“Like I told the cops, my baby daddy gave our girl away to a loving family. I didn’t hurt her. They’re gonna figure out that the bag of bones they found ain’t my kid.”
Either the woman was a practiced liar or so deep in denial she’d lost touch with reality. “Loyola, Danny Briggs was arrested an hour ago.”
“Danny?”
“Yes. Danny. He’s been arrested. And it’s a matter of time before he implicates you.”
Loyola looked at her shorn, uneven fingers. “I didn’t kill my baby. I didn’t kill my baby.”
Rachel had dealt with many accomplished liars in the few years she’d been a public defender. Most were guilty but it was the stray innocent who kept her going. As easy as it was to try to convict Loyola in her mind, she’d put her emotions aside and do what she did best—make her case in court. “All right. Let’s see if I can get you out on bond. They’re holding you right now on a minor parole violation. They can’t argue for murder until you’ve been charged and that’s going to take DNA.”
Loyola leaned forward, her dark eyes searching. “You’re going to get me out? I shouldn’t be here because someone found a bag of bones.”
“That bag of bones was someone’s child.”
She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Wasn’t mine.”
If not for her commitment to the law and the justice system, she couldn’t do this work. “For the short term, yes, I’ll get you out.”
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, August 24, 10 A.M.
Jenna woke before the sun, but the fatigue had been overwhelming. She allowed herself the luxury of dozing until ten in the morning. She’d slept little last night, her conversation with Rick Morgan buzzing in her head like a swarm of bees. The constant replay of words had made little sense until it struck her that last night had been the first time she’d ever talked about her past. Her aunt had always brushed the bad events aside and, without words, taught Jenna to do the same. The only time the past had come up in Baltimore had been at her interview for the academy and she’d done what her aunt had always done . . . she’d brushed it aside. I don’t remember.
But she was remembering now. More and more each day, a new detail slipping through another crack in the wall.
First, it had been Shadow Eyes. Then details of the closet. Her sister angry with her father. Ronnie arguing with someone up until the end. And then . . .
More details danced on the edges of her memory and if they took one small step forward into the light, she could reach out and grab them. But they hovered in the darkness, elusive and out of reach. That’s why she’d gotten up and started to draw.
She sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side and shoved her hands through her hair. Barefooted, she padded into the living room, glanced at the covered portrait she’d begun last night. This image didn’t feature a bride or a smiling face. This was the portrait of Shadow Eyes who had broken into her thoughts three weeks ago, the night she’d found the little girl in the closet. But as she stared at the face, recognition did not flicker. For all she knew, the image might have been an amalgam of suspect faces she’d drawn over the years.
Shaking off a shudder, she moved into the kitchen, needing a cup of coffee to chase away the heaviness of fatigue. Minutes later, coffee gurgled from the machine and she was leaning toward it, counting the seconds until it finished brewing. Finally, it was finished and she took coffee in hand and moved toward the back door, anxious to be in the fresh air.
The morning dew had long burned off the back deck that overlooked the small, green backyard and the ring of woods behind the house. Outside, she was more connected to the world. She could breathe. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there but when she turned, she spotted something in the corner of her eye. Setting her mug down, she moved toward the white bit of plastic resting on the back rail by her house. As she got closer, she realized what was in the bag. A head.
For an instant, she recoiled as her heart raced and her chest tightened. She inhaled deeply and steeled herself. She peered in the bag. It was a doll’s head and scrawled across the forehead was the word BITCH.
The eyes staring up at her were blue, bright, and lifeless. White hair stood straight up, spiking as if the electricity had raced through the doll, or what remained of her.
In a snap, her brain shifted to cop mode. Who had sent her this? Her work with the Nashville Police Department came to mind. She’d created the sketch of a child’s face. Instead of being afraid as she was of Shadow Eyes, she knew this doll’s head was tangible and she understood tangible. “I’ve struck a nerve.”
Mindful not to touch the doll, she retrieved her phone from the house, took pictures of the doll’s head, and then called Rick Morgan.
He answered on the third ring and his voice was gruff and deep. A dog barked in the background. “Jenna.”
“I’m texting you a picture. It’s of a doll’s head left on my back patio.”
“A what?”
“A doll’s head. I think my drawing has gotten someone’s attention.”
Silence crackled on the line. “The child’s grandmother saw the picture you drew on television last night and called us. We questioned a woman last night who we believe might be the child’s mother. We’re running a DNA sample of the mother and the child. We also arrested a man who we believe was the child’s father.”
“You arrested him?”
“He drew on us.”
The understated words hinted at what must have been a heart-stopping scene. She’d had a gun drawn on her once, when she’d patrolled in Baltimore. She remembered holding her gun steady and shouting for the man to put his gun down. She’d been lucky. He’d listened and laid his gun down before kneeling with his hands behind his head. She’d shaken for two days after. “So you have them both in custody?”