And the rhinestone button.
She sank onto the couch, taking in her upended living room, feeling violated. How many times had she been part of a search team but never considered the subject’s feelings?
But they’d all been guilty-as-hell perps.
Or so she had assumed.
Miranda dropped her head into her hands. “Figure out why this is happening to you.”
She lifted her head. Of course. Stanley was right—it was her only option.
She stood, started to pace.
Why is this happening to you, Miranda? Figure it out. You’re running out of time.
Start at the beginning. The first thing that had jumped out as not making sense.
The clipping. As far as she knew at the time, there was no reason for it to have been there.
But it had been.
Why?
She now knew that Richard Stark had been her abductor all those years ago, but at the time she’d thought it a bizarre coincidence.
Not a coincidence. A plant. Otherwise, it would have stopped there.
No prints. No box on her porch. No button.
She stopped pacing, took a deep breath, refocusing. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Miranda. Slow down, one step, one piece of the puzzle at a time.
She moved on to the prints. They made no sense at all. She hadn’t known Stark, had never been in his home before the night he was killed. And despite her claim to Buddy, she’d had her gloves on the whole time.
Yet, her fingerprints were found at the scene.
Also, obviously, planted.
Where were the prints found? On what? And how many times? She’d been so shocked and so busy covering her ass, she hadn’t asked.
Stupid, Miranda. Careless.
She crossed to her front door, stepped out onto the porch. The lockbox and key. She looked at the spot where the bag containing the box had been. If not Catherine Stark, then who? And why?
Someone had left it for her to open. Not Jake or Buddy. Her. They had wanted her find the contents and know what those items meant.
The button. Like the clipping, no reason it should have been there. Why, if a trophy, only one? That didn’t fit with a serial offender’s MO. The serial part meant they closely repeated a crime over and over. If taking a trophy was part of that ritual, the perp would take one from every victim.
Unless she was the only one who got away.
She shook her head. You’re not special, Miranda. That’s not it. Keep searching.
The clipping. The button.
Unique. Out of place.
Both planted. Like the prints, to tie her to the victim. And to make the investigation personal.
To her.
Of course. The killer wanted her to care. They wanted her to wonder—was Stark the one from fourteen years ago?
Now, she believed he was and had become obsessed with proving it.
She had played right into their hands.
The killer’s hands.
Why is this happening to you, Miranda?
The realization hit her like a thunderbolt. She stopped pacing, audibly caught her breath.
Because it’s about you. And the past. And the other girl.
The other girl.
All these years she had wondered what happened to her. Whether she was alive or dead.
She was alive.
And she was here, in Harmony. She killed Stark and Wheeler. She planted the clipping and took the lockbox. She was the one who’d found the rhinestone button—and kept it all these years. She put the button in the lockbox, creating another physical tie between Miranda and Stark.
The fingerprints, also planted. But how? If they’d been lifted from an object, the possibilities were many. A gum wrapper or water bottle. A paper coffee cup or a dozen other things one handled and tossed during the course of a day or week.
Why is this happening to you, Miranda?
She was being set up. Of course she was.
Someone she didn’t know, following her, scooping up a discarded item or going through her trash. No. She shook her head. Someone in her sphere, a colleague, an acquaintance, or neighbor.
A friend.
No, not a friend. She crossed to the sliders that led to her back porch, stepped outside, and went to stand at the rail. The cold air stung her cheeks; she breathed it in, willing it to clear her thoughts. Clear away what she was thinking.
She curled her hands into fists. Did she know any Cathys? She searched her memory. None that fit—either too old, too young, or she’d known them all her life.
The university employed hundreds and hundreds of people, most of whom she’d never met. Her Cathy could be hiding in plain sight. She could even be an older student. Or she could have changed her name.
Start at the beginning. Again.
Why is this happening to you, Miranda?
Because both Stark and Wheeler’s murders had nothing to do with the present and everything to do with that summer night fourteen years ago.
Summer.
Knight.
No. She shook her head again. God no, not her friend. Not Summer.
How much could she have changed, that she wouldn’t recognize her? To not recognize Stark was one thing—he’d been driving that night, she sat in the back seat; he was wearing a ball cap, pulled down low on his face.
Miranda shut her eyes. Cathy in the front seat, next to him. Turning back to her, talking and laughing, passing the joint to her. Cathy, whose image had haunted her for years.
Fourteen years. No way could she have changed so much she wouldn’t recognize her. No way.
Miranda felt sick. Her hands shook. So what did she do now? Where did she look next?
Her phone went off.
Jake.
“I heard they were there this morning.”
“Who from?”
“Jones. He thought I’d want to know.” He paused. “He felt real bad about it.”
“I could tell.”
“How’re you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. Doing a lot of thinking.”
“About what?”
“Why this is happening to me.”
“And?”
“I’ve got a couple theories.”
“Pass ’em by, maybe I can help.”
“They’re not that far along.” She drew her eyebrows together in thought. “Do you recall, my prints at the Stark scene—how many and what were they lifted from?”
He was silent a moment. “I don’t. I could ask Jones to look it up?”
“Do you think he might do you another favor? I’m wondering if they got any prints off the clipping and who they belong to.”
“Yeah, maybe. What’s up?”
“I’ll let you know when you find out.”
“You’re thinking the clipping was planted?”
“Yeah. Call me back. There’s someplace I have to go.”
She hung up before he could ask where. She couldn’t voice what she was thinking, not yet. Not even to Jake.
CHAPTER FIFTY
1:00 P.M.
Miranda had a friend in the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office. They’d met during a multi-jurisdiction case several years back, hit it off, and dated for a while. They’d mutually decided they were better friends than lovers and jointly ended the relationship.