She thought of her cockiness, climbing in the car, acting all tough and street smart. What a joke.
She lowered her eyes and forced “Yes” past the lump in her throat. “He said his name was Steve. He seemed real nice and … there was another girl with him and it didn’t seem like there was—”
She bit back the words but they landed with a thud between them.
Anything to be afraid of.
Stupid, Randi. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“The other girl have a name?”
“Cathy. She was older, seemed nice.”
“Older?”
“Like in college or something.”
He made a note on the pad in front of him. She realized he’d been doing that the whole time.
“Steve or Cathy have last names?”
“I didn’t ask.… I see now how dumb that was.”
He didn’t comment or lecture but he didn’t have to. They both knew she had learned a lesson she’d never forget.
“What happened next, Randi?”
“We drove around and partied.”
“Partied. What does that mean?”
She averted her eyes. “We smoked weed.”
“You got high?”
She nodded. “And I guess … I passed out.”
“You guess?”
“’Cause I woke up … outside somewhere.” Starting to shiver again, she pulled the blanket tighter. She had to force the words past her chattering teeth. “I couldn’t hardly move and I didn’t know why.”
“And why couldn’t you move?”
She still couldn’t look at him. It was easier to get the words past her lips without seeing his fatherly disapproval. She was afraid she’d completely fall apart if she did. “I was tied up. With tape. The wide, clear kind.”
“Packing tape.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Randi swallowed hard, her saliva bitter. “The other girl, Cathy, was crying.”
“Where was she?”
“A few feet away. She said he … said he raped her. And that I was next.”
“And where was he?” he asked, voice turning gruff.
“She said he went for food. Taco Bell.” She sneaked a peek at him. He had an expression on his face, like he’d eaten something sour.
“And you believed her?”
“It was true. She was tied up, too. But with rope.”
“Rope?” he repeated, eyebrows lifting. “You with tape, she with rope?”
“Uh-huh. Why … don’t you believe me?”
“It’s just odd, Randi. Very unusual for a perpetrator to use different materials, especially at the same scene.”
“But it’s true. Maybe … maybe, he didn’t have enough rope for both of us?”
“But he had a roll of packing tape handy?” He shook his head slightly. “I’m going to be honest with you, Randi, your story’s starting to fall apart.”
“It’s true!” She bunched her hands into fists. “I promise!”
“And you’re not making this up to try to deflect our attention from the fact that you had an ounce of pot in your pocket? Maybe you’re trying to make yourself look like a victim instead?”
“No!”
He jotted several notes, then looked back up at her. “What happened next?”
“I was hysterical, trying to get my hands free—”
“And how did you?”
“I chewed through the tape.” She made a face at the memory. “It took a long time and tasted real nasty. But I got my hands free, then my feet, and went to help Cathy.” Her voice rose. “That’s when he came back. I saw the headlights … then heard the car door—”
Randi recalled every moment, from her wildly beating heart to the terror that had threatened to overwhelm her.
“He was humming … getting closer … I had to run! Don’t you see? I promised I’d bring help … I promised her!”
He stood. “You think you can find where this Steve held you?”
She said she could, then burst into tears.
CHAPTER FORTY
12:40 P.M.
Miranda decided on a brutal workout, then an equally brutal run. Tracks and treadmills couldn’t compare to a good, old-fashioned country road, so she drove outside the city limits and parked in the lot of the closed-for-the-season Christmas tree farm.
She’d run this five-mile circuit before, knew each curve and turn, where to watch for traffic and where there was none. Her feet pounded the dirt shoulder in time with her heart, and her breath surged forcefully in and out of her lungs. She might not be able to move tomorrow, but for now the exertion and endorphins were doing their jobs, forcing both her past and the present to the back of her mind.
Up ahead, she saw the sign announcing Bayou Spring Trailer Park. Every rural, southern town had at least one trailer park. Some were shiny and manicured, but most were slightly seedy with more than a whiff of despair about them.
The way this one did. And the way the one where she’d grown up had. Miranda slowed at the entrance, glanced in. Clothes on a line, a couple young kids sitting in a homemade sandbox, two women in folding lawn chairs watching them.
She’d been called out to Bayou Spring a handful of times. Nothing she lost sleep over; most of the disturbances stemmed from one dumbass getting tanked up and pulling a knife on another dumbass. The rest were domestic disturbances or drug related.
Neither of the women looked her way and she ran on, rounding the curve in the road, her gaze landing on the rusted mailbox ahead. Her gait faltered. And some country folks got themselves a double-wide, planted it on a patch of ground, and let the world grow up around them.
The way Clint Wheeler had.
She stopped at the once-shiny mailbox, C. WHEELER hand-painted in bold black on its side.
Her legs just seemed to lock up. Wheeler had retired from the force a year before she’d joined it; when was the last time she’d seen him? She thought back. If she remembered correctly, it was a couple years ago. He’d won a tarpon rodeo, had the poor creature stuffed and mounted and brought it into the HPD to show it off.
“You’re a liar, girl. Always was, always will be.”
She stared at the crudely painted letters, the euphoria of the run evaporating and her breath turning hard and agitated. And as she stared at those letters a thought popped into her head, rooting and taking hold.
Confront him with the truth. Confront him with the pain he caused, tell him she knew who her attacker was. Perhaps he already knew.
Show him the button.
Miranda brought her hand to the hidden pocket in her jogging pants.
Car key.
ID.
Rhinestone button.
She’d tucked it in at the last moment, like some twisted good-luck charm.
Or maybe because the idea to confront former Officer Clint Wheeler had been taking root all along.
What did she have to lose? He might order her off his property, even threaten to shoot her if she didn’t go, but she would have her say. He needed to understand what he’d done.
Even as she told herself to turn back, she started toward the trailer.
His gravel drive was overrun with weeds. Her steps made a crunching noise and the gravel occasionally shifted beneath her sneakered feet.