Crooked Creek Police Station
Ellie called a briefing meeting for ten a.m. She shouldn’t have told Cord about Jordan Orwell’s father grabbing her wrist. The minute she did, he’d clenched his jaw then informed her he’d be sticking to her night and day until they solved the case.
As much as she didn’t want to be needy, she had to admit sleeping in his arms the night before had helped alleviate her anxiety over seeing that dead crow on her bed.
To her surprise, Jordan Orwell’s father and his wife showed up at nine o’clock, both fairly sober and cleaned up. The man’s eyes still looked glassy but at least the fog was gone, now replaced by wariness. A hint of whiskey oozed from his pores, but her threat to arrest him the night before must have reached him on some rational level, and he appeared almost contrite.
Or maybe it was just an act to fool her.
But Ellie wasn’t easily fooled. She still sensed an underlying air of anger simmering below the surface of his supposed calm.
“Come in and have a seat,” she told the couple. “Mrs. Orwell, I spoke with your husband last night and appreciate you both coming in today.”
The woman frowned at her husband and tugged at the sleeves of her sweatshirt, bringing Ellie’s attention to scars on her arm. Cutting marks? Or bruises made by her husband?
“Call me Connie. My husband said this was about Jordan,” she said, her voice a low rasp.
Mr. Orwell looked down at his bruised knuckles and grease-stained nails. According to Ellie’s background check, he worked as a mechanic at a local body shop.
Ellie offered a gentle smile. Was the woman afraid of her husband?
“Yes, you may have heard about the young girl, Minnie Benton, who was killed at Midnight Ridge and that her little daughter is missing?”
Connie’s face turned ashen. “I did and I feel terrible for her parents.”
Ellie had, too, until she’d met them. Now she felt sorry for Minnie and her daughter and Minnie’s sister.
“But what does that have to do with us and Jordan?”
Here was the difficult part. “Minnie’s death was first thought to be a suicide, but we looked into that and now believe her death was a homicide.”
Confusion clouded Connie’s face and Jordan’s father angled his head toward Ellie as if struggling to follow the conversation.
“I don’t understand,” Connie said. “What does Minnie have to do with Jordan?”
Ellie exhaled slowly. “When I studied the suicide notes, I noticed the wording was very similar. As if… someone else wrote the note or forced the girls to write it.”
The couple exchanged baffled looks.
“Your daughter was pregnant?” Ellie asked in a soft tone.
Mr. Orwell’s jaw tightened, and Connie’s eyes crinkled with sadness. “She did get pregnant, but she never would tell us who the father was.”
“If I’d known, I would have whipped his ass,” Mr. Orwell said. “For God’s sake, she was only a teenager and had no idea what raising a kid was like.”
“Most teenagers don’t,” Connie said as she cut her husband a bitter look. “We surely didn’t. I was only fifteen when Jordan was born so how could I judge her?”
“But I married you,” the father said sharply. “Jordan’s baby’s father never showed his face or took responsibility.”
“What happened?” Ellie asked.
“I told her we’d help her raise the baby,” Connie said. “But Jordan said she didn’t want her child to grow up the way she had.”
“What did she mean?” Ellie asked.
Connie winced as her husband grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Judging from the woman’s wince, obviously hard.
“On the counselor’s advice, Jordan decided it was best for her baby to grow up in a more stable home,” Connie explained.
