“Thank you,” Zooey said, letting out a sigh of relief. She set the pie plate down on the edge of the desk. “Hey, do you mind if I ask you something about your evidence boards?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a list here, on the X board.” Zooey went over to the second whiteboard, tapping on a sticky note affixed to the far right corner. There was a short list scribbled on it: personals, forums, newspaper ads, dating sites. “What’s this about?”
“I was trying to figure out how Wells and the unsub met,” Abby explained. “How they communicated and traded information. One of my initial theories was that the reason Wells didn’t give up the unsub was because he didn’t know who he was.”
Zooey frowned. “You think they connected online anonymously?”
Abby shrugged. “It was just a theory. One of the assistant coroners who worked with Wells in Oregon mentioned he was always buying stuff off Craigslist, so I was thinking that might be an angle, but I couldn’t ever track anything solid down.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Zooey said. “You have your notes from that assistant coroner who mentioned Craigslist?”
“On the desktop.” Abby nodded at the computer set in the corner. “It’s in the Medford folder. Alfred Cooke.”
“Cool, I’ll look through it, see if anything jumps out at me,” Zooey said.
Paul stuck his head back in the study. “I’m ready, if you are,” he said.
Abby felt a flash of apprehension at the idea of just appearing on Keira Rice’s family’s porch, asking questions. She wasn’t the kind of journalist who liked to ambush her interview subjects. She never found it led to anything productive.
“If the dog scratches at the door, just let him out,” Abby said to Zooey. “He likes to wander around the orchard in the afternoon, if we don’t get back.”
“Call me if you find anything else,” Paul told Zooey. “And if Grace calls . . .”
“I’m helping you with a family matter,” Zooey said. “She’s not gonna call. She and Gavin are on a case Jake O’Conner brought them. Some drug trafficking thing.”
“It’s about time that guy did me a favor,” Paul muttered, and it made Zooey laugh and Abby frown, not getting the joke.
“Let’s take your truck,” Paul said.
“You think a little mud on an old Chevy’s going to make them more inclined to talk to us than pulling up in the BMW?” Abby asked, pulling her keys out and going over to her truck.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Paul said, climbing inside the truck. “Wow, this thing hasn’t changed since the last time I was in it.”
Abby’s old S-10 had been the one she’d learned to drive at twelve—farm girls learned early—and the one her father had given her at sixteen. When she’d moved back home, she’d pulled it out of the back barn and started driving it again.
“Rizzo’s a good ol’ girl,” Abby said, patting the dashboard of her Chevy.
“I’d forgotten how obsessed you were with that movie,” he said, his dimples flashing as she started the car.
“Shut up,” she muttered, trying not to smile herself.
“I wonder . . .” Paul said, and he reached down, tugging at something, and with a laugh, he pulled an ancient pack of American Spirits out from underneath the seat, where they’d been taped. He shook the pack at her. “Been a long time since you cleaned in here, huh, Winny?”
“Oh, my God, how old are those?” she asked.
“If I remember correctly, I stashed them there to avoid my mom finding them in my room when we were like, fifteen? Right after you got your learner’s permit.”
“If my dad had found those, he would’ve grounded me for weeks!” Abby said, half laughing, half outraged on her teenage self’s behalf.
“And if my mom had found them in my room, I would’ve been grounded for years,” Paul shot back.
“Wow, so ready to throw me under the bus,” Abby drawled sarcastically, shaking her head with great exaggeration as she pulled the truck out of the driveway and made her way down the long dirt road that led to the road and highway. She felt warm inside, peaceful and just a spark of happy as they fell into an easy rhythm, like no time had passed. Like nothing had changed.
Like they’d never lost Cass or themselves or each other.
“If your father had found them, I would’ve been the gentleman I am,” Paul said. “Fallen on my sword. Taken the blame. Been the bigger man.”
She rolled her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, buddy.” She turned onto the highway, heading north, toward the mountains and Trinity County, where the Rices lived.
They fell into a silence for a while as the landscape changed from neat rows of trees for as far as the eye could see and cute little farm stands sprinkled every few miles on the road, to craggy mountains and wild tangles of pine trees scattered across them.
“Do you think she’s right?” Abby asked finally, unable to stop herself. “Zooey, I mean,” she added, when Paul shot her a questioning look. “About another girl going missing soon.”
“We’ll see,” Paul said, in that way that told her the answer was yes and he didn’t want to say it. Maybe he didn’t want to break it to her—or to himself.
They fell back into silence, and this time, Abby let it go and focused on the road, on the mountains ahead, and what lay beyond.
Chapter 14
The Rice farm was set in the valley, near a tiny town called McCloud that was more of a gas station and a restaurant than a real town. Cattle were grazing in the rolling fields that made up the property, and the big red barn and horse paddock looked like they hadn’t seen use in a while.
Abby pulled up to the front of the yellow farmhouse, where marigolds were planted in each of the window boxes, shining like little suns.
“So, let me take the lead here,” Paul said. “I know you’re used to interviewing people, but I’m gonna have to show them my badge. They’re going to have questions.”
“I understand,” Abby said quickly.
“You do?” he asked, feeling surprised. He’d expected her to fight him on this. She was opinionated, Abby was. She liked to lead.
“Paul, you’re an FBI agent. You’re showing up on these parents’ doorstep and you don’t have any news about their missing daughter, but you have a whole lot of questions about her. I don’t want to step in it or accidentally give these people false hope. You have the experience to navigate this a lot better than me. I respect that.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“But you need to respect my instincts too,” she said. “You’ll be asking the questions. But me? I’m gonna be looking around as much as I can. There’s a lot you can learn just by looking at a person’s space.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “You’ve always had a good eye.”
“Okay, then, we’re agreed,” she said.
“For once,” he said, and then mentally winced. Why did he keep having to bring up the tension that had overrun their friendship since that damn kiss two years ago?
Because you want to push. Because you wish things were different.
Because you want her. And maybe you always have. Maybe it’s always been her.
Goddamn his mind. Paul shook the thoughts from his head as he got out of the truck, following Abby up the porch steps and knocking on the door. There was barking, and then footsteps and the door swung open.
“Mr. Rice?” Paul asked.
He was a slight, wiry man with round glasses perched on the end of his nose and motor oil under his fingers. “That’s right,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Special Agent Paul Harrison,” Paul said, flipping open his badge. “This is Abigail Winthrop, she’s consulting with me today. We’d like to ask a few questions about your daughter, Keira.”
Paul watched as the blood drained out of Morgan Rice’s face. “Did you . . . did you find her?”
“No,” Paul said gently. “But if you and your wife are willing to sit down with me, you might be able to help us.”
“Of course, come in,” Morgan said. “My wife’s in town,” he added. “Martha’s got quilting circle on Wednesdays.”