her in trouble.

The scent of damp earth filled her nose, and cool, moist air settled on her skin as she stepped into a cavernous room. Her flashlight beam bobbed across a dirt floor littered with years of debris. Cloth. Plastic. A few old bottles. Near the far wall, a pile of rotted clothes lay amidst the other rubble. Even without getting closer, Jodie could make out the subtle shapes of the bones beneath. Two skulls lay side by side in the dirt, smooth and dingy yellow.

She moved closer, doing her best to stay detached and unaffected as she surveyed the remains. Stale air, ripe with the remnant of something putrid and old, filled her lungs. She ignored it, crouching down to get a better look. A fleshless skull stared up at her, its empty eye sockets and grinning teeth a macabre reminder of the life that had once been. The other skull was facedown, a two-centimeter sliver of bone missing from the base. Closer to the top of the skull, the bone was cracked.

“It would take a lot of force to crack a skull like that.” She spoke the thought out loud, wanting to pick the skull up and examine it more closely but knowing she couldn’t.

“A lot of force or a lot of rage.”

“Any sign of the weapon?”

“Nothing. From the looks of the injury, we could be searching for anything. Baseball bat, butt of a gun, a club.”

“Maybe something metal. A pipe?” Jodie responded by rote, her gaze riveted to a pile that lay beside the skulls. It looked as if a rodent had made a nest there, creating it from faded cloth and long strands of fine hair. Blond hair, from the looks of it. Even time and dirt couldn’t quite hide the fact. More tufts of it were visible beneath the facedown skull. These were even easier to identify. Long. Straight.

White-blond?

If so, they were the same color as Jodie’s. The same color her mother’s had been. She shuddered, leaning in a little closer, trying to see more of what remained.

“You’re getting a little close to the remains, ma’am. Maybe you should back up before you disturb something.” The words were gruff and loud, and Jodie whirled toward the speaker, her flashlight illuminating a tall, dark-haired man who stood beside Sam.

“I’m not in the habit of disturbing crime scenes.”

“Good to know.” He strode across the room, his movements as lithe and graceful as a jungle cat’s, his gaze so intense Jodie was tempted to look away.

“I take it you’re the forensic anthropologist.” She stood, careful not to step any closer to the skeletons.

“Harrison Cahill.” His eyes were oddly light in a craggy face, his lips turned down in a scowl.

“Jodie Gilmore.”

“I take it you’re the agent working with Sam? And a fairly new one, right?” He said it almost absently as he moved up beside Jodie, his gaze moving from her to the mounds of cloth and bones.

“Does it matter?”

“I guess we’ll find out.” He met her eyes for a moment, then crouched down next to the skeletons, dismissing her with an abruptness that bordered on rude.

“Don’t mind Cahill. He’s like that with everyone.” Sam moved in close, his voice filled with humor that spoke of familiarity.

“But more so with people who pull me away from big weekend plans,” Harrison complained as he pulled out a digital camera and began taking pictures.

“Big weekend plans?”

“I’ve got six cases I’m working on for the New Orleans police.”

“Then I’m doubly appreciative of your efforts here. Hopefully we can a get quick resolution.” Sam crouched down next to Harrison, and the two men began discussing the remains. Male. Female. Early thirties.

Jodie watched silently, feeling useless. Completely unnecessary. Obviously not needed. The feeling was a bitter echo of the way she’d felt as a child when her father had pursued one woman after another and she’d been left alone, desperate to belong.

She shoved the feeling and the memories aside, refusing to acknowledge them. She was an accomplished professional, not an insecure kid. To prove it, she squatted down next to Sam, watching as Harrison snapped more pictures.

Harrison shot a look in her direction, his eyes telling her to back off.

She ignored him, focusing her attention on the dusty cloth that lay over the skeletons. A blanket of some kind? As the camera flashed, she saw other things. Bits of fabric printed with what might have been tiny flowers. A silver wedding band. The camera flashed again, and Jodie caught sight of something lying near the wall. Half-covered by dirt, the dull piece of metal could have been just about anything but looked like something very familiar.

She trained her light on it, squinting to get a better look. “Is that a bullet?”

Harrison shifted his attention from the scene he was documenting and looked in the direction the female agent’s light was shining.

Jodie, she’d said her name was.

A young-sounding name for a very young-looking woman. Too young. Too inexperienced. Too much invading his space. He liked to take his time when he worked a scene, documenting it slowly, making sure he had a visual record of everything before anything was moved. He did not like people standing over his shoulder, distracting him from his methodical approach. “Looks like it. Now if we can find the weapon that fractured our victims’ skulls, we’ll have an even clearer idea of what went on here.”

“And if we can’t find the weapon?” The woman’s voice was husky rather than sweet, and it didn’t at all match her delicate looks.

“Then we’ll figure out what happened other ways.”

“What—”

“Look.” He lowered his camera and met Jodie’s eyes. “I know you’re new to the job and gung ho to know everything there is to know about everything, but I don’t have the time or patience to explain my methods to you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation of your methods, Mr. Cahill. I was going to ask what I could do to help.” To her credit, she didn’t sound defensive or offended by his blunt comment.

“Call me Harrison. And I appreciate the offer of help, but I prefer to work alone.”

“This case is part of an ongoing investigation, so you’d better get used to having Jodie and me around. Mind if I grab that bullet?” Sam stepped toward the wall where the bullet lay, and Harrison was tempted to tell him that he did mind. He didn’t want anything touched or moved until he was good and ready for it to be. And he wasn’t ready.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one calling the shots. The FBI was paying for him to be here. They’d want to have a say in how things were handled.

“Let me just snap a few more photos. Have you got a weapon you want to try and match it to?”

“No weapon, but we’ve got three other murder victims. Two were hit over the head and then shot.”

“Recently?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it isn’t likely the cases are connected. These two have been here for a long time.” Harrison took the photos and then stepped back, bumping into something warm, soft and most definitely female. He didn’t have to turn around to picture Jodie—white-blond hair, heart-shaped face and wide, sad eyes.

“Sorry about that.” He stepped quietly to the side, inhaling spring rain and summer flowers, his heart jumping in acknowledgment.

If Jodie heard his apology, she didn’t acknowledge it or him. “What caliber is it, Sam?”

“Looks like a nine-millimeter.”

“Does it match the caliber used to kill Dylan Renault and Earl Farley?”

“Yes, but a matching caliber doesn’t mean a matching weapon.” Sam placed the bullet in an evidence bag and moved toward the tunnel that led out of the room. “I’m going to take this out. See if I can get expedited ballistics testing on it. If the weapons are the same, we may be looking at the work of a serial killer.”

“Seems like a long time between victims.” Harrison leaned forward, gently lifting the blanket that covered the remains and folding it into an evidence bag.

“Yeah, it does. But maybe there are other victims we don’t know about.” Sam’s words were grim, and he walked into the tunnel, his footsteps fading away.

Jodie remained in the room, and Harrison braced himself for the questions he was sure she’d ask. Instead of speaking, she watched silently. Harrison could feel her tension mounting as he began the process of cataloging and bagging one bone after another.

Was she upset by the bodies and caught up in imagining the victims’ last moments? It happened sometimes, but not usually at scenes like this.

Finally, he couldn’t ignore it any longer and turned from the tangle of long hair he was examining. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” But her voice trembled, and her hand shook as she brushed a thick strand of hair from her cheek. Blond hair. Similar to what Harrison was bagging. Was Jodie imagining herself lying dead on the ground, or was her reaction simply a case of rookie nerves? Seeing the dead was never an easy thing.

Pointing that out to Jodie wouldn’t do any good. Harrison had worked with enough rookies to know that they’d rather pass out on the evidence than admit they were about to.

He carefully lifted a cervical vertebra, pausing when he caught sight of another bullet. “Do me a favor, will you? I’ve found a second bullet. Can you let Sam know?”

“Have you found the casings?” Whatever nerves she’d been feeling now seemed to have disappeared as she crouched beside him, her shoulder brushing his, the flowery scent he’d noticed earlier drifting around her.

“Not yet. That doesn’t mean they’re not here.”

“I’ll let Sam know.” She stood and moved away, disappearing into the tunnel, her scent still lingering in the room.

The fact that he could still smell it as he bent back over the remains bothered Harrison more than he wanted to admit. It had been two years since Allison had thrown the engagement ring he’d given her across the room and stomped out of the house they’d planned to share after their wedding. One year and three months since she’d eloped with Jamison Bentley—a high-school teacher whose seven-to-four work-days and summers off were exactly what Allison had wanted from Harrison. It was the one thing Harrison hadn’t been able to give her. His job was his passion, his calling. He had no plan to give it up.

Which was why he’d decided to avoid relationships, accept his life as a bachelor and be happy about it. It was also why he shouldn’t be noticing Jodie’s perfume. Or shampoo. Or whatever it was that clung to her skin.

Apparently, the past month had taken more of a toll on Harrison than he’d thought. Two weeks in California working with the FBI to identify remains left by a serial killer. Then back to New Orleans and twelve-hour days getting caught up on work. He needed a vacation. That was the problem.

It had to be, because there was no way Harrison planned to admit that he found a woman intriguing who looked like she was barely out of her teens.

With that firmly in mind, he turned his attention back to the man and woman lying on the ground in front of him. The nameless, faceless dead. He’d find out who they were and make sure their families had the closure they deserved. Nothing—not time, not scanty evidence, not a sweet-smelling distraction—would keep him from doing that.

TWO

Jodie stepped out of the house and into the damp March air, her heart beating in time to her pounding head. She never got headaches in New Orleans, but she’d had them plenty when she’d lived in Loomis. She should have known they’d be back as soon as she set foot in the little town.

Sam was a few yards away, talking to a uniformed officer, and Jodie walked toward them, determined to forget both the headache and the past. If she kept focused, kept moving forward on the case, there’d be no chance of sinking back into what she’d been a decade ago. “Sam? We’ve got another bullet in the tunnel. No casings yet, but Cahill isn’t done collecting the evidence.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get it and send it with the other for ballistics testing, and—”

“You’ll be wasting your time on that, Agent Pierce.” The officer cut in, and Jodie took her first good look at him, her heart sinking when she realized who he was.

Sheriff Bradford Reed. His lined face and faded eyes sparked a memory of another day. Jodie had been cutting school, and he’d found her hanging out behind the library. He’d been neither cruel nor kind, his silent disapproval making Jodie feel worse than her father’s rage had.

“Wasting my time because…?” Sam’s question pulled Jodie from the memory and she blinked, trying to free herself from the past.

“The crimes aren’t related. We’ve got no mass murderer or serial killer or whatever name y’all want to put on it. This is a peaceful town—”

“A peaceful town where several murders have taken place, Sheriff Reed. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the fact.” Sam spoke with quiet conviction, and Jodie wondered if he and the sheriff had been on opposite sides of the fence during the course of the FBI’s investigation into Leah Farley’s disappearance.

“I know what’s going on in my town. I’m just saying that what’s happening now and what happened years ago aren’t related. So there’s no reason to waste time and money checking on those bullets. They’re not going to match what we’ve already got.”

“Maybe they’re not, Sheriff, but it’s our job to find out for sure.” Jodie met the man’s eyes and refused to fidget under his intense scrutiny. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t recognize her.

Of course, she’d never been lucky.

“You’re Jodie Gilmore.”

“That’s right.”

“Been a long time.”

“Ten years.”

“Does your father know you’re back in town?”

“Not yet.”

“Guess you’ll get around to telling him eventually.” He shifted his attention back to Sam, dismissing her as he had when he’d dropped her off at her house so many years before. “Looks like we’re done here. You’ll let me know what your forensic specialist has to say about those bodies?”

“That and whether or not we get a match on the blood on Leah Farley’s shoe.”

“Good. See ya around, then.” The sheriff nodded his head in Jodie’s direction, his eyes dull and lifeless. No motivation. No real need to find answers. If the murderer in his town was going to be found, Jodie had a feeling the sheriff was more than happy to leave the finding to the FBI.

“Sheriff Reed hasn’t changed much.” She spoke as the sheriff got into his car and drove away.

“He’s always been unmotivated?”

“I’d call it indifferent, but I guess it means the same.”

“What it means is that he’d be willing to let these people go unidentified. That’s not acceptable to me.”

“What about the other murders? Is he more motivated to solve them?” Jodie asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

“I think he was hoping for a cut-and-dried case, but the more answers we find, the more questions we have. I’m hoping that with you here, things will move along a little more quickly.”

“You think I can get the answers you need?” His assumption was so far off base, she almost laughed. Not only would she not be able to get people in Loomis to talk, but also they might be more closedmouthed around her. She knew them, after all. Their pasts. Their secrets. Their vulnerabilities.

Just as they knew hers.

“You grew up here, Jodie. They’re going to open up to a local in a way they won’t open up to an outsider.”

Maybe that was true, but in Loomis’s eyes, she was an outsider. She didn’t bother trying to explain. Only someone who had lived in the town could understand. “I’ll do my best to be an asset to the investigation.”

“I’m sure you will.” His tone was serious, but Jodie could see amusement in his eyes.

She’d sounded like a rookie, and she suddenly felt like one. “Just so you know, this isn’t my first case.”

“Just so you know, that’s why I called you in. You’ve got great interrogation skills. Even if this hadn’t been your hometown, I would have wanted you to step in. I’m going to get that bullet. Want to meet me at headquarters later? We can come up with a plan of action there.”

“Headquarters?” The only headquarters she knew of was back in New Orleans, and she’d be perfectly happy to meet him there.

“We’re renting a building on Main Street. It used to be a five-and-dime.”

“I know it.”

“You can go ahead and get settled in wherever you’re going to stay before you head over there. I may be here awhile.” He walked back to the house, and Jodie had no choice but to get in her car and drive away. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She’d already called Loomis Hotel, but all the rooms were booked.

Vera Peel’s boardinghouse was creepy and old, the proprietress stingy and mean, but it might work. Then there was Dad’s. The family home. The place she should have been able to return to no questions asked. She couldn’t. Even if she could have, she wouldn’t. There was nothing for her in the colonial house she’d grown up in but unhappy memories and disappointments.

Which brought her right back to square one. Where would she stay while she was in Loomis?

Rain fell in steady rivulets as Jodie pulled down the long driveway. Twilight painted the landscape in shades of green and gold, making beauty of the bayou’s murky water. In the distance, lights beckoned Jodie toward Loomis. If she hadn’t known the truth about the town, she might have felt a tug of nostalgia as she passed old plantation homes covered with deep green ivy.

She sighed and ran a hand over her flyaway hair. Thick and straight, it was as blond now as it had been when she’d been a kid. She knew a lot of women with similar color hair. Not many of them had been born with it.

Had the woman in the underground room been?

Jodie’s mind flashed back to the tunnel—the long blond hair lying on the floor, the strands as thick and straight as hers. As thick and straight as her mother’s had been.

She shuddered, refusing to let her mind wander further down that path.

She was tired, drained and on edge. Of course she was seeing connections where none existed. A good night’s sleep, a little food, and she’d be more rational. At least she’d better be. She had a job to do, a woman to find. She couldn’t let anything stand in the way of doing that. Not fatigue. Not hunger. Not the memories that haunted her dreams.

Ten years away. She could have gone a hundred more and been happy about it.

She sighed. If she didn’t know better, she’d think being back in Loomis was her punishment for all the Sundays she’d skipped church. Of course, she did know better. God had more important people to work on than Jodie. People who loved Him, sought Him, wanted to know His will.

As for Jodie, she’d spent most of her childhood Sundays sitting in church services that had been filled with sanctimonious people. She didn’t plan to spend any more of them doing the same.

Then again, she was back in Loomis. Who was she to say church wasn’t in her future?

She almost smiled at the thought, imagining her father’s shocked expression if she walked into Loomis Christian Church on Sunday morning. She doubted he’d be happy. As far as Jodie could remember, nothing she’d done had ever met with his approval.

She pulled up in front of the old five-and-dime, parking her car on the street and eyeing the building. A 1940s brick facade with store windows covered by shades, the place had closed when Jodie was a kid and seemed a little worse for wear, the years showing in the faded sign that still hung over the door.

She got out of her car and hurried into the building, not wanting to run into anyone. She needed a cup of coffee and a few minutes alone. Then maybe she’d be ready to face Loomis.

The large space had been set up with several cubicles, each containing a desk and a computer. Jodie bypassed the work area and stepped into a back room that had once been used for storage. Now it contained a long table and a locked file cabinet. A coffee machine sat on a small desk near the wall and Jodie plugged it in, grabbing a foam cup from a stack beside it and waiting impatiently for the coffee to brew.

She sipped the bitter liquid that finally resulted and walked into one of the cubicles, dropping her purse onto the desk and slipping out of her suit jacket. She might as well get to work while she was waiting. Accessing the local PD’s computer system was dicey, but she finally managed to get the password from a woman she’d known in high school and who had heard she worked for the FBI.

A search of the open missing persons’ cases gave her several possibilities for the identities of the deceased. She printed out a list, excitement thrumming through her as she imagined closing the file on cases that had been in the system for decades. Names for the victims. Faces. Closure for their families.

The thought spurred Jodie on, and she created a spreadsheet listing name, race, age and date missing of each victim.

The door opened, and she turned, smiling, expecting Sam. Instead, she met Harrison Cahill’s cool green gaze.

“Are you done at the scene already?”

“Already? It’s been almost three hours.” His gaze dropped from her face to the sheaf of papers she was holding in her hand, his lips quirking in a sardonic half smile that made her stiffen.

“I guess I lost track of time.”

“Hard at work, huh?”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” She kept her voice even and refused to look away from his steady gaze. She’d met men like him before. Men who assumed that because she was young she couldn’t handle the job and that because she was new she was overly anxious to prove she could. They were wrong on both counts.

“Yeah, I guess it is, but in my experience, the younger the agent, the more anxious she is to show off what she can do.”

“Your bluntness is charming, Cahill. But, for the record, I’m not that new and I’m not that young. If my hard work makes you feel inadequate, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to dumb down for anyone.”

He blinked, then shook his head and chuckled, the sound as warm and rich as honey from a honeycomb. “Touché, Gilmore. And for the record, you’re not making me feel inadequate. You’re making me nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Rookies do that to me. Lots of questions. Lots of energy. Lots of impatience. I want to focus on the job, not on walking someone through the process.”

“You won’t have to walk me through anything. I think I made that clear before.”

“I guess you did. So, now that we’ve both had our say, maybe we can start working together to find out who our victims are. What have you got?”

“Possibilities. I accessed the local PD’s missing persons’ files. Then I expanded it out to adjoining towns. This is the spreadsheet of open cases.” She handed him the printed pages.

“We can rule out more than half of them.” He scanned the list, his brow furrowed.

“You know that already?”

“Both victims were Caucasian. Late twenties to early thirties. Hand me a pen, will you?”

Jodie opened the desk drawer, found a pen and handed it to Harrison, her fingers brushing his, warmth shooting up her arm at the contact.

Surprised, she pulled back, watching as he crossed out name after name. “Those two were the correct race and age.”

“But not the correct time frame. Our victims were murdered more than two decades ago.” He glanced up as he spoke, his eyes the deep green of the bayou and as filled with secrets. “You’ve got a color printer here, right?”

“I—”

“Yep, you do. Good. You shared with me. Now I’ll share with you.” He set the marked pages on the desk and slipped a flash drive from his jacket pocket. “These are from my digital camera, downloaded to my laptop. Take a look.” He worked quickly, efficiently, with no hesitation. The exact opposite of the careful, meticulous efforts he’d taken at the scene.

Seconds later, photos appeared on the screen. “Here we go. A good pictorial record of what was found. Now I’ll print them and give you a copy for your files.”

“I appreciate it, but this isn’t really an FBI case.”

“So Sam told me. The problem is, he’s not sure the sheriff is going to investigate the way he should.” He lifted the printed photos and handed them to Jodie.

She scanned the photos, the muddy muted colors more a product of the dirt and the dust at the scene than of the quality of printer or camera. Two skulls. Both with visible fractures. Tufts of short dark hair. Longer, blond hair. A gold watch lying near a skeletal outstretched hand. A bracelet. Silver, with several charms attached.

Angel charms?

Her heart skipped a beat, and she squinted at the photo, trying to see more clearly. “Are those angels?”

“Looked that way at the scene. It’s not real clear in the picture, though, is it?” He leaned over her shoulder, looking at the photo, not touching Jodie, though she could feel his warmth through her cotton shirt.

She wanted to move away, put some distance between them. More than that, she wanted to know exactly what was on the charm bracelet. “Was there another charm on it? A mother holding a child? I can’t tell from the photo.”

“There might have been, but I didn’t examine it very closely. Sam brought the evidence to the sheriff. I’ll get a better look at it tomorrow and do a more detailed catalog then. Why do you ask?” He stepped away from her shoulder and leaned his hip against the desk, his gaze steady and searching as if he could read the truth in her eyes. See the fear that she didn’t dare speak out loud.

“It looks like something I’ve seen before.”

“Yeah? When?”

“I’m not sure.” But she was. She’d seen something like it in a picture of her mother that she’d found in a box when she was ten or eleven. The bracelet had been clearly visible, three angels and a mother-and-child charm.

“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“What does a person who’s seen a ghost look like?” She tried to keep her voice light, but her heart was racing, her gaze drawn again and again to the photo.

“Pale. Shaken. Terrified.”

“I’m not terrified. And I’m naturally fair.”

“Which still leaves shaken.” He searched her eyes, and Jodie’s cheeks heated.

“Cahill, I’m not some inexperienced kid who needs to be looked out for. I’m fine.”

“No offense, but I’m not worried about your well-being. I’m worried about whether you’re withholding information that pertains to my investigation.”

“I asked you a question about the bracelet. How does that equate to withholding information?”

“Would you rather have me think that you’re too young and inexperienced to handle looking at crime-scene photos.” He was baiting her, trying to get her to slip and tell him what was bothering her.

There was no way she would fall into his plan.

Living with her father had taught Jodie plenty about keeping her thoughts to herself. Giving people too much information about how you felt and what you wanted was like giving them the gun and the ammunition they needed to destroy you. Only a fool would do that. And Jodie wasn’t a fool. “I’ve seen a lot worse than those crime scenes when I worked for the Baltimore police.” And what I’d rather you do is stick to worrying about identifying your victims.”

Harrison looked like he planned to keep pushing for answers, but the door opened and Sam walked in, putting an end to the conversation. “Looks like you two are getting acquainted.”

“We were going over crime-scene photos I printed for you. Take a look at this one.” He pulled a photo from Jodie’s hand and handed it to Sam. “Both skulls had similar wounds to the head. I know for sure one of the victims was shot. I’m pretty confident the other one was, too.”

“You’re sure?” Sam glanced at the photo, his eyes flashing with interest.

“See the slice in the vertebra there? You take a look, too, Gilmore.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her over to look at the photo Sam held. “There’s a deep gauge in it.”

“I see it.” And next to the vertebra more of that white-blond hair. Jodie shuddered and looked away, hoping neither of the men noticed.

“I feel pretty confident that the bullet hit there, cut through the spinal cord and probably lodged somewhere in the diaphragm. I couldn’t find evidence of a bullet wound on the other victim, but I’m going to the coroner’s office tomorrow to go over the bones in brighter light.”

“The MO matches our more recent murders.” Sam ran a hand over his cropped hair and frowned. “We should get the results of the DNA test on the blood on Leah Farley’s shoe soon. If it’s her husband’s blood, we’ll be looking for a fugitive. If it’s hers…”

“You’ll be looking for a body.” Harrison didn’t seem to have any trouble saying what Sam hadn’t.

“Right. For now, we’ll assume she’s alive and that her husband’s death isn’t related to crimes that happened decades ago.”

“I’d say our victims were killed somewhere around twenty-five years ago.”

Jodie went cold at Harrison’s words but didn’t ask what she wanted to. Why twenty-five and not twenty-eight, thirty, twenty-one?

“I’ve already done a search of missing persons’ cases from Loomis and the surrounding area.” Jodie managed to get the words out past her tight throat, but her hands trembled as she lifted the pages of information and handed them to Sam.

“Any possible matches?”

“A few.” Harrison pointed out the names, but his eyes were on Jodie, his gaze direct and assessing. He’d noticed her reaction to the date he’d given. Just as he’d noticed her reaction to the photo of the bracelet.

She could tell him what she was afraid to voice, but she didn’t.

The woman could be anyone.

Or it could be someone she’d known.

Someone she’d loved. Someone she was sure had turned away and never looked back.

Until she had more evidence, she didn’t plan to admit that the skeleton could be her mother.

THREE

Jodie paced the room as the men discussed the female victim. She needed to get out of the office. Get away from the photos they’d spread out on the desk. Away from the words she didn’t want to hear. The victim was a young woman. Early thirties. Small-boned. Five foot five or six. Probably 115 pounds.

Jodie’s height. Jodie’s weight. Jodie’s bone structure. Jodie’s long blond hair.

Could it be a coincidence?

“It’s getting late. Let’s call it a night and pick this up again tomorrow.” Sam sounded as weary as Jodie felt. She couldn’t blame him. He’d been in Loomis for two months and barely had any evidence to show for it.

“Sounds good to me.” Harrison gathered the photos and handed them to Sam. “You wanted these.”

“Right. I’ll just file them in my office. See you both tomorrow.” He walked to a closed door, unlocked it and disappeared inside.

Jodie didn’t wait for a second invitation to end the day. She grabbed her purse and opened the front door, stepping out into the cool night. The rain had stopped, but moisture hung in the air, clogging her lungs.

“Jodie! Hold up a minute.” Harrison called out, and Jodie considered ignoring him. The last thing she wanted was to have another conversation with him.

She stopped anyway, her hand on her car’s door. “What’s up?”

“Funny, that’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”

“Nothing is up.”

“You ran out of there like the place was on fire.”

“It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be even longer.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s the real reason you ran.” He scanned her face, his eyes seeming almost translucent in the fading light.

“It’s one of them.”

“And the others?”

“Not something I want to discuss.”

“Whatever you know, whatever you’re hiding, you’re going to have to tell me eventually.”

“Maybe, but not today.” Because telling Harrison would mean admitting she was scared. More scared than she’d been in a long time. Scared that the woman lying hidden for decades was the mother she’d spent twenty-five years despising, the mother who’d run away and left her three-year-old daughter with a father whose harsh criticisms and cold anger had bordered on abuse.

Harrison searched her face, his brow furrowed. Dark hair, a little too long in the back, brushed his collar as he nodded. “Fair enough, but you may as well know that there are very few secrets the dead can hide from me. I’m not too shabby about getting the truth from the living, either. If what’s bothering you has something to do with this case, you won’t be able to keep it from me for long.”

It was a promise more than a threat, and Jodie sensed that there was nothing arrogant about the words. Harrison Cahill was good at what he did. Great at it, if the little she’d seen was any indication. In other circumstances, she’d be looking forward to seeing more of his methods, watching as he pieced together the puzzle that had been handed to him. But these weren’t other circumstances and the sick dread she’d been feeling since she’d first seen those strands of blond hair intensified as Harrison turned and walked back into the building.

She got in her car and drove down Main Street, her mind filled with a million thoughts. None of them good. She’d been told her mother had abandoned her and gone on to live a life free of responsibilities. She’d never doubted that. Maybe she should have.

Jodie needed to talk to her father, ask him what he remembered. Had Amelia told her husband that she planned to leave? Or had she just walked away one day and never returned? As a kid, Jodie had never had the guts to ask, and as an adult she hadn’t thought it mattered.

She’d been wrong.

It mattered. A lot. Because someone had been lying dead in the secret room for decades, and that someone just might have been her mother.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she turned onto the winding road that led to Vera Peel’s boardinghouse. Tomorrow, after she’d had time to think, to decide what questions to ask, she’d go to her father’s house. For now, she’d rather avoid the confrontation.

The boardinghouse stood on a hill at the edge of town, its gingerbread trim and white porch swing doing little to add cheer or charm to the dark exterior. A painted sign hung from posts in the front yard, the gothic lettering adding a sinister feel to place. Jodie had never been inside the house but had always imagined the interior to be just as uninviting.

She parked her car in the wide, empty driveway, got out and made her way to the porch. The door opened before she even reached the steps, and Vera stepped outside. Tall, spare, with faded red hair and small green eyes, she watched Jodie’s approach.

“Hello, Ms. Peel. I was looking for accommodations for the evening. Do you have an empty room?” Of course, Vera did. People might stay at the boardinghouse once, but most never returned.

“No.”

“You don’t?” Surprised, Jodie paused on the porch stairs.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“But I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought, Jodie Gilmore, I don’t have a room.” Vera’s lips were tight with impatience, her eyes flashing with anger. If she remembered Jodie, she also remembered the trouble Jodie had so often been in.

“Ms. Peel, I know I was a troublemaker when I was a kid, but I’ve grown up. I’m with the FBI now, and—”

“You think I didn’t already know that. It’s all your dad talks about. His daughter, the big shot FBI agent.”

Jodie’s father talked about her job? Maybe she’d finally given him something to claim bragging rights over, not that it would matter when she finally saw him face-to-face. Richard Gilmore didn’t believe in praising his daughter for anything. As a matter of fact, the only thing he’s said when she’d called to tell him she’d been hired by the FBI was, “Don’t blow it.”

“Then maybe you’ll see fit to let me stay for a few days.”

“I’ve got another guest coming. A man.” She emphasized the last word, her beady eyes gleaming with heated fervor.

“And the rest of your rooms are full?”

“My handyman Chuck stays here, too.”

“That’s two rooms that are booked. Your house must have several more that are empty.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Both of my guests are men. You are a woman. It wouldn’t be seemly to have you stay here.”

“But, Vera, you run a boardinghouse. You must have had other times when you’ve had both male and female guests.” Jodie rubbed the tight muscles in her neck and tried not to let her impatience show. She needed aspirin for her aching head, she needed a bed to lie down in, and getting upset with Vera Peel wouldn’t get her either of those.

“I’m sure I have, but I know who you are, Jodie, and I know where you came from. Who you came from.” She nearly spat the words, and Jodie took a step back, almost falling off the step.

“I hope you aren’t implying that I can’t be trusted around men because of what my mother did.”

“Your mother ran away with another man. Left your father and you alone. And you know what the Bible says…”

No, but Jodie was sure she was about to find out.

“…the sins of the father are passed down through the third and fourth generation.”

“I don’t think that God meant a child should be judged by her mother’s actions.”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t let you stay here.” Vera gazed past Jodie, her eyes glittering oddly. “It looks like my guest has arrived. You’d best be on your way now.”

Jodie clenched her teeth to keep from arguing further. Insisting that she wasn’t her mother’s daughter wouldn’t change Vera’s opinion. People in Loomis had decided long ago that Amelia Pershing Gilmore’s daughter was the spitting image of her mother. Not just in looks but in temperament. Had Jodie really expected anything more than what Vera had given her?

She turned away from the older woman, hurrying down the steps as another car pulled in beside hers. A black Jeep with tinted windows and a glossy exterior. She tried not to resent the fact that its owner, a complete stranger to Vera, would get a warmer welcome than she had.

And not just from the owner of the boardinghouse, but also from almost everyone in town.

She pulled open her car door, started to get in and paused as the Jeep’s window slid open.

“Gilmore? You’re staying here, too?” Harrison peered out at her, his chiseled face cast in shadows, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. Handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way. Not the kind of man Jodie usually found attractive. But then, the kind of men she usually went for were too smooth and charming to be trusted.

“No. I…” Couldn’t get a room because my mother was an adulteress? Of course, she couldn’t say that. “I’m staying at my father’s.”

“Too bad. We could have had a bite to eat together after I unpacked.”

“A bite to eat?” Vera’s voice was as shrill as a screaming parrot’s, her head bobbing as she spoke. “I hope you’re not expecting me to feed you, young man. That’s not part of what I offer.”

“No worries, ma’am, I thought I’d find a place in town.”

“And don’t think there’s coffee at all hours, either. I can’t be expected to keep the pot percolating. If you want coffee, you can go to Pershing Provisions for it.”

“Understood.” Harrison’s lips twitched, his eyes dancing with what could only be humor, and Jodie felt her tension draining away. Vera was annoying but harmless. Finding amusement in her antics was a lot better than getting upset about them.

“And no music late at night. No loud phone conversations. No women friends in. Ever.” Her gaze cut to Jodie and she scowled, her eyes hard and filled with malice.

“Seems like a lot of rules for a boardinghouse.” Harrison pulled a duffel out of his Jeep and started up the steps.

“Follow them or find another place to stay. I’ve kicked people out of my house before, you know. I won’t hesitate to do it again. And I can already tell you that the Loomis Hotel is booked solid. Come in and get the key. I’ve got other things to do with my time besides chitchatting.” She walked inside, and Harrison turned to Jodie.

“This should be an interesting stay.”

“Looks that way.” But she doubted it would be as interesting as her stay with her father. She hadn’t seen the man in ten years and was going to show up on his doorstep and beg for a room. That should be more than interesting.

“It’ll be even more interesting if you agree to have dinner with me tonight.”

“Have dinner with you? You’re kidding, right?” Jodie nearly laughed in surprise.

“Why would I be? I’m hungry. I don’t want to eat alone.”

“You told me earlier that rookies made you nervous. I wouldn’t want to ruin your appetite.”

“It takes an awful lot to do that.” He smiled, and Jodie’s breath caught. No man should look that good when he smiled.

“Your appetite might not be affected, but mine would. There is no way can I enjoy a meal when someone is giving me the third degree.”

He smiled again, shrugging his shoulders, the soft cotton of his shirt pulling tight against well-muscled shoulders. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some more questions for you.”

“And I’d be lying if I said I’d answer them.”

Harrison laughed and pushed open Vera’s front door. “That shouldn’t be a reason for us not to have dinner, should it?”

She should say yes, but doing so would mean having to face what she’d much rather avoid—her father. “If we go to dinner, don’t expect to get the answers you’re looking for.”

“Just as long as you don’t expect me not to ask them. How about we meet at that Italian restaurtant on Main Street.”

“Vincetta’s?”

“Right. See you there.” He stepped inside and closed the door, the evening silence almost eerie in his absence.

Dinner with Harrison Cahill? Probably not the best idea she’d ever had, but that wasn’t surprising. Loomis had a way of muddling her thinking. Maybe it was the air—thick with the bayou. Or maybe it was the memories that were always just a whisper away. Either way, the dark and ugly place was already working its magic on her.

She sighed, getting into her car and deciding to make a quick stop at the store to pick up an economy-sized bottle of Tylenol. She had a feeling she was going to need it over the next few days or weeks.

Or months.

Please, God, don’t let it be months.

The prayer slipped out, surprising Jodie. It had been a while since she’d thought to ask God for anything. A while since He’d seen fit to answer.

Maybe this time would be different.

Somehow, though, she doubted it.

FOUR

Harrison stood in the large foyer of Vera Peel’s boardinghouse and glanced around, looking for the proprietress. The FBI had arranged for his stay in the place. He’d have to remember to thank Sam for that.

After he asked him what he’d been thinking.

Harrison had stayed in a lot of small-town bed-and-breakfasts and boardinghouses over the years, but Vera’s won the prize for creepiest. Dark. Shadowed. Clean, but grim. Not a restful place, but he’d deal with it.

“I see you finally decided to come in.” Vera stepped through a doorway at the end of the hall. Tall and thin, her long dark dress hanging limply from skeletal shoulders, she was as creepy as the house. Maybe more so.

“Sorry I took so long, Mrs. Peel.” He smiled and attempted to make nice. After all, he might be staying with the woman for a while.

“I’m sure you’re not, but that is not something we need to discuss.” She scowled, and Harrison wondered what had happened in her life to make her so prickly. A tough childhood? A bad marriage? Whatever it was, the woman cornered the market on dour.

“Right. If you’ll just show me to my room, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Here is your key.” She thrust an old-fashioned skeleton key at him, and Harrison grabbed it. “Your room is in here.” She shoved open a door to the right, flicking on a light. “My other guest is on the second floor, and my room is in the attic. I keep the door locked.”

Did she think he’d try to invade her private quarters? The idea would have been laughable if Vera hadn’t looked so serious. “Are there any other house rules I should know about? Besides no women and no loud music?”

“Are you mocking me, Mr. Cahill?” She frowned, and Harrison decided the less he saw of his hostess, the better.

“Not at all.”

She looked him up and down, her eyes as cold and bleak as the winter sky. “There’s a phone in your room. You make longdistance calls, you pay for them.”

“Understood.”

“Breakfast is at seven. Muffins. Juice. Coffee. You need more than that, you’ll have to go elsewhere. Good night, Mr. Cahill.” She disappeared down the hall, and Harrison walked into the room, dropping his duffel on the bed. He thought about unpacking but didn’t think Jodie would wait at the restaurant for long. There were questions he needed to ask before he continued his investigation. Questions only she could answer.

Like how she’d known that the woman’s charm bracelet had angels on it and how she’d known about the mother–child charm.

It took less than ten minutes to drive to the restaurant, and Harrison spotted Jodie’s car immediately. A red sports car, it wasn’t something he would have picked as hers if he hadn’t seen it at Vera’s house. Something understated and elegant seemed more her style. Her dark suit, soft makeup and pulled-back hair seemed to reflect a quiet personality.

Of course, Harrison had been wrong about women before. Allison was just the most recent example of that. Thankfully, he’d come to his senses before he made a lifetime commitment to her. A schoolteacher who was as needy as the first graders she taught, she had expected Harrison to give up his freelance work to make time for her. He’d been willing to make time, but not to give up his work. Too bad it had taken him so long to realize that wouldn’t be enough.

He frowned, irritated with his train of thought. Allison had broken up with him two years ago, and he hadn’t spent much time thinking about her since. He didn’t plan to start now. Not when he had a job to do. Two victims. A man and a woman. Dead for more than two decades. Somewhere, people were missing their loved ones. It was Harrison’s job to make sure the families would finally have closure.

He pushed open the door to Vincetta’s Italian Restaurant and walked inside. The place looked a little fancy for Harrison’s taste, but a plate of pasta would fill him just as much as a burger and fries, and Vincetta’s was the only decent restaurant he could find in town.

Jodie was already seated in a booth near the far wall, her attention focused on a menu that lay open on the table. Long strands of blond hair had escaped her ponytail and fell across smooth pale skin. Harrison’s fingers suddenly itched to brush the strands away, to linger on warm, soft flesh.

He pulled his thoughts up short, surprised by the direction they’d taken. Jodie was a decade younger than he was. Maybe more. He shouldn’t be thinking about anything but getting the information he wanted from her. “You look lost in thought,” he said as he approached the booth and slid into it, across from her.

She glanced up from the menu, her eyes wide and deep blue, her expression guarded. “Just trying to decide what to eat. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten good Italian.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve eaten at all. Seems the last meal I had was sometime before the sun went down last night.” He smiled at her, doing his best to seem unthreatening and benign. Jodie was already on guard. If he could get her to relax, he might have a chance at getting the answers he wanted.

“You don’t have to make small talk, Cahill. Just cut to the chase, ask your questions and we’ll get my refusal to answer them out of the way.”

“I’m not sure why you would plan not to answer when what you have to say could help my investigation. Would you care to explain it to me?” He glanced at the menu, then ordered a soda from the waiter who stopped at the table.

“How could anything I have to say help with the investigation?”

“Answering a question with a question. Good tactic, but it’s not going to work with me. Something was bothering you today, and it wasn’t the crime-scene photos.”

“I told you it wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t tell me what it was. If you have information that might help with the investigation, I’d appreciate hearing it.”

“I don’t.” She gestured for the waiter to return for their orders. Obviously she was anxious to get dinner over with.

Harrison wasn’t quite as concerned about ending their meal together, and he was honest enough with himself to admit that it wasn’t only because he wanted answers. There was something about Jodie that made him want to look and keep looking. Something that made him want to find out more about the young FBI agent.

The very young FBI agent.

He’d do well to keep that in mind. “I think you’re lying.”

“You can think whatever you want, Cahill. It won’t change anything.” She had the decency to look uncomfortable, her soft lips turned down, her cheeks pink.

“You think you know the victims, don’t you?”

“How could I? I moved away from Loomis ten years ago. I barely remember my high-school friends, let alone anyone else from town.”

“You remembered Vera. And she remembered you.”

“Do you think anyone could forget a woman like Vera?”

“I don’t think I ever will.” He chuckled.

“She’s definitely the kind of person who sticks in your brain.” Her lips curved, softening her features, making her looking even younger than she had earlier and tempting him to ask just how old she was. He didn’t ask, though. The last thing he needed was to put her on the defensive again.

“So she’s always been uptight?”

“Ever since her husband left her. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told. I was too young when he left town to remember what Vera was like before. And, like I said, I haven’t seen her in ten years. It’s possible she’s even worse than she used to be.”

“Ten years ago. And you were what? Eleven or twelve?” He couldn’t help himself, the comment just slipped out.

“Go ahead. Ask.” This time Jodie smiled full-out, her eyes dancing with humor, her face relaxed and open and so breathtakingly beautiful Harrison wanted to take out his camera and capture the moment.

“Ask what?”

“How old I am. I know you’re dying to.”

“I’ll admit to mild curiosity.”

“Twenty-eight. Not nearly as young as you thought, right?”

She was right and probably thought she’d accomplished exactly what she’d planned to—refocusing the direction of the conversation.

Unfortunately for Jodie, Harrison was as tenacious as a bulldog when he got something in his mind. He wouldn’t forget her reaction to the photos he showed her or her question about the bracelet, and he wouldn’t stop asking about it until he got answers. “Right.”

The waiter appeared, setting plates of food down in front of them, then fading back into the restaurant.

Harrison turned his attention back to Jodie.

Despite her effort to appear relaxed, her hands were clenched in fists, her lips tight. She looked anxious. Nervous even. “Of course, I might have been wrong about your age, but I wasn’t wrong in thinking that you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just…wondering.”

“About?”

“How everything is connected. A missing woman. Three recent homicides. The remains of two people left in a boarded-up room for decades.”

“Maybe they aren’t.”

“Do you really think that?”

“The more recent ones probably are, but Jane and John Doe have been dead for at least twenty years. I’m leaning toward thinking their murder is not connected to Loomis’s recent crime wave.”

“How do you know when they were killed?”

“I recognize the watch we found. It was only made in the 1980s. And it displayed days and months. It gave us a pretty accurate date. It stopped on the eleventh of June.”

“It could have stopped years after the murders. I’ve had watch batteries that run forever.”

“It had a windup movement. Probably wound down a couple of days after the murder.”

At his words, Jodie blanched, the stark paleness of her face making her eyes glow vivid blue in contrast.

His words had struck a chord with her, and it wasn’t a good one.

“June. That’s pretty specific.” She spoke quietly, her eyes on the plate of pasta she’d barely touched.

“I’m hoping knowing that will give us a quick answer as to who our victims are.”

“Quick answers usually aren’t easy to come by in our business.” They were never easy to come by in Loomis, either. Jodie didn’t bother telling Harrison that. Instead, she pushed her plate away, dropped a twenty on the table and stood, more anxious than ever to speak with her father. She wanted to know the day and month her mother had left. A woman with long blond hair and an angel bracelet had been murdered around the same time Jodie’s mother had walked away. That didn’t mean the two things were connected. It also didn’t mean they weren’t.

“Running away again, Gilmore?” Harrison rose with her, throwing a twenty down next to his empty plate.

“I’m not running. I’m going to get some sleep so I can tackle all the evidence from a fresh perspective tomorrow.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m heading to my father’s place. Whether or not he’ll let me stay remains to be seen.”

“I’d think your father would be happy to have you.”

“That’s because you’ve never met my father.” They stepped outside together, the deep black night barely lit by the restaurant’s lights. Rain was in the air, heavy and thick, the chill of it seeping through Jodie’s thin suit jacket and cotton shirt. She needed a hot shower, a few hours of sleep. But more than that, she needed answers.

“Just so you know, you’re not doing a very good job of making me less curious, Jodie.”

“I’m not concerned about your curiosity. I’m concerned about finding the truth.” She opened her car door, slid in behind the wheel and said goodbye to Harrison, nervous, on edge and unsure.

She’d been in Loomis for less than twelve hours, and already it was doing its work on her. The woman she’d worked so hard to become, the confident one who never backed down from a challenge seemed to have disappeared. In her place was the insecure teen Jodie had once been, the frightened child, the young kid who’d wanted desperately to believe that someone, somewhere cared about her, praying desperately that she could be good enough to make her father love her.

She shook her head. She’d given up on having her father’s love years ago, and she’d given up on God’s help long before then. God might answer prayers for other people, but not for Jodie.

Fortunately, she’d learned that going it alone wasn’t nearly as difficult as she’d thought it would be.

Sometimes, though, it was awfully lonely.

The thought followed her onto the winding lane that led to her father’s house, and it didn’t leave as she knocked on the front door of the old colonial and waited for Richard Gilmore to answer.

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