“The week before I dropped out.”
“Where were you the night before last?”
She looked confused. “Where was I—”
“The night Richard Stark was killed?”
“At my mom’s. I’ve been there the whole week.”
“Funny, I was there yesterday. She told me she didn’t know where you were.”
“I asked her not to tell.”
“You’re saying she lied?” The young woman nodded. “And if I call her, right now, she’ll back that up?”
“Yes!” She looked at Jake, then back at Miranda. “But you don’t have to call. She’s on her way over. To help me pack.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
10:05 P.M.
Miranda stood on her small back deck, looking out at the soupy night. Her cabin backed up to wooded wetlands, alive with all manner of buzzing, chirping, and humming.
Familiar, she thought. All of it. The magnolia tree she’d planted just after she bought this place, the row of azalea bushes that lined the deck, the cypress trees where the wetlands began, their knobby knees poking up from the ground.
And the smell. She breathed deeply. Earthy and fecund.
So why did it all feel so strange tonight? So foreign? As if she had been transported to a new world that was the same—but different.
Miranda turned away from the night and went back inside. The day had been long and tumultuous. From Buddy’s fingerprint bombshell and the way he had looked at her, to the lie slipping past her lips with ease, to Jake’s confidence in her and Jessie Lund’s mother’s confirmation of her daughter’s version of events.
Otherwise, Lund’s mother had been tight-lipped and obviously angry. But why? And even more, why had that anger seemed to be directed at Miranda?
Miranda massaged her right temple and the headache that throbbed there. And why would Buddy take Ian Stark’s side against her? Jake was right. Ten years of dedicated service and an impeccable record, and he looked at her that way? Like she was untrustworthy?
And then she had been, proving him right.
“I took off my gloves to call Jake. The touch screen doesn’t work with them on.”
Suddenly chilled, Miranda rubbed her arms. She glanced up. The ceiling fan, directly overhead. Spinning…’round and ’round …
The way the ceiling fan had that night, forcing the cooled air from the Harmony PD’s derelict AC window unit down on her head. Officer Clint Wheeler, squinting at her, seeming oblivious to her discomfort, even as she shuddered and hugged herself.
“Where’d you get the weed, Randi? And you’d better tell me the truth.”
She had told the truth, but he didn’t believe her.
Of course he didn’t.
Because Randi Rader had proved herself a liar so many times before.
No, Miranda thought. She wasn’t going there, not tonight. She marched to the wall switch and turned off the fan. Someone was setting her up. It was the only explanation for her fingerprints being at the scene.
She’d wrestled with the idea all day. Told herself she was crazy. That the notion was too outlandish to be true. Set up as a killer? Why? What had she done? And why Stark? She didn’t even know him.
Unless she did.
That was the answer, the reason, she kept circling back to. The same one that explained Richard Stark having that news clipping tucked into his desk drawer.
Richard Stark was her tormentor from that summer night fourteen years ago. The beautiful monster in the Alabama ball cap. It was the only explanation that made sense.
Her knees went weak.
Sense, Miranda? Really?
She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. How could she not have recognized him, even in death? He’d populated her every nightmare all these years. He was the creature under the bed, the thing lurking in the dark, the owner of the soft footfalls behind her.
He was the reason she’d become a cop.
What to do? Miranda struggled to find her breath, clear her head. Who could she tell?
No one. Not even Jake. That would play right into the hands of whoever was setting her up. The pieces of the investigation would fit nicely into place and she would be found guilty. Hell, from the way Buddy had looked at her, folks were just waiting to find her guilty. To slip up and be that girl again.
After all, a leopard can’t change its spots.
No one would believe her now. Just as no one had believed her then.
Tears stung her eyes and she blinked furiously against them. Angry tears, she assured herself. Not ones of hurt or vulnerability. Not evidence of weakness.
The other girl would believe her. She had been real—despite the fact that nothing ever appeared in the local media, not news of a missing girl, not a reported rape or homicide. No Jane Doe.
What ever happened to her? Miranda had wondered that hundreds of times over the years. Had agonized over the question—did she escape? If so, why say nothing? And if not, why no missing-person report?
She curved her hands into fists. She wasn’t a liar; she wasn’t that girl. Today was an aberration; she’d needed to protect herself from whoever was setting her up. She didn’t have a choice.
Let it go, she told herself. Pretend today didn’t happen. Get back on track by finding Stark’s killer. Which would lead to who was setting her up—and why.
She was a good cop. She could do this.
The room seemed to close in on her, her thoughts to choke the breath out of her. Too much alone. Too many questions with no answers.
Too much … Randi Rader.
Miranda snatched up her car keys from the kitchen counter and her purse from the back of the kitchen chair. She knew just where to go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
11:00 P.M.
The Toasted Cat was a hole-in-the-wall joint that’d been around since the sixties. The vibe was low key and old school; it catered to a working-class crowd as far removed from the frenetic clubs the kids favored as it was from the pretentiously cool places the intellectuals frequented. It was mostly a drinking spot, but had a limited menu of a few sandwiches and a soup or chili, depending on the weather.
As she stepped into the bar, the bartender, Summer Knight—who also happened to be the joint’s owner—looked her way and smiled. “Hey, girl, what’re you doing out tonight? The chief give you time off for being awesome?”
Miranda laughed and shook her head. “Like that would ever happen.” She slid onto a barstool. “Knew I couldn’t sleep, figured a drink might help.”
“You got it. The usual?”
She shook her head. “A shot of tequila and a beer.”
“That’s hardcore for a school night.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not in school anymore.”
Summer set the shot and draft in front of her. Miranda sucked on the wedge of lime, then tossed back the tequila.
Summer watched her, eyebrow cocked in question. “Feel better?”
“Actually, I do.” The numbing effect of the tequila was almost instantaneous and she motioned for a second, then took a long swallow of the beer.
Summer poured herself a splash of red wine. “Ready to talk?”
“About what?”