Gabriel put his foot on the step and tipped his chin up, trying to figure out what she meant.
“The one who did a dastardly deed and shows up and acts like the protective, helpful guy so he can be involved and steer people away from the crime scene.” Sloane’s face grew red with emotion.
Gabriel decided he was looming. So he eased down onto the top step. “You watch true crime shows at night when you can’t sleep.” He was sure of it. He caught the tone.
“How’d you know?”
“I had a girlfriend that watched them. She said it soothed her to know that there were smart, dedicated people out there finding and removing the bad guys from civil society. She’d put on one of those shows and fall right to sleep. But I couldn’t turn them off, or she’d wake back up.”
“Why couldn’t she sleep if you were there?” She gripped her stomach and glowered at him.
“Because I worked late, and she went to bed before I got home. This was a long time ago.” He pulled out his FBI badge wallet and held it out. “If it helps, this is my job.”
She glanced down at it and back up to catch his gaze. “It doesn’t help. Do you know how many law enforcement people do terrible things because they think the code of silence will protect them? Do you know how many police wives are killed by their husbands?”
“I don’t know what you want me to do here. I can walk away, or I can help. If I’m going to help, I need a scent source and a picture. Your call.”
With Sloane’s nod, Gabriel got a poop bag from Whiskey’s lead and went back to the kitchen window, jumped back to the sill, and this time, with the hot pink bag over his hand, Gabriel lifted the T-shirt that was draped over the back of the chair. He shut the window and rounded back to the front porch,where Sloane was back to panting, slick with sweat. “Look, is there someone I can call for you? Someone who can give you support.”
“My husband’s pulling up now.”
They both turned as an SUV pulled into the drive.
“My husband.”
The guy climbing out of the vehicle was a sofa athlete; he wasn’t going out on the White Tail Trail today. Or any day.
When the situation was explained, Sloane’s husband said he didn’t feel comfortable being out of cell phone range because of his wife’s condition. He turned to her. “You’re supposed to stay in bed.”
Sloane lifted her hands and dropped them. “Sommer,” she said and started crying.
Her husband put a hand on her shoulder and turned an expectant expression toward Gabriel.
“Whiskey is a tracking dog. I’m an adventure racer, and I’m pretty fast running that particular trail. I’ve done it a few times. Best case, I meet Sommer and her friends near their Friday night camp spot. If I can have a contact number for you and a recent picture of Sommer, possibly her friends, that will help.”
“It’s Friday morning,” the husband said. “You don’t have to work?”
“I can call in. I’ve been putting in plenty of overtime. And my urgent files have been cleared.”
“This is Sommer’s neighbor, Graves and Goth-hound,” Sloane whispered.
Gabriel was going no matter what, but he wanted the family on board. He stuck his hand toward the husband for a shake. “Actually, Special Agent Gabriel Atworth, FBI.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sommer
Friday, mid-morning
Sommer had been sitting very still in the woman’s car for over hours now.
With that stretch of time, she had recalibrated, assessed the situation, and formulated the plan, which was non-action.
Sommer had been stunned as a deer hoof bashed through the windshield and then jolted by the blast of the airbag.
Her brain stuttered in the next few seconds as the deer slid off the car hood and another brushed by the frame and dropped to the ground.
The woman opened her door and died.
