Grabbing Darla Jean’s file, Vic skims through the collected statements. “Boyfriend didn’t notice anyone around until the pastor came out of his office. After the boy left to go home, the pastor didn’t see anyone but Darla Jean, then he left to walk into town. As far as he knew, Darla Jean was alone.”
“She didn’t try to run,” Eddison points out. “She didn’t try to fight until it was too late. This isn’t just someone she knew, this was someone she trusted.”
“Even considering the rape, our first assumption would normally be family,” Ramirez says. “Father, brother, cousin, someone sees the kiss, decides her sinful ways make her unworthy of being family.”
“Father died two years before Darla Jean from a heart attack, and her male cousins were all either too young or not in town. She did have an older brother, though.” Vic flips a few pages in the folder. “Jameson Carmichael; he was twenty-one at the time. Graduated at twenty from the University of Texas with a degree in Web design. Got a job with a small marketing firm in the city, commuted in from the family home in Holyrood.”
“Is he on our list?”
Eddison shakes his head, but double-checks anyway. Tapping the name into his tablet, he starts sifting through search results. “It doesn’t look like he’s been on anyone’s list recently. He quit his job and left the Holyrood/San Antonio area a few months after his sister died. He’s mentioned in a few memorials and articles, but there’s nothing else coming up.”
“Well that sounds ominous.”
Grabbing his phone, Eddison punches in a number and sends the call to the speaker in the middle of the table.
“What do you need?” asks Yvonne, skipping the small talk.
“Your wisdom and guidance,” he answers. “Your mad computer skills, at least. Is there any chance you can come in tonight?”
“I’m alone with the baby, but I brought a secure laptop home, so I do have access to all my systems. Who loves me?”
“We do,” laughs Ramirez. “We’re looking for Jameson Carmichael; he’s Darla Jean’s brother.”
“And can you hook us up with the most recent spreadsheet from the florist calls?” Eddison asks.
“Do you have any idea how many analysts loathe you right now?” They can already hear the swift tapping of keys in the background, as well as a baby’s contented burbling.
“I know it’s mind-numbing, but is calling florists really the worst thing we could ask everyone to do?”
“I know roughly the number of flower shops in the state of Colorado. Do you think this is something I ever wanted to know?”
“I’m sure there are any number of husbands in Colorado who would be very grateful for that spreadsheet.”
“Cute, but it’s called Google. Your man Carmichael, though—any chance he’s a dead John Doe somewhere? Because he just disappeared when he left home. Closed out his bank account but doesn’t look to have started another. Texas driver’s license is expired, never renewed, but he didn’t apply for one anywhere else. No bills, no tickets, no leases or titles, no passport, no hospital admissions in his name. He’s not languishing in prison, either, unless it’s as a John Doe or under a very convincing other identity. Your boy’s probably either dead, suffering from amnesia, or he built himself a life under a new name.”
“What about the car that was registered to him? You could track the VIN if he transferred the title or registered it elsewhere, couldn’t you?” asks Vic.
“I could indeed, sir, but he did not. Car was totaled a few weeks after his sister died. Police and insurance both report that he hit a pair of deer.”
“Deer totaled a car?”
“They do it all the time,” Yvonne answers. “Bambi and his girlfriend can absolutely destroy your front end. Carmichael deposited the insurance payout about two weeks before closing account.”
Eddison shakes his head. “You can get all that in seconds but it takes forever to find out if anyone has sold dahlias recently.”
“Well, this time you gave me a name, sugar, not hundreds of businesses and owners who don’t always pick up their phone or return calls.”
“I deserved that,” he says with a wince.
“Yes, yes, you did.”
“I’m sorry, Yvonne.”
“Hey, I know this case is important,” she says gently. “If I could give the world a kick and a curse and make it go ten times as fast, I would.”
“I know.”
“Carmichael should have fingerprints on record from that investigation; can you run them, see if they pop up anywhere else?”
Ramirez glances at Vic, her curls falling out of her pencil arrangement. “We don’t have the killer’s fingerprints at any of the crime scenes.”
“No, but maybe he’s been printed under a different name. Names can change, prints not so much.”
“Nada, sir.”
“It was worth asking,” he sighs. “Thanks, Yvonne, and please send us the updated spreadsheet.”
“Will do, agents. Please try to get some sleep.” She hangs up, and Eddison clicks off the speaker.
“She’s right. Go home, both of you.”
“Vic—”
“We are all exhausted,” the senior agent reminds them, getting to his feet. “Go home. Sleep. Come to my place in the morning. Ma will love the chance to feed you, and we can check in with Finney.”
Eddison hesitates, looking at the stacks of papers and folders on the table. He can hear Vic and Ramirez murmuring to each other, and then the door closes. A large hand grips his shoulder. “Vic . . .”
“Brandon.”
He looks up. Vic only uses his first name when he wants to be very sure he’s got Eddison’s attention.
“It’s Priya’s birthday tomorrow,” Vic says quietly. “You know it’s a rough day for her. She’s going to need you at your best.”
“What if my best isn’t enough?”
Rather than answer, Vic squeezes his shoulder and lets go.
MAY
Mum leaves to drive to Denver and her office a little before five, too antsy to stay still. Before she leaves, she hugs me so hard it’ll probably bruise. “Be sure,” she says again, “be smart, be safe.” All in all, not the worst benediction you can give your daughter before she heads off to murder someone.
I stay sprawled in bed, not quite awake, but definitely not asleep, either. Sleep didn’t happen last night; my brain wouldn’t shut off enough to let me rest.
Thoughts of Chavi, chasing me through the sheet maze, swinging me around in a dance, laughing, bled out on the grey stone floor.
Thoughts of Dad, broken and numb and shamed at the hospital, hanging from the banister when I got home from school.
All those other girls, too, their names almost as familiar to me as my own now.
Darla Jean, Zoraida, Leigh, Sasha.
Mandy, Libba, Emily, Carrie.
Laini, Kiersten, Rachel, Chavi.
Natalie, Meaghan, Aimée, Julie.
I could live to be a hundred and ten, and I think I’d forget my name before losing theirs.
If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the weight of Chavi behind me, all those late nights scribbling in our journals side by side, falling asleep to curl around each other. Lazy mornings cuddling under the blankets, until Mum jumped on us. Literally jumped, and started tickling and laughing until we were all breathless. I can remember how it felt when my sister’s hand moved over my hair, tucking it back away from my face or separating out the sections to help Mum re-dye the streaks. I can remember her breath warm against my ear, the way her fingers would draw designs against my hip before she was even awake, the way she never accidentally ate my hair but was constantly spitting out her own.