When the doorbell rang, Jenna expected to see the uniformed officer that Rick had sent. She’d not glanced in the peephole or peeked out the window. It wasn’t like her to be distracted.
She opened the door to Susan Martinez. The reporter was dressed in a black pencil skirt, a white tailored shirt, red four-inch heels, and large, dark glasses. Pearls hung from her neck and a gold watch winked on her wrist. “Jenna.”
Jenna’s hand gripped the edge of the door and straightened as if someone had taken an unexpected swipe at her. She needed formality with this woman. “Ms. Martinez.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?”
“We received quite a few calls and e-mails on that piece. People were touched you survived and thrived. If you would let me interview you, I think quite a few people would be inspired by you.”
“I don’t think so, Ms. Martinez. I’m not interested in rehashing my family’s tragedy for everyone to see. But feel free to tell your own story and how you were tangled up with my family.”
A wrinkle formed between the reporter’s eyes. “No one cares about me. They care about you. You’d be going full circle if we spoke again on television.”
“I don’t need to go full circle.”
“The cops, hell, even the reporters, worked nonstop for weeks until you were found. Believe it or not, there were seasoned cops crying when you were found alive. I think you owe it to them all to show that you’re doing well.”
She understood what those cops had gone through emotionally. She’d been in their shoes before. She’d wept tears for children like Sarah.
“The case was solved and closed. Leave it alone.”
Jenna thought about the uniformed officer whom Rick was sending. She did not need Susan Martinez here now. One thing to dig up the past but it was quite another to talk about an active case with the media. “Now’s not the best time. I have a client coming by to talk about a portrait.”
A spark in Susan’s eyes suggested a shift in tactics. “KC Kelly was one of the cops on your case. I could interview you together. It really would be a great story.”
The woman didn’t know when to let go. “KC’s not a fan of interviews.”
“He had his share of troubles last year but I won’t bring them up. I promise.”
The sincerity underscoring the last word rang false. “No. Not now.”
The reporter didn’t blink or budge. “How is it that you came to draw in front of KC’s bar? Was that a one in a million?”
“It happens.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You came back to Nashville for a reason. You found that girl in the closet and started to remember. You’re still remembering more and more each day.”
“I needed to make sense of a terrible thing. That’s all.”
“And you’re at peace with what happened to your family?”
“I have to be. Look, Ms. Martinez, I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to do an interview. I need you to leave.”
Susan stood her ground. “Is it because of what I told you about your father and me?”
“You’re too close to the story.”
“I’m not. I’m a reporter first.”
Jenna shook her head. “No, Susan. I can’t do this now.”
“Every day on the anniversary, I put flowers on your family’s grave.” She whispered the words as if in confession.
“Why?”
“Because they were good people. They should be remembered. Helps me to remember them.”
“I do remember them. I don’t need to relive the past in public.”
Susan’s eyes danced with desperation. “I’ll be at the gravesite tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there too.”
“Good-bye, Ms. Martinez.” She closed the door. For a few long, tense minutes, the woman stood on the doorstep and didn’t move. Then finally, she turned and left.
Jenna watched her leave but sensed she’d not seen the last of her.
Rick got out of his car and studied the high-end dress shop Pamela’s. The one-story building was painted in blues and grays and a gilded P decorated the glass front door. He didn’t know much about the place but had been willing to visit when the uniformed officer had called him an hour ago. “Lady says she’s got a stalker. A guy that’s always just there. Seeing as you’ve had two murders thought you’d want to know.”
Rick had searched the woman’s name, Pamela Grayson, and discovered she’d had no priors and had not filed any stalking claims before. When he did an Internet search on her and saw the picture of her standing in front of her store, he realized she fit the profile of Diane and Nancy.
Jangling his keys, he moved into the shop immediately assailed by the scent of expensive perfume and bright colors.
A tall woman with dark hair glanced up at him. She stepped around the counter, a pink dress hugging her slim figure. Clearly, she realized he didn’t belong in a place like this. “May I help you?”
He removed his badge. “Detective Rick Morgan. Nashville Police Department. I’m looking for Pamela Grayson.” A dress here would cost more than most cops made in a month. “I understand you filed a report yesterday.”
Relief softened dark eyes. “Yes, but I wasn’t sure anyone was really listening.”
“I’m listening. What’s going on?”
Pamela sighed. “A few months ago, I got the feeling that someone was watching me. At first, I just dismissed it. My mother always said I could make a production out of nothing.” Absently, her right hand went to the gold watch on her left arm. “So I just kind of blew off my worries. But my skin kept tingling.”
“Tingling?”
“Yeah, I know. Sounds dumb. But there you have it. Tingling skin. Anyway, I really started to pay attention to my surroundings. I read that book on fear. I know you’re not supposed to dismiss it.”