Vanessa groans, and I can imagine her following Paige through a million different houses in her tailored off-duty clothes, a far cry from the tactical belt at her waist. “You know your best friend. She’s got a list about this long.” She spreads her hands so far apart I’m surprised she’s still smiling, then snaps her fingers. “Oh, speaking of, we’re canvassing your area today. We’re checking if anyone saw or heard anything that could help with the Blake case.”
Her radio crackles to life, and a voice summons Dispatch 105. She presses her radio. “Dispatch 105. Heading to the station now.” She turns back to me. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
“Hey, Vanessa,” I call as she walks away.
She pauses. “Yeah?”
“I know you can’t spill the beans on an ongoing case, but…” I trail off, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Do you have any suspects?”
She raises a blond eyebrow. “You mean like Rafael Gray? I know the chief called you Saturday night, Scarlett—I told him to, since I know you’re neighbors.”
I huff out a breath, glad I can drop the act. “Great. Then can you tell me what the hell you have on him? Because the chief had a lot of questions.”
She pauses, rocking slightly on her heels. “Uh, nothing, really. You know he’s had his trouble with the law.”
“So?” I quip.
“So, previous perpetration of crime is the first predictor in propensity to—”
“Seriously? Once a criminal, always a criminal? He was just a kid.”
“I know.” She holds her hands up in defeat. “We’re not arresting him or anything. Why are you getting so worked up? Are you close or something?”
My heart lurches, and I clear my throat, looking away. “I barely even know him.” Technically not a lie, right? “I’m just… worried about the investigation. Did the chief tell you about my visit?”
“Yes.” By her tone, I can imagine Donovan relating it like the latest crazy story from the dead cop’s daughter who wants to play the hero. “And look, could it be a copycat murder based on that book? Sure. But even if you’re right, it doesn’t exactly lead us to the guy.”
I bite my lip. She has a point. Knowing the killer is a bookworm doesn’t narrow the suspect list. “Neither will focusing all your energies on Rafael Gray.”
She hesitates for a moment. “Someone was seen fleeing by one of the victim’s neighbors. Green cap with a visor, head down. Classic. Apparently wearing a gray T-shirt with some type of tree print on the front.”
“Man? Woman?”
“Not sure. Tall and broad-shouldered, so probably a man. For now, we’re digging into her life—exes, family drama. That’s usually where the gold is.”
“Got it,” I say, leaning back. “Thanks for humoring me.”
“You know I’m always happy to talk to you.” Though I expect her to go, she stays put. When the moment of silence lasts just a beat too long, I point at the car.
“Well…”
“Yeah.” She shakes her head, like she’s brushing a thought away, and I wonder if she was preparing to tell me something. Before I can ask, she’s already walking away. “Drive safe!”
“You too.” I climb into my car, a thought buzzing at the back of my mind like an annoying fly.
Though my theory might not help them find the killer, if I’m right and this murderer is playing out a twisted homage to a book, one thing’s certain.
There’s going to be a sequel.
“Sherlock?” I call as the door shuts behind me. The house echoes faintly, the silence heavier than usual. He always greets me at the door, weaving between my legs, purring for attention. His absence can only mean one thing. “Son of a bitch, he’s gone again.”
Five years of minimal maintenance have turned my parents’ place into a skeletal version of its former self. The paint is peeling, the tiles are cracked, and the distinct scent of age permeates the air. Somewhere there’s got to be a hole just big enough for Sherlock to slip through, giving him the freedom to roam the neighborhood.
I’d bet anything he’s with that labradoodle down the street. The Walkers have called me three times this month alone to come fetch him after finding him cuddled up with Georgina.
I set my bag down on the side table, the familiar weight of another Sherlock rescue already forming in my chest.
Before I can even kick off my shoes, a creak from somewhere deeper in the house freezes me in place. It doesn’t sound like the usual groans of a tired old home. It’s deliberate. Close. My heart pounds a little harder, my mind flashing unbidden to Catherine Blake’s murderer.
