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By the time she pushed Emily’s stroller into the small park a few blocks away, Mandy felt calmer and more assured that all was well. She had passed by Mr. Hensley working in his flower garden, Mrs. Kennedy walking her dog, and the Monroe twins skipping rope on the sidewalk. And in the park, she ran into another stay-at-home mom and neighbor, Erin Minor. They talked for a while, chatting about nothing of any importance and comparing notes about their toddlers.

On her walk home, Mandy actually enjoyed herself, as she usually did, all her anxieties now under control. As she approached the back door that led into the mudroom where she kept the folding stroller stored, she noticed something stuck on the glass storm door.

Sweet Jesus!

Someone had taped an arrow on her door. Her pulse raced. Glancing from side to side as if she thought she might spot the culprit who had left the arrow, Mandy eased around to the front of the stroller and lifted Emily up and into her arms. Resting her daughter on her hip, she walked closer to the door and stared at the arrow. A child’s toy arrow, the kind with a rubber tip. But there was something red and wet dripping from that rubber tip. Blood? Surely not!

Mandy clenched her teeth to keep from crying out. Taking several steps backward, behind the stroller, she reached down into the diaper bag inside the back pocket on the stroller and retrieved her cell phone. Under ordinary circumstances, the first person she’d call would be Jeff. But not this time.

She dialed the newest number she had programmed into her phone. Rachel Alsace’s phone number.

Chapter 27

During the eight days Rachel had been in Portland, a wave of anxiety and fear had swept over the reunion committee, spreading from Kristen, and Mandy to the others-DeLynn, Martina, Bella, and April. And Rachel. Each one had received at least one weird phone call and a strange, threatening note. And each member of the group had come home on various days to find a child’s toy arrow taped to their back door. The rubber tip on each arrow had been dripping red paint. Not blood. Paint. But the message was clear-Remember how Jake Marcott died.

Initially, the police handled these incidents as misdemeanors, as nothing more than silly pranks. But because of Rachel’s involvement and the fact that one of those arrows had been attached to Chief of Police Charlie Young’s back door, an investigation was under way to look into the matter more thoroughly. The arrows and paint were easily traced, both sold at a variety of stores in the Portland area, making it virtually impossible to pinpoint the buyers. The phone calls had all been placed on prepaid cellular phones purchased by Minnie Mouse. The words in each note had been cut from newspapers and magazines and taped to a sheet of plain white paper.

At first, after Mandy had returned from a walk in the park with her child and found the first arrow on her door, Dean had tried to convince Rachel that someone was playing a sick prank. Maybe it was someone who, for his or her own perverted reasons, wanted to resurrect the past, to remind everyone about Jake’s brutal murder. But after each committee member found an identical paint-tipped arrow on her back door, Dean had come around to Rachel’s way of thinking. Someone was targeting the women who had been a part of Jake’s life back in high school. But why? And was the stalker the same person who had killed Jake?

Day by day, Rachel sifted through the Cupid Killer files, with Dean assisting her in his free time. As she worked diligently to put together the pieces of a twenty-year-old murder, she often felt that she was betraying her father’s memory. Mac Alsace had been the best detective in the world, bar none. If he hadn’t been able to find Jake’s killer, what made Rachel think she could?

Time and distance often had a way of clearing the gray areas, of making things more black and white. Sometimes even the best investigator could be too close to the forest to see the trees. As she had studied the photos, read the reports, gone over the facts again and again, a clear picture had emerged. Jake Marcott had not been the boy she’d thought he was, that was for sure. But more important, the likelihood that one of his teenaged peers had killed Jake was slim to none, unless one of them had been a skilled archer and had been able to keep that fact a secret.

Back in the day, the police had released very little information about the case, hoping to keep the killer in the dark. And Rachel’s father had never discussed the particulars of the case with her, partly because he was duty-bound to keep certain things private, and partly because he had wanted to protect her from some ugly truths.

Even after all these years, she still missed her dad. As much as she had loved her mother, she’d always been a daddy’s girl. His death at age forty-seven had come as a shock. Such a waste. A man in his prime.

Rachel couldn’t help wondering how her life might be different now had her dad lived. One thing she knew for certain-her mother wouldn’t have moved home to Tennessee as long as Rachel remained in Portland, and Rachel would never have left Portland as long as her dad was alive. And if she had stayed here in Portland? She wouldn’t have a slight Southern accent, wouldn’t be referring to a group of people as y’all, and she would never have married Allen Turner.

Would she be working alongside her dad now, who would probably be chief of police instead of Uncle Charlie? Would she perhaps be partnered with Dean McMichaels? Would the two of them have hooked up years ago, maybe gotten married and had a couple of kids?

Wow! Where had that thought come from-Dean and she married? Back then, she hadn’t even liked Dean. But back then, she hadn’t really known Dean. If she had, she never would have suspected him of killing Jake-and she had! After all, it hadn’t exactly been a secret that the two guys, once best buddies, had parted ways, and no one had understood why. Now Rachel did. It had been because Dean had known one of Jake’s deep, dark secrets. Because Jake had used Dean’s feelings for Rachel to blackmail Dean to keep him quiet.

Dean placed two brown paper bags on Rachel’s desk. “Lunchtime,” he said as he pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

“You didn’t have to bring me lunch.” She twisted her swivel chair around so that she faced him. “But it’s a sweet gesture. Thanks.”

“It’s no big deal. I had to eat anyway, so I just picked up something for you, too.” He eyed the brown paper bags. “Do you still like Reubens? Kosher dills? Diet Coke?”

Her mouth opened wide in surprise. Why would Dean remember her teenage favorites? “If you’ve got a Snickers candy bar in there for dessert-”

“If I do, what?” he teased.

“I won’t believe it until I see it.” She opened one sack, removed two sandwiches, two giant dill pickles, and two single-serving bags of potato chips.

Dean opened the second paper sack and removed a regular and a diet canned Coke and a couple of straws, then he turned the sack upside down and shook it. Out popped two Snickers bars.

Rachel gasped, then giggled. “Dean McMichaels, you have a memory like an elephant.”

“Only for the important stuff.” He winked at her.

Her heart did a crazy little rat-a-tat-tat. “I imagine that kind of memory has helped you become a top-notch detective.”

He unwrapped his roast beef sandwich. “What makes you think I’m a top-notch detective?”

She popped the tabs on both colas, stripped the paper off the straws, and inserted them into the openings of the two cans. “Uncle Charlie told me. You’re a highly decorated officer, made lieutenant younger than anyone else on the force, and you’re in line for a big promotion.”

“I just do my job. That’s all.”

He seemed genuinely embarrassed by her praise. A modest man. Imagine that. So different from her ex-husband. So different from Jake.