The Sheriff’s Office had state-of-the-art forensic imaging software, including photo-regression capabilities. If she had the time to wait for results, she could accomplish the same thing via the Internet. Or, if she still had a badge, at the HPD.
But she had neither, so she decided calling Shawn was her best, safest bet. She called him from her car and he met her in the STPSO lobby.
Tall, with sandy hair, hawkish features, and a devilish smile, he’d reminded her of a cross between Dennis the Menace and the Terminator. Go figure.
She smiled and held out her hand. “Shawn, thanks for making time to do this for me.”
They shook hands. “Of course. How are you, Miranda?”
“Good. You?”
“Can’t complain.” He motioned toward the flight of stairs. “Which case are you working?”
“Cold case. Missing person.” At least that wasn’t a lie, she thought. She took the truth one step farther. “Actually, it’s not official. I’m helping out a friend.”
“Gotcha. Here we are.”
She saw the plaque on the door and cocked an eyebrow. “Captain now? Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Just happened. I’ve got to say, I’m pretty pleased with myself. Pull a chair around.”
She did, then handed him a photo of Summer; he scanned it into his computer.
“How old is she here?”
“Thirty-two.”
“And you want to go back fourteen years?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded. “That’s pretty easy. Changes aren’t going to be that big.”
She watched as he manipulated the image via toolbar and keystrokes. A minute and a half later he stopped and turned the monitor her way. “There you go. Like I said, fourteen years isn’t that much.”
A younger Summer. Fuller cheeks, higher brow, no softening under the eyes, wrinkles nonexistent.
But not Cathy. Relief was like a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. She felt practically giddy.
“Is this what you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.” She stood and tucked the photo back into her jacket pocket. “That’s perfect.”
“You want me to print it out?”
She opened her mouth to say, “Don’t bother,” but nodded instead and waited while he printed it. A moment later, the printout was also tucked into her pocket.
“Good seeing you, Miranda.”
She smiled. “You, too, Shawn.”
“Hey, Miranda?” She stopped in the doorway and looked back. “It probably doesn’t affect what you’re doing, considering the age of the subject, but one of the limitations of these programs is they can’t take into account unknown factors.”
“Such as?”
“Illnesses, drug or alcohol abuse, accidents. Just wanted you to be aware.”
She smiled again. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”
Miranda was in her car, engine running, before it hit her—Summer had been in a bad car wreck right before she moved to Harmony.
*
Summer was deep into a conversation with a customer when Miranda walked in. She looked up and smiled in greeting and the knot in Miranda’s stomach tripled in size.
Miranda smiled back and headed to the bar. “Hey, Tara,” she said to the young woman. “You have a soup today?”
She smiled. “Good, old-fashioned chicken noodle.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said, unzipping her jacket. “I’ll take a bowl.”
“Bring me one, too,” Summer said from behind her. “We’ll be in one of the booths.”
They took the booth in the far corner. Miranda slipped off her jacket, tossed it on the seat, and slid in. “I’m sorry about last night,” Summer said when they were seated. “I didn’t mean to go all postal on you.”
“You didn’t. It was a long day, that’s all.”
“You’re sure? I—” Summer bit back whatever she was going to say, and started again. “I don’t know what I would do without our friendship.”
The knot grew again. Miranda cleared her throat. “You don’t need to worry about that, Summer.”
Summer searched her gaze. “You’re not going anywhere, right?”
“Maybe to jail, but we can still be friends.”
Summer laughed. “That’s not funny.”
She met her eyes. “I’m not trying to be.”
Her smile faded. “What are you saying?”
“Apparently, Buddy’s not just crossing t’s and dotting i’s. He really thinks I killed Richard Stark and Clint Wheeler.”
“That’s crazy!”
“A judge signed a search warrant. They came this morning.”
“I’m so … sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Her words came out with an edge she hadn’t intended, but she couldn’t take it back. “It’s not your doing, right?”
“Right. But you’re my friend, so it matters to me.” She leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”
“I got a lawyer, a good one. And I’m going to fight it.”
“He … Buddy, is he going to arrest you?”
“That’s his goal, I’m sure. That’s what the search this morning was all about. I’m not scared. I’ve lived through worse.”
“That night,” Summer said softly.
“Yes. That night. And everything that came after.” She dropped her hands to her lap and squeezed them into tight fists. “What about you?”
Summer shifted in her seat. “What about me?”
“What’s the worst you lived through? Your car wreck, I guess?”
Summer hesitated, cleared her throat, and nodded. “Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“My wreck?”
Tara came over with their setups and waters. “Anything else to drink?”
They both responded “No,” then when Tara was out of earshot, Miranda continued. “You were about to tell me about your accident. What happened?”
“It was pretty straightforward.” Summer fiddled with her soupspoon. “I lost control of my vehicle and crashed into a wall.”
“That sounds horrible.” Miranda lifted her water glass, glad to see her hand was as steady as a rock. “How fast were you going?”
“Very … eighty.”
“My God.” She took a sip, set the glass down. “What about your injuries?”
“What about them?”
“You said you were in the hospital a long time.”
“I was pretty smashed up.”
“Your face, too?”
She’d pushed too far, Miranda saw. Summer’s expression changed, seemed to close.
“That’s a weird question, Miranda.”
“Is it?” She feigned surprise, then regret. “I’m sorry. You don’t have scars, so I wondered.”
“I have scars,” she murmured. “Believe me, I have plenty of scars.”
Invisible scars. Miranda reached across the table and caught her hand. “I understand. I have them, too.”
Summer’s eyes turned bright with tears; she looked away, blinking furiously.
“It’s okay to cry.”
But she didn’t and in that moment, Tara arrived with the two steaming bowls of soup and a basket of crackers. As if picking up on the emotional tenor between them, she delivered the food and without a word, returned to the bar.
Miranda and Summer both dug into the soup. The broth was rich and tasty, and Miranda was half-finished with the bowl when Summer suddenly picked up where they had left off.
“I should be dead, but here I am.”
The spoonful of soup seemed to lodge in her throat. Miranda washed it down with a sip of water and pushed the bowl away, appetite gone.
“I lived,” Summer went on, lifting her gaze to Miranda’s. “And now, I’m going to die.”
Miranda struggled to come to grips with her suspicions and her affection for the Summer she knew. This was her friend. And she was in pain.