I tell her I met Laurel Hayes this afternoon after I drove up to speak with the investigators. They had her in a safe house while they looked into this man who’s been stalking her.
“The thing is, Elise, there were too many coincidences. Laurel Hayes knew Clay Lucas. She admitted that she kept in touch with him after he stopped coming to the day center. Mostly by text, but FaceTime as well. She told him about the man who wouldn’t leave her alone. How he sat at the bus stop and watched her at work, and then followed her home and watched her there. He drove a blue truck.”
I wait. Let that sink in. Elise drinks the coffee and sits up straighter.
“I showed her our photo of Brett Emory and sure as shit she confirmed what I already knew—it was the same guy.”
She looks at me now, and I finish the story.
“Clay must have waited and watched that bus stop, looking for the man who was stalking Laurel. He followed Brett to Nichols that day. He was there to kill him.”
Strangely, she doesn’t flinch. Not a shred of emotion washes over her face.
I tell her next about the missing drug dealer the investigators now think was killed at the shelter. His name is Billy Brannicks, and he was seen under the bridge in our town.
She listens. And thinks.
I remind her that Clay was also seen under the bridge. “And when they found Brannicks’s apartment, they also found guns, along with the usual stuff—drugs and cash and, get this, a litter of pit bull puppies pissing and shitting all over the place.” I let her think this through before continuing. “So the missing link,” I say, “is connecting Brannicks to Clay Lucas with more than proximity. We can put them both under the bridge, but not at the same time.”
She looks away. Nods. She understands.
“Do you think we’ll find the connection? The missing piece?” I ask.
“And if we do? What does that mean? I assume they can’t confirm the remains belong to Brannicks.”
“Right. No dental records, and that’s all that’s left of him. We’d have to speak to the Lucas family. Go back over Clay’s life. Every inch of it. Brannicks’s roommates aren’t talking. And no one’s thought to match the gun Clay used at Nichols to the ones found in that apartment.”
“Half the battle is knowing what questions to ask,” she says. “And where to ask them.”
We sit quietly for a long moment. I can see her making calculations—not in her head, but in her heart.
She reaches out and takes my hand. “Clay didn’t follow Brett Emory to Nichols. He was hiding in the back of his truck.”
I stare at my partner as the implications unfold. “Tell me...”
Her cheeks flush, her eyes well with tears. She can’t catch her breath.
“Elise,” I plead with her. “Let me help you.”
She falls into me and lets go. This part I remember. When I fell, there was no one to catch me. That’s not going to happen here.
Epilogue
Mitch finds me in the kitchen. I’ve made coffee and poured some for him in his travel mug. I feel his arms around me, his lips close to my ear. Warm breath.
“Good morning,” he says. A kiss follows when I turn my head.
“Busy day?” I ask.
He’s working on a new kitchen across town. The client is a pain in the ass, constantly changing his mind about fixtures and appliances. He doesn’t understand that every time he does this, they have to take new measurements for the countertops and cabinets because everything has to fit together like a puzzle.
I understand puzzles.
“I’ll be glad when this one’s over.”
I walk him to the door. We exchange another kiss. Nothing spectacular. Just normal. Like we’ve been doing this same kiss for sixteen years. Like it was never interrupted by an affair or a shooting at a department store. I watch him walk to his car, and in spite of myself, I look up and down the street, then lock the door behind me.
Next come the girls about an hour later. I’ve made the muffins for the afternoon snack because Kelly will meet them at the bus and I will be working a full day. It’s going on a year now, and just like the kiss at the door, we’ve slipped back into this part of our routine as well. As if nothing has happened.
