“I didn’t ask. I didn’t care.” Her voice drifted and Rick sensed he was losing her.
“How about a description?” Even Bishop’s normally abrupt accent had softened.
She closed her eyes. “Not tall. Not thin or fat. Just regular. Wore a bulky hoodie.”
“Hair color. Eyes?”
“Brown and brown.” Her breathing grew deep and though he repeated more questions, she was drifting back into unconsciousness.
Bishop rested his hands on his hips. “That description narrows it down to about a million people.”
Rick resisted the urge to shake the woman.
The sun hung low in the sky as Jenna returned to the Big House, her arms loaded with art supplies and a few bags of clothes she and Georgia had found at the consignment store. She’d bought a couple of pairs of jeans, a few sweaters, and a pair of sneakers and a killer pair of black boots. She’d also picked up a phone charger as well as a few toiletry items. They’d driven by her house, not pausing to dwell on the charred remains, so that she could pick up her Jeep, which had survived the inferno. Other than a few lost sketchbooks and clothes, she’d come through fairly unscathed. She was out only a couple of hundred bucks that she’d spent on clothes and new art supplies.
In the Big House, she dropped her bags and flipped on a light. Georgia had left for work, leaving her alone to glance around at the framed family pictures on the walls. Rick might have gutted the kitchen, but he’d saved and framed the pictures of his family. One image had been taken in this very spot. Buddy Morgan and his wife stood front and center and their children were gathered around them. Buddy wasn’t smiling but there was pride gleaming in his eyes. His wife grinned as if privy to a joke. The four children clustered around: fifteen-year-old Deke, twelve-year-old Rick, eleven-year-old Alex, and five-year-old Georgia who stood in front of her brothers, her hands on her hips.
“You’re a lucky guy, Rick Morgan.”
She’d not heard from him for hours but refused to fret. If he wanted to see her again, he could dial her number.
Flipping on more lights, she curled up on the couch tucked in the alcove by the kitchen. She pulled up the picture on her phone and studied the image of the boy who had dated her sister over two and a half decades ago. She had no memory of Billy Martinez, which seemed odd. If he’d dated her sister, surely he’d come by their house at some point. But there were no memories.
She stared into his eyes in the photograph and then flipped open her sketchbook. She opened a new pack of pencils and began with the eyes just as they appeared on the picture. When she’d drawn the eyes, she sat back. Her heart skipped a beat.
Shadow Eyes.
Jenna glanced at the boyfriend’s face. How could he be Shadow Eyes? He had just been a kid—nineteen or twenty—when her family had been killed. This could not be right.
She began with the age progression. She had no access to his genetics or habits in the last twenty-five years, which played a huge part in how a person aged. So, she guessed and generalized.
After an hour, she had a sketch. She stared at the face. It was a closed-lipped expression. She’d given him slightly darker hair and had thinned it a fraction. But as she stared at him, there was no flicker of recognition. “I have no idea who you are. None.”
She snapped a photograph of the picture and texted it to Rick. All she typed was age progression complete.
Her cell rang and she was disappointed to see that the number wasn’t Rick’s. She considered ignoring the call after all the prank calls the television interview triggered, but, thinking it might be Rick from a different phone, she took the call. “Jenna Thompson.”
“Ms. Thompson, this is Officer Woods with the Nashville Police Department. Detective Rick Morgan asked me to give you a call.”
“Okay.” He couldn’t call her directly. The idea burrowed under her skin. “What does he want?”
“He has a question about a sketch.”
“What question?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. A question about a sketch. He said to call and I’m calling.”
“So am I supposed to call him?”
“He’d like you at the station.”
“Really?” Why was she annoyed with Rick? He’d made no promises. She’d wanted no promises. But he was treating her like another cop. Which is essentially what she was, but . . . “Fine.”
“We’re sending a car for you.”
“When?”
“Any minute.”
“Fine.”
She grabbed her purse and phone and headed out the front door expecting to see a marked car driving down the long drive any moment. She’d taken one step off the porch when she heard the crunch of gravel and the very sharp sting of electricity shooting through her body. She jolted, faintly remembered being tased at the academy, and then passed out.
Rick read Jenna’s text about a half hour after she sent it. The instant he opened the image he rocked back on his heels. He recognized the face instantly.
Rick dialed Jenna’s number a second time and a second time got no answer. Georgia had said she was back at the house and drawing. “Where the hell are you?”
Bishop looked up. “What’s eating you?”
“Look at the picture of Sara Thompson’s boyfriend.”
One glance and Bishop cursed. “Fucker was right there all along.”
Rick called Jenna again. No answer. “Jenna isn’t answering her phone.” He made a second call to Georgia. She picked up on the third ring.
“What’s up, Bro?”
“Where’s Jenna?”
Through the phone, he heard the rustle of papers as if she’d put aside what she was working on and shifted all her attention to him. “I left her at the Big House. She was doing your sketch.”
“She’s not answering.”
“Why the red alert?”
“The age-progression sketch she did of her sister’s boyfriend, Billy Martinez, looks like William Spires, a realtor that we interviewed.”
“Shit. Do you think Susan Martinez knows?”