Steven glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to run. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
He reached across the table and wrapped his warm fingers around Jessica’s wrist when she moved to get up. “I have access to a lot that never got printed in the papers. I also have friends on the force who worked the Dayton case. I’ll see if there’s anything that got overlooked during the investigation.”
Jess sent him a grateful look. “Thank you, Steven. It means a lot.”
“No problem.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Stay as low-key as you can until you hear from me. I’ll be in touch.”
Jessica watched him go with more than a little relief inside. Not only had he believed her theory on what happened to Terry Dayton, but he hadn’t batted an eye when she’d confided in him about how the painting came to be. He believed in her, and that felt better than she could have imagined it would.
Chapter Sixteen
“How was your day?” Owen lay in bed, flipping through the channels on the television.
Jessica wanted to tell him everything that had happened since he’d left for work that morning, but she couldn’t. He would only become angry and probably insist she get back on her meds. “It was okay.”
He turned off the TV and rolled to his side to face her. “Something is different with you.”
“What do you mean?”
Owen shrugged. “I’m not sure. Did you cut your hair?”
“No. I applied a little makeup this morning. Maybe that’s what you’re seeing.”
A sleepy smile touched his lips. “That’s probably it.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “Goodnight, Jess.”
“Night, Owen.” Jess remained completely still, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling and listening to Owen’s soft breathing. It didn’t take long before the expected snoring ensued.
She inched back the covers, careful not to shake the bed, and got to her feet. She hated sneaking around behind Owen’s back, but he honestly left her no choice.
Back in the office, Jess seated herself in front of her desk and turned on the laptop. She typed in Jasper and Melanie Dayton, steadily glancing at the door while the page loaded.
A black and white photo appeared of the Dayton’s holding a press conference. The date below the image told Jessica the conference had been held four days after Terry’s disappearance.
The distraught look in Melanie’s eyes tore at Jessica’s heart. Jess knew all too well the pain Mrs. Dayton had felt in that moment. Nothing could ever come close to the agony of losing a child.
Jessica’s gaze touched on Jasper Dayton, taking note of the protective way his arm held tightly to his wife.
Jasper Dayton had been a handsome man thirteen years ago with his dark, semi-long hair and masculine jawline. He appeared to be tall as well, standing a good foot above his dainty wife.
Handsome couple, Jessica thought, clicking back and then onto the next link. A picture of the Dayton house appeared in the article currently loading. It amazed Jessica, how much it had changed over the years. Little Terry Dayton had lived in that house, probably felt safe, happy, and loved.
Jessica wasn’t sure how long she sat there scrolling through the different articles once again before her aching back demanded she get up and move around.
She ventured out into the living room, drawn to the front window like a moth to a flame.
With the glare of the streetlight shining in her eyes, Jess cupped her hands around her face and pressed her forehead to the glass. There, looking back at her from the second story window of the abandoned house, stood Terry Dayton.
Jess squeezed her eyes tightly shut, counted to ten and then eased them back open to find the Dayton boy…gone.
Doubt quickly surfaced. What if all of this was a figment of her imagination and she was back in Chicago, rocking in a corner somewhere in an institution?
She trailed over to the door, disengaged the locks, and stepped outside.
Though the night felt warm, a gentle breeze blew through the trees to cool Jessica’s bare legs.
Moving off the porch, she inched down the driveway, never taking her gaze from the window of that house.
“Looking for something?”
Jessica sucked in a startled breath and spun to face the owner of that deep voice.
A tall, blond man stood in the street wearing jean-cutoff shorts and a tank top. He held a can of beer in one hand while flipping a knife in the other.
“I—I—no, I was just taking a short walk.” She couldn’t look away from that knife.
The man glanced toward the Dayton house and then resettled his gaze on her. “Seems to me you were looking for something in that house over there. Now, what could be so interesting that you would be out here at midnight, creeping around to see?”
“I wasn’t creeping,” she whispered, backing up a step. “I told you, I was —”
“Out getting some air. So you say.”
Jess eased back another step. “Well, as you said, it’s rather late. I’ll bid you a goodnight, then.”
He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, flipping that knife in his left hand and staring at her through bloodshot eyes.
Once Jessica backed far enough away, she spun on her heel and fled to the safety of her house.
Throwing the deadbolt home, she scurried to the window to find the blond man staggering down the street, still flipping that knife.
She watched for several minutes more, taking note of which house he stumbled up to, before turning away from the window and heading to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Owen sat in his office at the First Bank and Trust of Sparkleberry Hills sucking down his third cup of coffee.
He pushed back his chair and stood, stretching his muscles and fighting a yawn. He hadn’t slept worth a damn last night. Every time he’d rolled toward Jessica in his sleep, he would find her gone. Figuring she was in the office painting, he’d left her alone and attempted sleep once more.
A knock sounded on his door.
“Come in,” Owen called, smoothing his tie before returning to his seat.
Brenda, his secretary, stuck her head inside. “You have a visitor.”
Owen lifted an eyebrow. “A visitor?”
The secretary nodded. “A Mrs. Hawthorn. Says she’s your neighbor.”
“Send her in.” Owen couldn’t imagine what his casserole making neighbor could possibly want with him.
Marge Hawthorn bustled into the room wearing a bright yellow pantsuit. “I do apologize for barging in on you like this, but I felt it important enough to speak with you about in person.”
“No need for apologies,” Owen assured her while waving a hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Closing the door behind her, Marge strode across the room and lowered her ample weight into the chair. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Hawthorn?”
She made a big show of smoothing her pants around her knees. “It’s about your wife.”
Owen’s stomach tightened with dread. “Is she alright? Has something happened?”
“Oh no, Mr. Nobles, I’m sure she’s fine. It’s just that…”
“Go on,” Owen urged, attempting to keep the impatience from his voice.
Marge blew out a breath and clasped her hands in her lap. “She’s been acting rather strange, lately.”
“Strange, as in?”
“Well, for starters, I see her outside at all times of the night. Usually staring at the abandoned house next door to you. Then last night around midnight, I noticed her standing in the street talking to Dale Schroder. Looked to me like they were arguing about something.”
Owen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Surely to God, Jessica wasn’t sneaking out of the house at night! Furthermore, what was their busybody neighbor doing up at that time of night watching his wife’s every move?
He cleared his throat, wondering what to say to Marge without coming across as an asshole. “I appreciate you letting me know, Mrs. Hawthorn. Jessica doesn’t sleep very well since our son’s passing.”