Her niece focused on scrubbing at an invisible spot. “You haven’t read anything new about your find up on March Mountain?”
Crap. “What did he write now?”
Kaylie indicated her laptop on the table. The article was still open. Mercy spotted Chuck Winslow’s name and quickly scanned the article, her fury growing as she scrolled.
He didn’t.
He did.
Chuck Winslow had written a recap of the murders two decades earlier and then stated that Britta Verbeek had recently moved back to the area and was currently using the name Britta Vale. He’d listed her work website.
Every nut and reporter in the country is going to hound her.
He went on to quote Grady Baldwin’s declaration that he hadn’t committed the murders and, without stating it outright, implied Baldwin’s belief that Britta was holding back something that would exonerate him.
Baldwin told me he didn’t talk to Winslow.
Rereading the article, she realized that wasn’t true.
“Dammit.” She fumed, wondering if her conversation with Baldwin had encouraged him to reach out to Winslow, seeing a way to get his side of the story out in public again.
The only positive she saw was that Winslow hadn’t mentioned Mercy’s name or the missing Hartlage family. He stated that the bones found on March Mountain had a few similarities to those in the old cases. Shit. The sentence read almost exactly how she’d stated her reason to Grady Baldwin for the interview.
Baldwin must have contacted Winslow after I left.
Winslow didn’t mention the murders that had supposedly followed Britta from city to city. No doubt Baldwin had shared that theory, but Mercy hadn’t found the claim credible after more research, and Winslow must have come to the same conclusion. One family had been killed by a relative, another family had all died in a car wreck, and another had died in a house fire. All of the deaths had been explained. Baldwin was grasping at straws by pushing the theory that mysterious deaths had followed Britta.
Poor Britta. Sympathy for the woman filled her. Britta needed her privacy, and Mercy wondered what this exposure would do to her psyche.
Asshole. Chuck Winslow had no idea of the emotional trauma his article could cause the woman.
Or did he?
“What is it?” Kaylie asked. “You look like you want to strangle someone.”
“I do. Chuck Winslow would do just fine.”
“He doesn’t mention you,” Kaylie said helpfully.
“No, but he’s mentioned a woman who’s been through enough.”
“Britta Vale? It sounds like the police need to investigate her.”
“That’s my point. There’s nothing concrete to back up what he’s implying about Britta. It’s all speculation from a man who desperately wants out of prison. I’ve talked to her twice.”
“Well, that’s horrible. What’s she like?”
Mercy turned to her niece, wondering how to best describe the unusual woman. “She’s different. The trauma from her past has stripped away all the bullshit that people hide behind . . . the fake layers . . . the socially correct facades. Her essence is what’s left, and it’s very strong. She’s scared at times but determined. Blunt. Self-sufficient. I like her,” Mercy admitted with some surprise.
“What are you going to do about her now?” asked Kaylie.
“I’ll check in with her. Wait . . . I don’t even have a cell phone number for her. Both times I’ve talked to her in person. I’ll have to drive out there.” She grimaced, not knowing when she’d find the time.
Kaylie frowned. “Don’t put it off. It sounds like she’s alone and needs people like you who understand her.”
Admiration for her sensitive niece touched Mercy, and she hugged the girl, kissing her on the forehead.
“Damn, you’re a good kid.”
“I know.”
SIXTEEN
“I’m starting to despise this case.” Mercy’s heart was a thick lump in her throat.
“Me too,” agreed Truman. Until now, he’d been silent beside her during the drive.
Mercy had received a 2:00 a.m. phone call—never a good thing—with a report that a family had been murdered in their home. A neighbor had found the family when she went to investigate why their dogs were howling.
Truman had been in bed next to her when the call came in and had insisted on accompanying her to the scene.
Her headlights lit up the one-lane gravel road, and the falling rain looked like liquid silver. Up ahead she spotted several county vehicles and a home with all its lights on. She parked behind a county unit, got out of her SUV, and pulled up her hood against the rain. Frantic barking sounded from behind the home. Mercy didn’t see a fence around the house and assumed the dogs were tied up or kenneled. She and Truman checked in with the deputy manning the scene log, bootied up, and then looked for Detective Bolton, who’d made the call to Mercy. A pair of deputies stood in the kitchen making small talk. They nodded at Mercy and Truman as the two of them entered, and one went to get the detective.
The home was nice, Mercy noticed. Someone had updated the flooring with wide plank boards, and stainless-steel appliances shone in the kitchen. Not high-end appliances, but definitely newer models. The cabinets had been painted white, and the countertops were granite and uncluttered. Time and money had been spent to remodel the home.
A family lived here. Books for children and adults filled a bookcase. A football, Star Wars figures, and two lightsabers were scattered on the rug next to the large sectional. A professional photo showed four smiling faces as the family posed in the middle of a golden wheat field.
The family name was Jorgensen. Father, mother, two sons.
Mercy studied the photo. Everyone looked happy. Her breath caught at the way the mother wrapped her arm around one of the boys, pulling him close, joy on their faces. Family. Love. Togetherness.
Gone.
Evan Bolton appeared from the back of the house. He’s become the Angel of Death. Mercy only saw him when someone had died.
He must think the same of me.
Bolton greeted the two of them, and she noticed he didn’t mention Truman’s presence at a scene outside the Eagle’s Nest jurisdiction. She took it as a sign that he’d grown to trust the two of them.
“My evidence team isn’t here yet,” Bolton told them. “But we’ve confirmed the front door was open. My men have cleared the house and immediate area around the home. No sign of anyone or a weapon.”
“The neighbor came over in the middle of the night because the dogs were barking?” The late-night visit felt odd to Mercy.
“The neighbor was very worried. She said the Jorgensen dogs are usually no problem, but tonight they wouldn’t stop howling. She called the Jorgensens and they didn’t answer. The backs of the two homes are about five hundred feet apart, but the neighbor’s driveway goes out to a different road. It takes a few minutes to drive from one house to the other. When she got here, she saw the door was ajar and the dogs were going wild in their kennel. She stuck her head in the door and called for the family.” He shook his head, looking glum. “No one answered, so she went in and found them.”
“Where is the neighbor?” asked Mercy.