“Both.”
“At first I had no idea what was in the box, so why would I involve him? Once I did know the box’s contents, the why’s obvious, I think. He’s in charge of the Stark investigation. And I trust him.”
Until that moment, Buddy hadn’t blinked, but he did then. His words to her that summer night fourteen years ago popped into her head.
“You can trust me, Randi. I promise you that.”
She couldn’t anymore, she realized. And she didn’t.
Problem was, the sentiment seemed to be mutual.
“Do you have any idea who could have left the box on your porch?”
“It’s my belief that Catherine Stark left it.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s some wild theory.”
Her palms began to sweat. Here was where her story became damning. “Not so wild. The day I caught the two of them at their son’s, I startled her and she dropped the framed photo she was holding. The glass shattered. I felt responsible, so I replaced the glass and brought it to her.”
“You mean, you manipulated the situation to create a reason to approach her—after I specifically told you not to.”
They both knew her action had been motivated far more by investigative ingenuity than kindness. If she’d done it in her official capacity, as a sworn officer working under his direction, Cadwell would have given her a high five and an “attagirl.”
But not now. No, indeed. He was pissed.
“Of course not.” She met his gaze evenly. “She’s obviously in a lot of pain. I was being a decent human being. While I was there,” she continued, “I mentioned that we’d found a lockbox key at her son’s, but no box, and asked if she was aware her son had one.”
He frowned slightly and glanced toward Jake, as if in question, but Jake didn’t seem to notice and continued to stare out the door.
The chief returned his attention to her. “And she said what?”
“Nothing. Just wished me luck.” She waited a heartbeat before continuing. “Which brings us to tonight. The box turns up on my porch with a note that says, ‘I’m sorry.’ Coincidence? I think not.”
“In my book, that’s a stretch.”
“Who else would have access to the box and those documents?”
“The killer.”
“Maybe. But then why the note of apology?”
“Exactly—what does Catherine Stark have to be sorry for?”
“She knows what her son was.”
Buddy shifted in his seat. “And what is that?”
“A sexual predator. The contents of the box prove it.”
“It proves nothing.”
His response wasn’t unexpected but it still made her blood pressure rise. She flattened her hands on the table. “Unbelievable, Buddy. It’s so obvious. Why else would he have this stuff?”
“It’s only obvious to you, Miranda.”
“C’mon, Buddy! A driver’s license and passport in another name? Ten thousand dollars cash? He had all this in case he needed to disappear and start a new life.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“I already told you, but if you insist on playing this game—Richard Stark was a sexual predator. He knew it was only a matter of time before a victim stepped forward. He was ready for that day. A new identity and ten K to start his new life. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, Buddy. You’re a better cop than that.”
Face turning crimson, he pushed away from his desk and stood, glaring down at her. “Don’t you lecture me. You’re a better cop than this, Miranda. The roofies that didn’t exist—”
“They did. Someone took them.”
“Well, they don’t now. Not to me, not to Jake or Jones, nor any cop worth their salt. And as for this—” He swept his hand in the direction of the box. “We have no way of knowing for certain why he did this.”
“I know why he did it. And you do, too.”
He flinched slightly. “The man’s dead, Miranda. How’re you going to prove this theory?”
She stared him down. “Maybe I take the box and everything in it to the Sheriff’s Department? See what they think about it? And last I checked, falsifying government documents was a crime.”
“The man’s dead! You’re obsessed with this case. It’s like you’re on some sort of vendetta. Don’t you see? It’s ruining you, Miranda.”
“You’re not going to do anything with this, are you?”
“I didn’t say that, Miranda.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s the same thing you’ve been doing all along, isn’t it? Protecting Stark? Or is it his father you’re protecting?”
Jake sucked in a sharp breath; Buddy turned an angry shade of red. “Watch yourself, Detective Rader.”
“You watch yourself.” She stood and started for the door. “I’m out.”
“We’re not done here!”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Oh, yes we are. We’re way past done. Y’all have a good day.”
Damning silence followed her from the chief’s office through the squad room. On her way out of the building, she bought a Coke from the vending machine.
Miranda stepped onto the sidewalk. The sunlight stung and she jammed on her sunglasses. She crossed the street to her car, climbed in, and dropped her can of soda into the console drink holder. Only then did she realize how badly her hands were shaking. She gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“It’s like you’re on some sort of vendetta. Don’t you see? It’s ruining you, Miranda.”
Was it? Ruining her?
A desperate-sounding laugh slipped past her lips. Her life was in shambles. Had she really just told her superior officer to watch himself? Had she really accused him of burying evidence to protect Ian Stark?
She was done at the Harmony PD. No way Buddy could reinstate her after that.
Where would she go? What would she do? She’d wanted to be a cop forever. A strangled sound caught in her throat. She certainly couldn’t expect a glowing recommendation from him.
She’d come unglued over a case. Gone off on her own private vendetta, ignoring chain of command and investigative good practices and disrespected her superior officer.
Her cell phone went off; she answered and without thinking said, “This is Detective Rader.”
“Miranda? It’s Summer.”
Her thoughts shifted immediately, filling with her friend’s plight. “How are you this morning?”
“Alive,” Summer answered. “That’s a good thing. Heading into work.”
“The bar? Are you sure you should?”
“It beats the hell out of lying down and dying.”
“Not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” She paused a beat. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?”
“Adding my problems to your plate.”
A lump formed in Miranda’s throat. Her problems were nonexistent compared to Summer’s; the last thing she should be doing was whining about her life. “I’m glad you told me, and honored you trusted me with this.” When Summer didn’t respond, Miranda went on. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into giving treatment a try? I promise to be with you every step of the way.”
“Every step of the way,” Summer repeated. “We both know that’s not possible.”
It was Summer’s body under attack, not hers. Summer’s life at stake, not hers.