Before we left I went back downstairs for another look at Aldrich—or at the scene of his death. Would the police realize it wasn’t suicide? They wouldn’t know about his visitor and wouldn’t realize that Aldrich would never admit to Amy’s murder. It looked like a perfectly plausible scenario. He was an exonerated killer turned fake cop. That alone would keep the local police hopping.
The most damning evidence was the lack of back spatter on Aldrich’s gun hand, and presumably a corresponding lack of gunpowder residue. Yet despite what people see on CSI, there isn’t the time or the budget to test everything. If it looked like a clear case of motivated suicide, that’s what it would become.
The address in the GPS led us to a tidy farmhouse with a minivan in the drive and a barn around back. The house was surrounded by dense forest, with the nearest neighbor a mile away. We drove half that distance and found a rutted road leading into the woods. Another half mile down it and we had to stop as the road petered out. That’s when we started walking.
There was exactly one trail leading from that road. It branched after a hundred feet. The better-groomed section led to a small waterfall and pond, with a makeshift platform for swimmers and anglers. The second branch ended at a cabin, nearly hidden in the overgrown woods.
When I saw that cabin, my feet stutter-stepped and Jack plowed into me.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just—”
“I know.”
It looked like “the” cabin—the one Aldrich had taken us to. There was nothing meaningful in the similarity. Most simple cabins look like this—a wooden shack with no running water, no electricity, no amenities save a fireplace and an outhouse.
I steeled myself and started forward.
“Wait outside,” Jack said. “No reason—”
I glanced at him.
“You can keep giving me that look,” he said. “Won’t stop me from offering.”
“Which I appreciate—”
“Don’t want appreciation. You want to repay me? Take me up on it. Why go in there? Who are you trying to impress? Only one here is me.”
No, I was here, too, and I needed to follow this through because otherwise I’d feel like a coward.
“Jack, I’ve faced Aldrich. I’ve broken into his house. I’ve found his dead body. There’s not going to be anything in that cabin that makes things any worse.” I managed a wry smile. “Save the marker. I’m sure you’ll find something else you really don’t want me doing.”
He considered that, peering at me in the darkness. Then a snort and a wave. “Stay behind. Could be booby-trapped.”
CHAPTER 12
The cabin wasn’t booby-trapped. It wasn’t even locked. Like Bobby Mack’s place, where Aldrich had taken Amy and me, this was just a shack in the woods, used by whoever wanted it.
It was a single empty room, simple cover for campers, maybe originally for Boy Scouts or the like, to keep the younger ones out of the rain. There were signs that people had been here. Marijuana butts. An empty cheese puffs bag. Crushed Coke cans. A tequila bottle, broken in a corner.
“He wouldn’t keep his treasures where a hiking family could find them,” I said. “If they’re here, they’ll be hidden. Maybe outside or—”
Jack was bending to examine a floorboard. When it didn’t budge, he paced along the edge of the room, looking and testing for give with his feet. He found a loose one and checked under it, then shook his head.
I started on the other side. We’d nearly met in the middle when I found a board that was slightly loose, with a single nail on one end. Jack pried the nail up with a knife. The board came out. Below was a dirt floor . . . with a slight depression. I carefully pushed aside the dirt and saw a steel box.
I pulled the box up and put it on the floor. It was locked. Useless really, when opening the box was a simple matter of unscrewing the hinges. Jack did that, again using his knife.
When I raised the lid, I saw only black and for a second I thought it was empty. Then I realized I was looking at a folded black silk scarf. I lifted it. Underneath . . .
I sucked in a breath, then Jack’s hand darted out, as if he was ready to snatch it from me before I saw some grisly relic. Then he looked and stopped. I reached into the box and picked up a hair clip. It was bronze—a crossed pair of old-fashioned pistols.
“This was mine,” I whispered. “When my dad took me shooting for the first time, he bought me this afterward. Annie Oakley guns, he called them. It was my favorite clip until it disappeared. It must have fallen out at the cabin. But—” I shook my head. “No, it can’t be. I was sure my mom had taken it. She hated it. Said it wasn’t ladylike. I figured she’d made it disappear. But obviously I left it . . .”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe not. Could have broken in. Stolen it.”
“No, Aldrich was arrested that day. He never got out on bail and by the time he was acquitted, this was long gone.” I rubbed the hair clip. “I wore it to the exhibition that day. I remember that . . .” I looked up at Jack. “How would I forget losing it?”
“Too much happening. Probably thought you still had it. Took a while to realize you didn’t. Never put the two together.”
“I—” My eyes widened. “Shit! I’m not wearing gloves.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your prints already on it.”
My thirteen-year-old fingerprints. Drew Aldrich had taken it and he’d hidden it here and he’d . . .
And he’d what? How many times had he taken it out? Run his fingers over it? Remembered—
The clip fell from my hand, clinking back into the box as I struggled for breath.
No, he wouldn’t have taken my piece out. The important memento would be Amy’s.
I put on my gloves and sifted through the other items in the box. Necklaces. Bracelets. Earrings. Rings. Another hair clip. A watch. I vaguely registered that each piece represented a victim and the box was filled with trophies. So many trophies. So many victims.
I’d think of that later. Right now, I kept sifting through for something of Amy’s, and the more I did, the tighter my chest got, panic setting in.
“I can’t find it,” I whispered. “Amy’s piece. I can’t find it.”
“It’s there.”
“I know it’s here. It must be, but I don’t recognize it. All this stuff and I should know hers as well as I know mine and—”
My fingers touched the bottom of the box, leathery and flat. I felt around the edges. Then, being careful not to dump the jewelry, I tugged out a leather-bound book.
I flipped it open to a random page and started reading the handwritten entry, dated three years ago.
Leigh sent me photos today. Photos of her friends in the change-room, their shirts off. She’ll get a special treat for that. She’ll also get a spanking, because she knows she’s only supposed to use my phone number for emergencies.
The book disappeared from my hands. I wheeled to see Jack snapping it shut.
“Not here,” he said.
He was right. I turned back to the box and felt that worm of panic rising again.
“That can wait, too,” Jack said.
I nodded and shut it. I looked in the hole under the floorboards, but there was clearly nothing else there.
“This is it,” I said, lifting the box. “Are you okay with me taking it?”
He nodded. I reached for the book, but he pretended not to notice, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and headed for the trail.
“Taking you home,” Jack said as we approached the car.
“Um, did I do something?”
“Yeah. Guy who killed your cousin? Dead. And you? Out and about.”