Leanne shook her head.
“And you never heard either of the men’s names?”
“Nope. That’s all I got.”
After watching Leanne walk off, Jessie turned around and headed for Ben’s car. She felt sick to her stomach, and she wanted to get away from this place.
Awkward silence filled the car as they drove home. Ten minutes passed before Ben broke it. “Why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m pissed. I asked Leanne Baxter the same damn questions more than once, and I got nothing. And now suddenly she not only remembers Sophie but also the men she danced with. Her story is a little over the top—don’t you think?”
“People change. You heard her. She was scared. And Frank told her not to talk.”
“I wasn’t a cop,” Jessie said.
“To Leanne you were worse than a cop. You were her sister. I’m not saying she was right to keep quiet, but she’d obviously been holding on to some guilt for not telling someone sooner. Maybe she was still with Frank the last time you talked to her.”
Jessie’s arms were tightly drawn over her chest. She tried to relax, but she couldn’t get the image of Sophie stabbing a man with a broken bottle out of her head.
“Might I suggest,” Ben said, keeping his eyes on the road, “that next time you interview someone, you attempt to warm them up first. Compliment them, ask questions about their life, questions that have nothing to do with the case you’re working on. It’s easier to get people to open up if you gain their trust first.”
“You’re right. I’m a fucking amateur.” God. Not only was she pissed; she was feeling sorry for herself. Damn.
“I’ve researched a few of your cases,” Ben said. “You’re no amateur.”
“Colin, a close friend of mine, has always told me that I’m too close to the case. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s better if I take a step back and stay out of your way. That was a shit show back there. I’m too close, too involved, and for the first time since Sophie disappeared, I’m beginning to wonder if I can look at things objectively.”
“That’s exactly why I need you,” Ben said. “You know details about this case and about your sister that I need, data that would take me months to gather. You might not like her, but Leanne is all we’ve got at this point. She says there were two men with Sophie when she left the Wild West. Skull Ring Man and another guy.”
It wasn’t easy trying to think logically at a moment when her world felt as if it were spinning off its axis, but he was right.
“I’m going to find a forensic artist,” Ben told her. “If Leanne agrees, we could have composite drawings of two men, both possible suspects, by the end of the week.”
A sense of calm swept over Jessie. What if they could locate even one of the men Leanne had seen that night? If so, he might be able to shed some light on what happened. For the first time in forever, she felt hopeful.
TWENTY-TWO
I’m going to kill him.
You’re not going to kill him because when I’m done with him, he’s going to be blood and guts, splattered to bits like a bug on a windshield.
“Shut up,” Zee told the voices in her head as she looked around. She was inside an ugly, straw-covered, stench-filled cell, and through a shared wall of metal bars, she saw a naked woman curled into a ball, lying on the ground in the cell next to her.
“Hey, you!” Zee shouted.
No response.
“Are you dead?”
Who cares? You’re going to be dead if you don’t find a way out of here!
I told you not to try to find that weirdo, but you wouldn’t listen. You never listen.
Zee rubbed the knot on the back of her head. It hurt like hell.
The voices weren’t the only ones who wanted blood.
A minute later she heard footsteps coming down the narrow wooden stairs at the far end of what looked to her like a shitty basement.
When she’d first met the socially awkward man at Rainbow Park six months ago, he’d told her his name was Scar, which she’d figured he’d picked up from the movie The Lion King. At the time she’d thought it was cool, but not any longer.
Dealing with schizophrenia wasn’t easy. She had good days and bad days. More often than not, she heard voices. Sometimes Francis, a deep, gravelly, and convincing voice inside her head, would remind her how well she was doing and suggest she stop taking her medication. When that happened, she often wandered from the house.
This last time she’d wandered too far.
Her dad was probably worried. The thought of him worrying made her feel sick to her stomach. She and Dad had their differences, but he loved her for who she was, and she was lucky to have him in her life.
“You never should have followed me here,” Scar said in a cheerful voice as if nothing had changed between them.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Zee spat back. “My head still hurts.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked, seemingly determined to get on her good side.
“Fuck you.”
He made a sad face. “I’ve never heard you curse before. It’s unbecoming.”
She shot to her feet, wrapped her fingers around the metal bars between her and him, and rattled the cage. “I no longer care what you think. I want out!”
“You should have minded your own business,” he told her.
“You’ve never met any of my friends,” she said. “But you’re going to be meeting a lot of new people if you don’t let me out right this minute.”
He answered with a creepy smile.
“He’s not going to let either of us go,” the woman in the cell next to her said.
The woman had lifted her head. Her eyes were wide-open.
“Who is that?” Zee asked Scar.
“Natalie Bailey,” he said.
“Why is she naked?”
“Because he wants to humiliate me,” Natalie answered.
“Is that true?”
His answer was half shrug, half nod, which Zee took as a yes. Zee narrowed her eyes at him. “What is this all about? Why are we here?”
“You’re here because you’re one messed-up crazy chick,” Scar said. “And she’s here because of her mother.”
Natalie Bailey sat up, her spine stiff, straw sticking out of her hair, making her look a bit deranged. Zee blinked a couple of times to make sure the woman wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
“He’s a liar,” Natalie said. “He never met my mother.”
“Sue Sterling,” Scar stated, his tone clipped. “A social worker born September 16, 1953, to Myriam and Rafael Potts. I met her for the first and last time on Friday, May 14, 1999.”
Natalie’s lips flattened. If looks could kill, Zee was pretty sure Scar would be dead.
“Her job on that particular day,” he said through gritted teeth, “was to investigate a report of child abuse. It was Sue Sterling’s responsibility to examine the home, this home, and talk to neighbors, teachers, friends—anyone who might have come into contact with said child.”
Zee knew he was different, quirky, and quick to anger, but she’d never seen him quite like this. At the moment his face was red and blotchy, his body shook, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. His narrow chest still rose and fell from all that emotion.
“Did she follow you here, too?” Zee asked him.
“No,” he said. “Not exactly.”
“No. Not exactly,” Zee mimicked, irritated by his nonanswer.
“You know I don’t like that.”
“You know I don’t like that,” Zee repeated, imitating him, mocking him.
“If you do it again,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “you’re going to be punished.”
“If you do it again,” she said, “you’re going to be punished.”
He snarled.
Zee held tight to the bars, leaned close, and spit at him, missing his boots by a few inches. He wasn’t the only one who was angry. She was livid, and he had no idea whom he was dealing with.
“You’re going to regret that.”
“My dad is looking for me. He’s rich, and he’s smart, too, and I know he’ll find me soon!”
He turned, marched across the room, and disappeared up the stairs.