“Excellent.” Dr. Kincaid moved into the hallway at a fast pace and pushed open the swinging door to an autopsy suite.
The room was outfitted with a long stainless-steel sink and counter, instrument carts, and several empty gurneys. To the right was a bank of refrigerators. Dr. Kincaid gave her what she described as the ten-cent tour, stopping to show her the afternoon logbook of what they would be doing. “We have a stabbing case coming in as we speak. Eighteen-year-old. I’d ask you to stick around, but I can’t have anyone here who’s not on the payroll during official business.” She then said with a wry smile, “The investigating officer can scare the best of people away.”
“I don’t scare easily.”
“Then you haven’t met Agent Dakota Sharp.”
Her smile froze. “Dakota Sharp.”
Dr. Kincaid stood by an instrument table equipped with a tray of wrapped sterile instruments. “You know of him?”
What had she expected? Of course their paths would cross. “I know Dakota Sharp.”
A dark brow rose. “Really?”
She did her best to look calm, marveling how worlds always grew smaller at the worst times. “We’re married. Separated.”
Dr. Kincaid studied her a long moment. “Really?”
“I can assure you,” Tessa rushed to say, “that our relationship will not be an issue. We’re both professionals and dedicated to our jobs. I’m sure he’s still one of the best agents in the state.”
“He is that. And as long as you think you can work with him, I won’t worry about it. Do you have any other questions for me?”
Tessa rattled off several practiced questions based on her research of the facility, hoping they made her look well prepared. Finally after another twenty minutes, Dr. Kincaid extended her hand. “Dr. McGowan, thank you for coming today. I’ll be in touch.”
Dr. Kincaid’s expression was impossible to read, and Tessa’s hopes deflated as the doctor shook her hand and wished her a good day. She suspected her relationship with Dakota had complicated her chances of landing the job.
It was early afternoon when Sharp pulled off the interstate into a small town just a few miles from the cemetery where they’d buried Roger yesterday. The town, north of Richmond, had roots dating back 150 years and links to the RF&P Railroad. Its center featured pre–Civil War architecture, historic Victorian homes, and a main street boasting dozens of shops and restaurants.
His mother had brought him to this area when he was eight and then she married RB, and for almost a decade he’d lived here, attending high school, raising hell with his friend Jacob McLean, and generally champing at the bit until he left for Quantico. Since the day Kara died, he’d never looked back at this place with any fondness.
Winding through town, he found the small side street canopied with orange and yellow trees anxious to drop their leaves. At the end of the block, he parked in front of the one-story white brick house listed as Terrance Dillon’s address. Leaves had been raked into piles at the curb, and the thick green lawn was cut. Mums filled twin planters flanking the front entrance.
He dreaded death notifications, and this one weighed especially heavily on him as he got out of the car and strode along the sidewalk to the front door. Cool air blew across his shoulders, burrowing deep into his bones. He knocked hard on the front door.
Seconds later the thud of footsteps sounded inside the house before the door snapped open. Standing on the other side of the screen was a young man in his midthirties. Dark hair, gray eyes, and a square jaw mirrored Terrance’s motionless pale face.
“I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police.” He pulled his badge from his breast pocket and held it up for the man to see. “I’m here to see Terrance’s grandmother. She filed a missing persons report on her grandson.”
The man hesitated, his frown intensifying into a scowl. “Have you found him?”
He tucked the badge back in his pocket. “I need to speak with Terrance’s grandmother before I can comment.”
The man pushed open the screened door. “My grandmother is in the kitchen. I’m Henry Jones. I’m Terrance’s older cousin. All the grandchildren have been taking turns with my grandmother since Sunday, trying to keep her spirits up while we waited on news about Terrance.”
Sharp noted the white walls decked with framed pictures featuring dozens of different children over the last few decades. Several looked like school pictures taken of a younger Terrance.
“Grandma’s been raising Terrance since his mother died eight years ago. His father is in prison mostly. Terrance is a good kid. Grandma expects the sports scholarship to come through and for him to go to college next fall.”
“It’s a nice collection of pictures.”
They entered the small kitchen outfitted with a narrow Formica countertop, a vintage 1950s stove and refrigerator, and an oval-shaped table rimmed with a dull stainless-steel ribbon and encircled by four matching chairs.
An older woman sat at the table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her. Graying hair, which hung loose around her round face, drained her of color and aged her by another decade. She looked up from the stoneware cup, and when she saw Sharp’s face, tears filled her eyes. She rose and faced him. “Where is Terrance?”
“This is my grandmother,” Henry said. “Edith Jones. Grandma, this is Agent Sharp.”
“Mrs. Jones,” he said, softening his voice. “We found Terrance dead about five miles from here.” He never delayed this kind of information. Better to get it out and end the agony of not knowing. “I am very sorry.”
Her chin trembled as she dropped back into her seat. She pressed wrinkled hands to her mouth and for a moment closed her eyes. “Are you sure it’s my Terry? Are you sure? He only went to the Quick Mart to get candy and an energy drink. He called me and told me he was coming right home.”
“Yes, ma’am, we’re sure. He was carrying his driver’s license.” Moments like this, Sharp wished he had the words to ease the gut punch he understood too well.
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “You must have made a mistake. He came to church with me on Sunday. It was his birthday.”
“Yes, ma’am, we’re sure.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. There’s no mistake.”
Tears spilled, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak as Henry stood beside her, his arm draped over her shoulders as she sobbed. Finally, she raised red-rimmed eyes. “Did my boy die quick? Did he suffer?” Mrs. Jones asked.
Sharp didn’t need a medical examiner to tell him the knife wound had been devastatingly efficient and had ended his life swiftly. “He did not suffer.”
She folded her face into her hands and wept. “My poor baby. How did he die?”
“The medical examiner will make the final determination.”
Henry glanced up at Sharp, his gaze full of fury. “Who did this?”