An older man wearing a baseball hat stood behind them, holding a gallon-sized mug, and his posture screamed impatience. Perhaps he was a trucker, anxious to stay on schedule.
“You about done?” It wasn’t really a question. This was his way of letting the woman know other people were in line.
“Yes, sorry.” She set the cups on the counter and reached for the lids, making room for the man.
“What’d you get me?” the kid asked, still swinging for the fences when Laurel emerged from the bathroom.
His mother struggled to make the lid fit. “I got you Sprite, because you?—”
The boy was too young to have spatial awareness, but he got a lesson in cause and effect when his candy bar connected with the cup. It sent the entire contents flying in an explosion of soda and ice. It showered the trucker from head to toe, and for a moment the only audible noise was the gasp in horror from the mother.
Outrage flooded the man’s face before he leaned down and hooked the boy under the arm, squeezing. “Look what you just did!”
The boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers and he burst into tears, maybe from the fear, but maybe from pain.
“Get your hands off him.” My voice was so loud, it made the man jolt and everything around us stop.
The trucker’s focus turned to me. One glance to size me up, and he dropped his hold of the boy. The candy bar fell to the ground, and the boy darted to hide behind his mother’s legs, who looked paralyzed with fear.
“I got soaked!” the man said, as if that justified his actions.
“Yes, but it was an accident.” I pulled another cup from the dispenser, dumped some ice in it, and began to fill it with Sprite. “The kid made a mistake. We all do sometimes.”
I snapped the lid on the drink and passed it to the mother, who probably only took it from me as a practiced response. She was on high alert. The trucker was the biggest threat, but she was unsure of me as well.
“You made a mistake,” I said, “when you grabbed him. I’m sure the kid is sorry, just like I’m sure you’re sorry. Right?”
I’d perfected the“you don’t want to fuck with me”look over the years and delivered it now. If that wasn’t enough to get the message across, I’d put one hand on my hip to give the guy a nice view of the gun and badge there, currently disguised under my suit jacket.
The trucker straightened, weighing his options, and then quickly decided it wasn’t worth it.
“Yeah.”
I focused on Laurel, wordlessly asking if she was ready. When she nodded, I moved to the register and dropped some money on the counter. “I’ve got their drinks.”
“Whose?” The clerk’s gaze went from the mother and son to the trucker.
“All of them.”
When we got back to the car, Derrick was already seated behind the wheel, waiting for us with an ominous look.
“Check your phone.”
The forensics report was in. If there was any doubt Frey was behind it, this decimated it.
It was a picture of Laurel, taken from above. She wore a glittering ballet costume, and there was blood staining her arms and knees. Her face peered up at the camera, and the expression she held was so haunting, it made my blood run cold.
It was nothing compared to the single word scrawled beneath the image, though.
Mine.
It was like I’d just taken a fist to the gut. That was why Frey hadn’t killed her in his hotel room. He wanted her alive.
Freywantedher.
I abandoned my phone on the seat and climbed out of the car, mumbling to my partner I’d be right back. I moved with the only goal of getting away from the SUV, needing to put distance between myself and the image. But it was useless. The picture and its meaning were seared into my brain.
I rounded the back of the gas station and saw the trucker clambering into the cab. Part of me wanted to go after him, lay into him some more and use him as an excuse to get my aggression out. Instead, I kept walking.
