Final Vow, page 10
Imani takes the printouts and studies them, her brow furrowing. She’s quiet for a long moment, really looking.
“No.” She shakes her head slowly. “No Graysons on my payroll. And I don’t recognize him from any of my regular freelancers either.” She taps the image. “Tall, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm.” She hands the pictures back. “I’d remember someone like that. My crew’s mostly women, and the two guys I had working Saturday are both shorter and darker.”
“Would you mind if we showed these around to your crew?” I press. “Specifically anyone who was at the venue yesterday?”
She hesitates, glancing back toward the kitchen where her team is clearly deep in prep work. Then she sighs. “If you promise to make it quick. We’ve got a hundred and fifty plates to get out tonight.”
Hanks bobs his head. “Understood.”
She leads us into the kitchen, and the sounds and smells intensify—the sizzle of something in a pan, the rhythmic thunk of a knife against a cutting board, the clatter of dishes being stacked. The staff barely look up as we enter, focused on their tasks.
“Hey!” Imani’s voice cuts through the noise. “Everyone, heads up for a second. These officers need to ask a few questions. If you worked the Grant-Winters wedding yesterday, raise your hand.”
About half the room responds. Maybe six or seven people.
Imani waves them over, and they gather in a loose cluster near a prep station, wiping hands on aprons. Hanks takes the lead, holding up the photos. “We’re looking for this man. Did any of you see him at the venue?”
The printouts make their way around the group. Heads shake. Murmured nos and don’t think sos. I follow up with the pics on my phone. Same result.
Then a young woman near the back of the group catches my eye. She’s short and slight, maybe early twenties, with dark hair pulled tight under a hairnet. She looks at Imani, then back at me. “Maybe.”
I step closer. “You recognize him?”
Her voice is quiet, accented slightly. “I think… maybe I saw him. But he was wearing a mask, so I couldn’t see his face real well.”
My pulse quickens. “Tell us what you remember.”
She hands back the images and hugs herself. “I was inside the house. Downstairs area, by the hall, making sure the appetizer trays were set up for when guests came in. And this guy came by—tall, skinny, blond hair like that.” She gestures at the picture. “He was dressed like us, you know? Black shirt, black pants. Had one of those paper masks on.”
Hanks and I exchange an eager look. This sounds promising.
“Did you speak with him?” the detective presses.
“I thought he was with us, maybe someone new, so I asked him if he could grab more napkins from the van.” She shrugs. “He gave me a weird look, like I was crazy. And then he just… went up.”
Upstairs. Toward the bridal suite.
“What time was this?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even as my mind races.
She thinks, chewing her lip. “Maybe… two? A little before?”
Samantha was found dead around two thirty. The timeline fits.
“When he got to the second story, which way did he go?” Hanks asks, his pen hovering over his notepad.
She winces. “I didn’t see. Sorry.”
“No, this is really helpful,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”
“Julie Reyes.”
Hanks jots down her contact information. “We may need you to come in and give a formal statement. Would that be all right?”
Julie’s eyes widen, but she nods. “Yeah. Okay. I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t know something was wrong. I just thought he was rude.”
I give her what I hope is a reassuring look. “We really appreciate your help.”
Hanks hands her his card. “You remember something else, give us a call.”
She takes mine as well and reads them over. “I will.”
We thank them all for their time and head back out into the sunny parking lot.
“Sounds like Julie saw Grayson,” I say as we reach the car.
Hanks unlocks the sedan. “Looking more and more like our guy.”
Shadow jumps into the back seat, and I climb into the passenger side. Through the windshield, I watch a seagull wheel overhead, riding the ocean breeze.
If Grayson Taylor is still in Nightfall, I hope our officers find him fast. And if he’s run back to Banks or anywhere else, I hope the APB does its job.
“Let’s see if anyone else remembers seeing him,” Hanks says, starting the engine.
I nod, already dialing the next vendor contact on my phone. “On it.”
CHAPTER 15
The salon sits on a quiet side street in Seaside, tucked between a surf shop and a boutique selling driftwood art. “Beach Cuts & Color,” the sign reads in looping pink script. A bell chimes overhead as we push through the door.
The interior is bright and airy—white walls, mint-green accent chairs, mirrors everywhere reflecting the late-afternoon light. It’s cute, but not as big as Hope’s place. The sharp floral scent of hair products hits me immediately. Shadow’s nose twitches, and I can tell he’s not a fan. I avoid bringing him into salons when I can, but it’s summer and better than leaving him in the car.
Two women look up from restocking supplies in the back. One is tall and willowy, with dark hair twisted into a messy bun and colorful, angular eye makeup. The other is shorter, curvier, with long blond hair that cascades past her shoulders in perfect waves.
“Can I help you?” The blond approaches, her heels clicking on the tile. Then she spots Shadow and her face lights up. “Oh my gosh, look at this cutie!” She lifts her gaze to me. “Can I pet him?”
I nod to go ahead, and Shadow’s tail wags as her acrylic nails find exactly the right spot behind his ears. He leans into her touch, shameless.
“I’m Detective Hanks.” My mentor flashes his badge. “This is Officer Mercer, and you’ve met Shadow. We’re following up on the Grant-Winters wedding from yesterday.”
The blond’s smile falters. “Oh. That’s so horrible what happened.” She straightens, one hand pressed to her chest. “I’m Tiffany. This is my partner, Jade.”
The brunette joins us, her expression more guarded. “We already talked to the police at the venue.” She folds her thin arms.
“We know,” I say. “We just have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”
Tiffany gestures toward the waiting area. “How can we help?”
Jade rolls her eyes but follows as we settle into the mint-green chairs. Tiffany perches on the counter of a styling station while Jade leans against the wall at a little distance.
I pull out the photos of Grayson Taylor. “We’re trying to identify this man. We believe he may have been at the venue on Saturday, possibly dressed as staff. He might’ve been wearing all black and a mask.” I hand the images to Tiffany first. “Did either of you see him?”
She studies the photos carefully, tilting them toward the light. Her brow furrows in concentration. “Hmm. I don’t think so.” She passes them to her partner. “But hair and makeup takes a while, and we were running a little behind. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything else.”
Jade examines the photos with intense focus, the space between her brows creasing. After a long moment, she sighs. “I don’t recognize him. Is this the guy who killed her?”
Tiffany shoots her a shocked look, but I evade the question. “After you finished in the bridal suite, where did you go?”
“Outside.” Tiffany twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Once we finished the last bridesmaid, we went out to get some air and wait. We were on call for touch-ups before pictures and the ceremony.”
“You didn’t go back inside the house at all?” Hanks arches a brow.
Both women shake their heads.
I shift forward in my chair. “How did the bride seem when you were with her? And the rest of her party?”
Tiffany’s expression softens with something like sadness. “Samantha was so sweet. A little nervous, but I could tell she couldn’t wait to get married.”
“And the others?” Hanks prods.
“They were in good spirits.” She glances at Jade, who nods in agreement. “Normal butterflies and stress—you know, worrying about the weather, the flowers, whether their Spanx would show under their dresses.” A weak smile. “But good vibes overall. They were having fun.”
“So… typical?” I ask. “For a bridal party?”
Jade lets out a short laugh. “There’s no typical. We’ve seen all kinds. Bridezillas who scream at their mothers. Mothers who scream at the brides. Bridesmaids who show up drunk. Bridesmaids beefing with each other.” She shrugs. “This group was pretty low-key. Having a good time.”
Tiffany bites her bottom lip. “Er… I did overhear some of them whispering about wanting to keep the mother-in-law out of the room.”
Hanks and I exchange a look. Not surprising.
They aren’t able to give us much more than that, so we thank them for their time, and we each leave our card. The door chimes as we head back outside into the summer heat. We need more witnesses, more evidence—anything that ties Grayson Taylor definitively to that bridal suite.
Back in the sedan, I buckle up while Shadow settles into the back seat. The sun slants through the windshield, warming my lap. Hanks cranks the engine and turns up the AC as I pull out my phone. The DJ is the next contact on our vendor list. I dial and put the call on speakerphone, waiting through four rings before he picks up.
“Yeah?” The voice is young, slightly distracted. I hear bass thumping in the background.
“This is Officer Mercer with Nightfall PD. Is this Josh Hanna?”
“Yup.”
“I’m calling about the Grant-Winters wedding. Do you have a moment?”
“Uh…” The music fades, like he’s stepped away from whatever he was doing. “Yeah, sure. Just a sec.” A door closes, and the noise cuts out. “Sorry, I’m in Portland setting up for a gig tonight. What’s up?”
Hanks nods for me to go on.
“We’re trying to identify someone who may have been at the venue.” I text him the photos of Grayson as I talk. “I just sent you some images. Did you see this man yesterday?”
A pause while he checks his phone. “Uh… no. But I was in the ballroom most of the day, setting up my equipment.”
“You didn’t see anyone matching this description?” Hanks says loudly to be heard over the thumping bass. “Tall, blond, slicked-back hair? May have been wearing a mask.”
“Nope. Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic. “Is this about what happened to the bride? That’s messed up. I hope you catch whoever did it.”
I thank him for his time and hang up, crossing the DJ off my mental list. “Photographer next,” I say, scrolling to the contact.
The phone rings. And rings.
Voicemail picks up. His voice is deep, each syllable carefully enunciated: “You’ve reached Booker Adams, visual storyteller and fine art photographer. I’m currently unavailable, but leave a message and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience.”
I clear my throat. “Mr. Adams, this is Officer Mercer with Nightfall PD. We need to speak with you regarding the Grant-Winters wedding. Please return this call as soon as possible.” I leave my number and hang up.
Hanks snorts. “Visual storyteller?”
I grin, then drop it just as quickly. “He was acting strange,” I say slowly. “At the venue. After the body was found.”
Hanks glances at me. “Strange how?”
“I saw him taking pictures of the grieving guests. Lurking behind bushes to get candid shots.”
“An artsy artist maybe,” he says flatly.
“Maybe.” I chew my thumbnail. “But it felt off.”
Hanks is quiet for a moment, the engine downshifting, cold air blasting from the vents.
“We’ll track him down,” he says finally. “Get his photos too. He might have captured something useful without even knowing it.”
I agree, but something still nags at me. I push it aside for now and consult my list. The wedding planner is up next—Jennie Diaz.
As I pull up her contact information, the radio on Hanks’s dash crackles to life.
“All units, be advised. Vehicle matching APB description located. Red 1993 Nissan Maxima. Currently parked outside Vapor Haven on Highway 101, just south of Nightfall city limits. Requesting available units respond. Advise caution, suspect status unknown.”
Hanks and I lock eyes.
“That’s Grayson’s car,” I say.
Hanks is already reaching for the switch. The lights flash on, bathing the interior in red and blue, and the siren wails to life, cutting through the afternoon calm.
“Hold on,” he says, then whips the car out of the parking spot.
CHAPTER 16
The siren wails as Hanks guns it down the 101, weaving between a minivan and a pickup truck. Shadow braces himself in the back seat, grinning and apparently enjoying the roller-coaster ride. What’s normally a fifteen-minute drive takes us five. By the time we roll into the parking lot of Vapor Haven, my knuckles are white and my heart is hammering. Hanks kills the engine and ignores my pointed look.
The vape shop sits in a strip mall. Neon signs light up the windows, and a handful of cars sit scattered across the lot. One of them is a faded red Nissan Maxima, Oregon plates.
A Nightfall PD cruiser is already parked near the vape shop. Officer Larson, one of Bulldog’s lackeys, stands beside it with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the shop’s front door. When he sees our sedan pull up, his gaze slides to Hanks and stays there.
“He’s inside,” Larson says as we approach. “Hasn’t made a move to leave.”
Hanks nods. “Good. Go around and watch the back exit.”
Larson’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He marches around the side of the building without acknowledging me.
I don’t have time to care. Hanks pushes through the front door, and I’m right behind him, Shadow’s leash in my hand. The sweet, cloying smell of fake fruit and something vaguely chemical makes my stomach turn. Shadow sneezes twice in quick succession, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the stench.
The interior is dim, lit mostly by the glow of display cases filled with colorful vape pens and cartridges. A young guy behind the counter with gauged ears and neck tattoos looks up, bored. His expression changes fast.
Standing in front of him, wallet in hand, is Grayson Taylor.
Tall and lean, blond, with angular features. He’s wearing jeans and a wrinkled black T-shirt, with dark circles under his eyes as though he hasn’t slept in days. His hand is extended toward the cashier, a twenty-dollar bill pinched between his fingers.
“Grayson Taylor.” Hanks reaches for the handcuffs stuffed in his jeans pocket. “Nightfall Police. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Grayson freezes. For a split second, I think he might run. He looks toward the back of the shop, calculating. But Shadow is ready at my side, hackles raised, a low growl building in his chest. And Hanks has one hand on his weapon, his stance solid and ready.
Grayson must think better of whatever desperate plan he was considering and lets his shoulders slump. “What the fuck is this?”
“We’re bringing you in for questioning.” Hanks advances.
“Hands on the counter,” I say. “Now.”
Grayson complies, pressing his palms to the glass display case, though his jaw is tight.
The cashier has backed up against the wall of merchandise behind him. Hanks moves in and cuffs Grayson’s wrists behind his back.
I study his face, watching for any tell—guilt, fear. But all I see is anger. We march him out to Larson’s cruiser and leave to meet them at the station.
Half an hour later, we’re sitting in interrogation room one at the Nightfall station. It’s a cramped box of gray concrete, devoid of the charm of the rest of the historic building. A metal table dominates the center of the space, its surface dinged and scratched from years of use. The chairs are hard metal, designed for function rather than comfort.
In the corner, a small camera blinks red, recording everything.
I left Shadow with Linda up at the front desk. The room is too small, too tense for him.
Grayson Taylor sits across from us, his cuffed hands resting on the table. The fluorescent light washes out his skin, making his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief.
Hanks settles into the chair beside me and sets a manila folder on the table but doesn’t open it. “You know why you’re here?” he asks.
Grayson smirks—the expression of someone trying very hard to seem unbothered. “Let me guess. She tattled and her prissy little mama’s boy called the cops on me?”
Interesting.
“Who’s ‘she’?” I ask.
He scoffs like I’m an idiot. “Sam. Samantha Winters. Obviously.”
Is this part of his act? Or does he genuinely not know?
Hanks leans forward, his forearms on the table. “Samantha Winters is dead.”
The smirk vanishes, and Grayson pales. “What?” His voice cracks. He shakes his head, regaining a hint of his assuredness. “Whatever. No way. You’re fucking with me.”
“She was murdered,” I confirm quietly. “Just before her wedding.”
For a long moment, he just stares at us. Then he shakes his head, disbelieving. “No. No, that’s—you’re lying.”
Hanks flips open the manila folder and mercilessly slides a crime scene photo across the table to him. Samantha Winters on that four-poster bed, her white dress spread around her, her face mottled purple and red. The finger marks dark against her throat. Those bloodshot eyes staring at nothing.
Grayson turns green.
And then he’s scrambling, chair scraping back, lunging for the small trash can in the corner. He barely makes it before he’s retching, his whole body heaving as he empties his stomach.
