Allison Clarke was a beautiful young woman. Even in pictures you can see that she was so full of life and brightness. But the body we found was so badly beaten that the skull was brutally caved in. Her face was completely unrecognizable. Whoever did this had such anger toward her. Who could hate someone so deeply?
“No,” I draw out the word slowly as the ideas flit through my mind. There’s a string of connection that will make all of the pieces fit into place, a linear explanation that will align perfectly. I just need to find the edge of the thread, and then the truth will unravel. “Her fingerprints were burned. Someone didn’t want us IDing her.”
“But they threw her wallet with ID near the body?” Captain asks the same question that’s been bothering me. “So, we either have a very dumb killer or…”
“Or we’re missing something,” I finish the thought for him.
It’s the same plaguing worry that’s been keeping me up at night with this case. There’s something we’re missing. Something we’re not seeing about what happened to Allison Clarke.
“And the other teacher?” Captain questions as his eyes flit to the much smaller, much more sparse board next to us.
“Keit—Officer Tennyson,” I correct myself. Don’t need the Captain thinking I’m becoming too chummy with a uniformed rookie. It’s hard enough being the only female detective on staff. I don’t need them thinking I’m a softie, too. “Is looking into her a bit more, but so far, also nothing out of the ordinary. She was your average school teacher who one day up and vanished. No trace of her to be found.”
“She worked at the same school?” he asks as he takes a step closer, looking over at the picture of Celeste Briggs. Her dark hair and cool expression is a harsh contrast to Allison Clarke’s brightness. They’re so similar and yet so different.
“Yes, same school. I’ve confirmed they knew each other and worked together occasionally but were not close. And,” I point to a grainy picture taken from a security camera, “the week Celeste Briggs went missing, she was seen dancing with none other than Brody Clarke.”
“So, there’s your connection between the two victims and your suspect?” Captain proposes reluctantly. “That’s not a case, Pierce.”
“No,” I nod in acknowledgment. “You’re right. We need more. But,” I point to a piece of paper posted on the far side of the board, “when we searched the Clarke house, we found Briggs’ cellphone and underwear with DNA matching our missing woman.”
“He confess to where the body is yet?” My Captain asks, knowing that if Brody Clarke had, we would not be having thisconversation.
“No, Sir,” I say with my shoulders thrown back.
“Pierce, this case won’t make it past Grand Jury. You need more.” I resist the urge to sag slightly. “I think you need to send that rookie to look into Allison Clarke’s background a bit more. See what you can dig up about her time in foster care. The answers you’re looking for might be there.” He looks at the boards pensively as he speaks. I can see it in the way his eyes flit back and forth across the evidence—he sees it too, the loose thread tying this all together, just waiting to be unraveled.
“Yes, Sir,” I acknowledge with a curt nod as he turns to walk from the room.
He pauses at the door, turning to look back at me over his shoulder. “Find out what demons Allison Clarke had chasing her, Detective.”
THIRTEEN
Allison
Before
Guilt has been gnawing at me all day. Twisting and acidic, burning my insides. I spent this weekend and all day today avoiding any thoughts of Gabriel. I’ve told myself to think of something else, to stay distracted and focus on my lessons, my students, grading—anything. It’s not working. Every time I think I’ve moved past it, images pop back into my mind.
His hands holding me roughly. His tongue dancing withmine. His fingers inside me. The light flashing from yellow to red. The way I came with his name screaming from my mouth.Twice now.
Fuck. It was the most out of control I’ve felt in a very, very long time.
And I fucking loved it.
No. Nope, that’s not me anymore. I am not weak. I am in control. I’ve come so far. I made a life that’s calm, safe, normal.
I can’t fuck that up. Even if it was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
Brody is safe. Brody is stable. Brody is suburbia and a white kitchen and two-point-five children with a nuclear family. The type of life I promised myself I’d have. This is the life I’ve always wanted, always dreamed up. Abandoned and unwanted foster kids, like me, don’t end up with normal and boring lives. I’ve done the research, read the statistics. I should be grateful for what I have.
But maybe the perfect life isn’t so perfect after all.
My mind wanders back to my childhood as I stand and pace the room, mindlessly cleaning desktops. Fear, insecurity, and loneliness swirl with my guilt until I’m nearly sick. I promised myself I’d find love, have a family, and never be alone again. Yet here I am, feeling alone in my own marriage. Blue eyes and a soft smile push their way from the depths of my memory to the forefront of my mind.
A small boy. A promise. A kiss. A moment nearly lost to time.
I stare down at my palm where I’m absentmindedly stroking the scar across my left hand.
