at him, thinking about it. “It’s possible. But neither of us believe that’s what happened, do we? It was the same person responsible, and I so want to catch this son of a bitch.”
* * *
At the end of the day she was always tired, especially after a day like this one. Ellie pulled up the winding lane to the circle drive and parked by the shed. She really needed to clean the garage one of these days—it was still full of boxes of things she’d inherited when her father had passed away. It got dark early and she’d worked late, and the motion light went on, illuminating the neat log exterior of her house, the steps leading down a small hill, terraced in with flagstone. In the winter they could be on the treacherous side if it got icy, but in the summer she put pots of petunias and coleus on each step for color, and the effect was very pretty. It was also the closest thing to gardening she ever did. However, set as it was in the woods, her yard was mostly delicate wild ferns anyway, and they took care of themselves.
She fumbled for keys and let herself in. The small foyer was dark and warm compared to the bite of the outside October temperature. She hung up her coat and went into the kitchen, deftly uncorked a bottle of a German Riesling she took from the refrigerator, and foraged for a wineglass in the cupboard above the sink.
It wasn’t that she considered the discovery of those splatters of blood and discarded shoes a cause for a celebration, but she wanted to sleep tonight. A couple of glasses might help her relax. She sipped as she put together an impromptu meal for one, broiling some tilapia with a sprinkling of herbs, and was grabbing greens for a salad from one of those convenient bags she kept in the refrigerator when she caught a call from Pearson, the sheriff.
“Just wanted to let you know I’m going to do a press interview after all.”
“Sir.” She stopped in the act of taking out the blue cheese dressing. “We have nothing. And I don’t mean like nothing we can prove, I’m talking literally nothing .”
He was quiet and she almost thought the call had dropped until he said, “I have to do something . I think, you think, and everyone else who knows about it pretty much thinks we have another missing young woman.”
It was true, but as they had nothing else in particular to say, it was going to be a short speech.
“Whatever you decide is best, sir.”
“What I think would be best would be to be sitting on my couch drinking a beer.” His laugh was a short expulsion of breath. “But the media is going to get a hold of this anyway and it’s my job to make sure they don’t interfere with the case. An ounce of prevention is the way to go.”
He was right to a certain extent, but they had no idea still if Melissa Simmons was another victim and an announcement felt premature. After she hung up, she sat there for a moment until she caught a hint of burned fish, swore in colorful language her mother would not approve of, and rescued her dinner just before it crossed the threshold to inedible. She ate, listening to Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor for strings and organ.
The whole time she deliberately kept herself from thinking about the case.
After she was done she washed the dishes, poured a second glass of wine, settled into the overstuffed chair she loved, put her feet on the ottoman, and flicked on the television.
Sure enough, it was on the ten o’clock news.
Pearson was true to his word. Maybe it was pressure from the girl’s parents, but there he was in front of a microphone. It wasn’t often this quiet part of the state made the news.
Suitably serious and composed, he gave a brief press announcement on the local station about how an as-yet-unnamed woman had been reported missing that morning. He couldn’t speculate if it was connected to any of the other three open cases or not, but he assured the public that state forces and his local officers were doing all they
* * *
At the end of the day she was always tired, especially after a day like this one. Ellie pulled up the winding lane to the circle drive and parked by the shed. She really needed to clean the garage one of these days—it was still full of boxes of things she’d inherited when her father had passed away. It got dark early and she’d worked late, and the motion light went on, illuminating the neat log exterior of her house, the steps leading down a small hill, terraced in with flagstone. In the winter they could be on the treacherous side if it got icy, but in the summer she put pots of petunias and coleus on each step for color, and the effect was very pretty. It was also the closest thing to gardening she ever did. However, set as it was in the woods, her yard was mostly delicate wild ferns anyway, and they took care of themselves.
She fumbled for keys and let herself in. The small foyer was dark and warm compared to the bite of the outside October temperature. She hung up her coat and went into the kitchen, deftly uncorked a bottle of a German Riesling she took from the refrigerator, and foraged for a wineglass in the cupboard above the sink.
It wasn’t that she considered the discovery of those splatters of blood and discarded shoes a cause for a celebration, but she wanted to sleep tonight. A couple of glasses might help her relax. She sipped as she put together an impromptu meal for one, broiling some tilapia with a sprinkling of herbs, and was grabbing greens for a salad from one of those convenient bags she kept in the refrigerator when she caught a call from Pearson, the sheriff.
“Just wanted to let you know I’m going to do a press interview after all.”
“Sir.” She stopped in the act of taking out the blue cheese dressing. “We have nothing. And I don’t mean like nothing we can prove, I’m talking literally nothing .”
He was quiet and she almost thought the call had dropped until he said, “I have to do something . I think, you think, and everyone else who knows about it pretty much thinks we have another missing young woman.”
It was true, but as they had nothing else in particular to say, it was going to be a short speech.
“Whatever you decide is best, sir.”
“What I think would be best would be to be sitting on my couch drinking a beer.” His laugh was a short expulsion of breath. “But the media is going to get a hold of this anyway and it’s my job to make sure they don’t interfere with the case. An ounce of prevention is the way to go.”
He was right to a certain extent, but they had no idea still if Melissa Simmons was another victim and an announcement felt premature. After she hung up, she sat there for a moment until she caught a hint of burned fish, swore in colorful language her mother would not approve of, and rescued her dinner just before it crossed the threshold to inedible. She ate, listening to Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor for strings and organ.
The whole time she deliberately kept herself from thinking about the case.
After she was done she washed the dishes, poured a second glass of wine, settled into the overstuffed chair she loved, put her feet on the ottoman, and flicked on the television.
Sure enough, it was on the ten o’clock news.
Pearson was true to his word. Maybe it was pressure from the girl’s parents, but there he was in front of a microphone. It wasn’t often this quiet part of the state made the news.
Suitably serious and composed, he gave a brief press announcement on the local station about how an as-yet-unnamed woman had been reported missing that morning. He couldn’t speculate if it was connected to any of the other three open cases or not, but he assured the public that state forces and his local officers were doing all they
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