I’m Sorry
Catherine Stark. It had to be. Miranda released a small, relieved breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The other day, she’d read Catherine Stark’s feelings correctly.
Her gambit had worked.
She started to shake. In a moment, she would know. The contents of this box could break the case wide open or leave her as frustrated as before. This could be something big or just something more.
Miranda carried the box into her living room. She set it on the coffee table and went for the key, which she’d tucked into the change compartment of her wallet. From there she went to the coat closet to grab a pair of scene gloves from her jacket.
She slipped them on and knelt on the floor in front of the coffee table. Her fingers trembled as she fit the key into the lock. It could be nothing, she reminded herself. A disappointment.
“No,” she whispered because somehow, deep in the pit of her gut, she knew that the contents of this box were going to change everything.
She turned the key; lifted the lid. A collection of things. Documents. A passport, a driver’s license, a diploma. An envelope containing cash. She quickly counted—ten thousand dollars.
She picked up the passport, flipped it open. Richard Stark’s face stared back at her. She shifted her gaze to the identifying information. Michael Weisman from Gainesville, Florida.
She moved on to the drivers’ license and diploma and found the same thing: Richard Stark’s photo, another man’s name.
Every form of identifying information a person needed to travel, get a job, get married even. And cash. A lot of it.
This was Stark’s get-out-of-jail-free box. His escape plan should he ever be found out. Bastard had gotten away with his crimes for at least fifteen years; he’d decided he would get away with them forever, even if it meant becoming another person and leaving the country.
Guess you didn’t expect one of your victims to fight back. Sorry, dude, plan spoiled.
Miranda moved aside the diploma. Car keys and what looked like a padlock key. A contract with a self-storage facility—Grant’s, near the I-12 east exit. As she picked it up, something shiny caught her eye, peeking out from under an envelope.
A button, she saw. Shaped like a flower, the petals made up of pink rhinestones, the center a faux pearl.
The breath hissed past her lips. Not any button. The one from the blouse she’d worn that night fourteen years ago.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
That night in June
2002
The woman at the Harmony Police Department information desk pinned her with a bespectacled gaze. “Who do you have here, Clint baby?”
“One Randi Rader, welfare mama in training.”
“You stop that, Clint Wheeler.” She looked back at Randi. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
Randi’s teeth chattered. “Fif-t-teen, ma’am.”
“Don’t let the big eyes and ‘ma’am’ fool you,” Wheeler said. “She’s practically a hardened criminal already.”
“What’s she here for?”
“Numerous reasons, but a pocketful of pot’s the biggest.”
The woman frowned and wagged a finger at her. “Sweetheart, that’s not gonna get you anywhere in life. You listen to Miss Roxy, I won’t steer you wrong.”
Wheeler rolled his eyes. “Keep an eye on her, would ya? The first family member she tried wanted no part of her or her stories. She’s thinking about who she wants to call next. When she’s ready, let her use the phone.”
“I can do that.” She smiled at Randi. “Take a seat over there.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “And, honey, you might want to button up.”
Randi looked down at herself. Her shirt gaped open, revealing her cheap bra. Cheeks hot, she went to fasten it and discovered she’d lost a button. Her yellow blouse and its sparkly, rhinestone buttons—it was so pretty. Her favorite. Dirty and rumpled now, the prettiest part missing.
“I can’t button it … the button, it’s—” She started to cry. “I lost it.”
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Ms. Roxy said, voice soothing. “I’ll get you a safety pin. It’s all gonna be okay.”
No it wasn’t, Randi thought, slumping in her chair, clutching her blouse to hold it together. Not for her and not for the other girl.
“Here you go, sweetie, this should do it.”
Randi looked up, tears dripping off her chin. She took the pin. “Thank you.”
“You go ahead and fasten that pretty blouse up. I’ll stand here and make sure no one can see what you’re doing.”
“Got it,” Randi said a moment later. “Thank you.”
Ms. Roxy smiled reassuringly. “You’re going to be okay, honey. Chief Cadwell’s a good man. He’ll make sure of it.”
She turned to walk away and Randi stopped her. “Is he here?”
Ms. Roxy looked back. “Chief Cadwell?”
Randi nodded. “I really need to talk to him.”
“He won’t be back ’til morning, but I’m sure he’ll—”
“No!” Randi shook her head. “I need to talk to him right away! Something bad’s happening to this other girl but no one believes me!” Her chin began to wobble. “I promised her I’d get help.”
Roxy’s brow knitted. She sat down next to Randi. “What do you mean, something bad’s happening to another girl?”
The story spilled out, along with more tears, the words tumbling one over the other.
When she finished, the woman looked distraught. “And you told Officer Wheeler this?”
“I did, but he said I was lying. But I’m not. I promise!”
“You don’t worry another minute, sweet thing. I’m taking care of this right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
2:30 A.M.
“Miranda? What’s going on?”
She looked over her shoulder at Jake, standing in the doorway to the living room. Her expression must have said it all because his changed from sleepy to alert.
“What’s wrong?”
She held out the button, perched on her gloved palm like an offering. “It was mine.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s from the blouse I was wearing fourteen years ago, when Stark abducted me.”
“How did you … are you sure?”
Her eyes filled with tears and her hand began to shake. She curled her fingers around the button. “Yes.”
He crossed the room and knelt down beside her. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” she said, tone fierce. “Now I know for sure.”
He shifted his gaze, seeing the lockbox for the first time. “What is that?”
“It was Stark’s. Look.”
She opened the passport, then the diploma. “His get-out-of-jail-free cards.”
“Holy shit.” He stood. “I’ve got gloves in my console, I’ll be right back.” He returned with the gloves and after putting them on, studied each item from the box.
When he’d finished, he looked at her. “Where’d this come from, Miranda?”
“Someone left it on my porch tonight. I think it was Catherine Stark.”
Jake’s brow creased. “Why would she do that?”
Miranda explained about finding the key, then bringing Catherine Stark the reframed photo and asking her about a lockbox. “I could see it, in her eyes, that she felt bad about her son. That she knew about him, what he did to women. She knew about me.”