Final Vow, page 18
Hanks and I exchange a glance. He raises one bushy eyebrow but stays silent.
“Tell me about her,” I prompt.
Grayson leans forward, and for the first time since we walked in, he looks almost eager. Happy to have something to offer. Or maybe just happy to bad-mouth Benji.
“Trish Mann.” He gives me a dark smirk. “Benji’s first fiancée. College ‘sweethearts.’” He makes air quotes with his cuffed hands, the chain rattling.
“What happened to her?”
“She died.” His smile turns ugly. “Car accident. Went off a ravine and into a river somewhere not too far from here. They didn’t find her for a couple of days. By then…” He shrugs. “The water pretty much erased any evidence.”
I lean forward. “Evidence of what?”
“Of what really happened.” His nostrils flare. “I tried to warn Sam about Benji, but she wouldn’t hear it.”
Hanks speaks for the first time, his gravelly voice cutting through the room. “What exactly did you want to tell her?”
Grayson grins. He’s enjoying having information we want.
“Trish died leaving Benji’s mom’s place.” He lets that sit for a moment. “Late at night. Next thing you know, she’s at the bottom of a ravine.”
My mind races. “No one was charged, though?”
He snorts. “No witnesses, no evidence, grieving fiancé with a solid alibi because Mommy Dearest vouched for him. Case closed.” He shakes his head, his greasy hair falling across his forehead. “I think he killed her and made it look like an accident.”
Hanks gives me a skeptical look—the kind that says consider the source—but I press forward.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know his type. Guys like Benji, they seem all nice and normal on the surface. Mama’s boy, good job, clean record. But underneath?” He taps his temple. “Something’s broken in there. Something’s wrong. I could see it. Sam couldn’t, but I could.”
Yeah, because Grayson Taylor is the picture of mental health.
I try a few more questions, different angles, but I’ve gotten everything useful out of him. His knowledge of Trish is secondhand at best, filtered through his obsession with proving Benji unworthy of Samantha. He didn’t see anything helpful at the wedding venue. He doesn’t know anything about Melody Mathers, Chrissy Smithe, or Bride Boards.
After a few more minutes of circular conversation, Grayson’s patience snaps.
“Are you gonna let me out of here or what?” He strains against his cuffs. “I didn’t kill Sam. You can’t keep me here forever.”
“We’re holding you on stalking charges,” Hanks states flatly. “Those aren’t going anywhere. We’ll see if we add murder to that.”
“Stalking?” Grayson’s face twists. “I was protecting her. And look what happened—look what happened when I wasn’t there.” His voice cracks. “She’s dead.”
Hanks pushes back from the table and stands. I follow his lead.
“We’ll be in touch,” he says.
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” Grayson’s shouts follow us as we head for the door. “You said you believed me!”
I don’t look back. We step into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind us. Through the small window, I can still see Grayson gesturing wildly, his mouth moving, but the thick walls muffle his shouting.
Hanks exhales slowly. “Well?”
I shake my head. “He’s… unhinged.”
“No argument there.” He scratches his stubbled chin, frowning. “Question is whether anything he said is worth a damn.”
I lean against the wall, turning it over in my mind. “I want to look into Trish Mann. See if there’s anything to his story.”
Hanks studies me for a long moment. “You think he’s right? About Benji?”
“I think…” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “I think Grayson believes what he’s saying. Whether that belief is based in reality or just his own obsession, I don’t know yet. But if there’s anything suspicious behind Trish’s death, anything that connects to Samantha…” I shake my head. “It’s worth checking out. At the very least, I want to see the accident report.”
Hanks grunts. “Let’s see what we can dig up.”
CHAPTER 29
Hanks and I agree that he’ll work on some case-related paperwork while I look into Trish Mann’s death. I settle in at my desk and glance around the quiet bullpen. Most of the day shift is out on patrol, leaving the station feeling almost peaceful. Phones still ring in sporadic bursts, and the smell of burnt coffee drifts from the break room—someone left the pot on the warmer too long again.
Shadow circles his dog bed twice before flopping down with a contented sigh. He watches me with those big brown eyes, like he knows I’m about to disappear into paperwork for a while.
“I’ll make it up to you later,” I murmur, bending forward to scratch behind his ears.
Across the bullpen, I see Hanks drop into his office chair and swivels to face his computer. I leave him to it and wake up my own laptop, pulling up our records system. I type “Trish Mann” into the search field.
The cursor blinks. Nothing comes up. I need more information. I switch to a web browser and type “Patricia Mann fatal car accident Oregon coast.”
The results populate quickly. A few articles from local news outlets, an obituary in The Oregonian. I click on the first article and skim through it.
Local woman dies in single-vehicle accident on Highway 101…
The details are sparse. Patricia “Trish” Mann, twenty-two, recent college graduate. Her car went off the road late at night, plummeting into the river below. A fisherman spotted the wreckage two days later. By then, there wasn’t much left to find.
I check the date. Eight years ago, almost to the month.
The location catches my eye. The accident happened on a stretch of 101 that hugs the cliffs—about three miles east of Maryanne Grant’s beach house. Trish had been visiting for the weekend, according to one article. Staying with her fiancé and his mother.
I tilt my head. Where was she going? Why wasn’t Benji with her?
I return to our system and run a broader search, this time using her full name and the date range from the article. After a moment, a case file populates. The accident was investigated by the Tillamook Police, but we have access to their records.
I click into the file and start reading.
The accident report is clinical. Single vehicle, no witnesses. The car—a Nissan Altima—left the roadway at approximately 11:47 p.m., based on the stopped clock on the dashboard. It crashed through a guardrail and tumbled down a steep embankment before coming to rest partially submerged in the river. The driver, Patricia Mann, was pronounced dead at the scene when recovery crews finally reached the vehicle.
Cause of death: drowning, complicated by blunt force trauma.
I scroll through the investigator’s notes, looking for anything that stands out. Mostly routine observations: Weather conditions were rainy, and vision may have been limited with fog. No mechanical failures found in the vehicle—or at least none that could be determined given the damage.
I narrow my eyes at an unusual note.
Officers on scene noted the absence of skid marks on the roadway leading up to the point of departure.
That stretch of 101 is winding, treacherous in the dark. If Trish had seen the curve coming, her instinct would have been to brake hard. Even if she’d overcorrected, there should have been some evidence of her trying to stop.
But there wasn’t.
I turn it over in my mind. It was late—maybe she was tired, didn’t see the bend until it was too late. Or maybe she had some kind of medical episode. A heart attack or a seizure that incapacitated her before she could react.
Unlikely for someone so young. But not impossible.
I keep scrolling until I find what I’m looking for: the autopsy report.
Trish’s body had been submerged for over forty-eight hours before recovery, which complicated the findings significantly. Bloating, tissue degradation, the river washing away trace evidence. The ME documented what he could.
Cause of death listed as internal injuries and possible signs of stroke. That makes me raise my brows. No water in the lungs, which means she didn’t drown. She was dead before she hit the water.
I scroll back up and confirm. The initial accident report said drowning. But the ME said there was no water in the lungs. Someone didn’t look closely enough.
I return to the autopsy report. Blunt force trauma to the head and torso consistent with the crash itself. Broken ribs, fractured skull, internal bleeding.
Then, near the bottom of the report, a note catches my eye.
Possible contusions observed on anterior neck region. Unable to determine definitively whether bruising occurred antemortem or postmortem due to advanced decomposition. Could be consistent with seat belt restraint during impact, contact with steering column, or other trauma. Further analysis inconclusive.
Or it could have been from someone’s hands wrapped around her throat.
I pull up the toxicology report. Clean. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing in her system that would explain why she drove off a cliff without even trying to stop.
I lean back in my chair and Shadow’s ears perk up, tracking my movements. Strangulation can kill slowly. Internal injuries that don’t turn fatal for hours. Sometimes days.
I gnaw my bottom lip. Could Benji have attacked Trish? Wrapped his hands around her throat? Maybe she got away, fled into the night. Only made it a few miles before the injuries caught up—a stroke behind the wheel, the car drifting off the road and into the river.
She was engaged to the same man whose second fiancée was strangled to death on her wedding day just a few days ago.
I sigh. It’s also possible that I’m reaching. It was late, raining, and likely foggy, making for treacherous driving conditions. Trish could have missed the turn, died due to blunt force trauma during the accident, and been gone before the car hit the water.
I stare at the screen and smooth my hands over my hair. Even if the latter is true, why did Trish leave so late at night when weather conditions were dangerous? Did she and Benji have a fight? Maybe she’d planned to leave earlier to head back to Portland, and for some reason she got a late start.
Still, something feels off. Is Benji doing this? Killing the women he’s supposed to marry?
My phone buzzes against the desk, making me jump. I grab it, expecting Wilder or maybe Ramirez checking in.
The name on the screen makes my heart stutter.
Agent Avery Carver.
I fumble to answer, nearly dropping the phone in my haste. “Agent Carver?”
“Eden.” There’s an undercurrent of energy in her voice. “You sitting down?”
I grip the phone tighter. “What’s going on?”
“We’re prepping to move on the compound. I’m already in place in Red Valley.”
My breath catches. “The warrant—”
“Just came through,” she says. “The rest of the task force is on its way. Lots of moving pieces, but it should all be in place and ready to go soon.”
My mind is spinning. After all this time hunting for my family, fighting to get them justice. After all the dead ends and delays and promises that never quite materialized. It’s actually happening.
“I need to be there.”
A pause on the other end. “I’m keeping you informed as a courtesy, Eden. This is an FBI operation.”
“No.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me. My stomach’s in knots. “Respectfully, I need to be there. In person.” Shadow plants his head in my lap, picking up on my skyrocketing stress. My fingers find his fur, but I can barely breathe.
“Eden—”
“Listen.” I lower my voice, conscious that I’m in the bullpen, of the officers drifting in and out. “This isn’t just a case to me. You know that. This has shaped my entire life.”
I pause, struggling to find the words. To make her understand.
Silence on the other end, long enough that I check the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“I need closure,” I say against the lump in my throat. “I need to be part of this.” I take a shaky breath. “Please.”
The silence stretches. When she finally speaks, her voice is different. Softer. Or just tired.
“You know,” she says, “I used to think closure was overrated. Something people chased because they couldn’t accept that some questions don’t have answers.” A pause. “I’ve changed my views on that.”
I wait, not daring to push.
She lets out a heavy sigh. “You come as an observer and informant. That’s it. You follow my lead, you stay where I tell you to stay, and you don’t do anything stupid. Understood?”
Relief hits me so hard my eyes sting. “Understood. Thank you. I—thank you.” I swallow back tears. “I want Hanks to come too,” I say quickly. “And Wilder. They helped me get Rachel and Daniel out and—”
“No.” The word is flat, final. “I can barely justify making an exception for you, Eden.” Her tone softens, just slightly. “It’s you alone, or it’s nothing.”
I close my eyes. Hanks and Wilder won’t like it. I don’t like it. But this is my only chance.
“Okay,” I say. “Just me.”
“Good.” Now I can hear a smile in her voice. “You can bring your K-9, though. Heard he’s useful.”
I glance down at Shadow, who’s looking up at me with a furrowed brow. I give him a pet, feeling a surge of relief that I’ll have him by my side. “He is. When should I be there?”
“I’m hoping we can move ahead with the raid tomorrow night. Depends on how fast we can get our agents in position.” A rustling on her end, like she’s shuffling papers. “If you want to be part of this raid, you need to be on a flight to Vegas as soon as possible. That’s the closest major airport to the compound.”
If we didn’t have an active case, I’d be on a flight this afternoon. But I think of Samantha Winters in the bridal suite. Of Melody Mathers and Chrissy Smithe, shot to death in parking lots.
And of Trish Mann, at the bottom of a river, bruises on her throat.
“I’m working a case,” I say. “But I’ll get there. As soon as I can.”
“I understand you have obligations. But I want to be clear.” Her voice goes hard. “Once my people are in place? I’m moving. I won’t wait for you.”
“I know.”
“Good. I’ll keep you posted.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process everything. The compound. The raid. Daniel.
It’s actually happening.
I nibble my thumb tip. I need to get to southern Utah. I need to be there when they go in, need to see my father’s empire crumble, need to find Daniel and bring him home.
But I also need to stop whoever’s killing these brides before another woman dies.
I feel stuck, trapped between duty and family, between the case in front of me and the ghosts that have haunted me since I was fourteen years old.
I bury my fingers in Shadow’s fur, grounding myself in his warmth.
“Hey, kid.”
I look up. Hanks is approaching from his office, sharp eyes watching carefully. “You okay?”
No. Everything is happening at once, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to handle any of it. I take a shaky breath. “Just got off the phone with Carver. They’re moving on the compound. Tomorrow, maybe.” I shake my head. “She says I can come with Shadow, but me alone.” I bite my lip. “But this case…”
Hanks folds his arms and leans his hip against my desk. He studies me for a long moment with that penetrating gaze of his. “Well,” he says, “guess we better solve it quick, then, huh?”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess we better.”
CHAPTER 30
Hanks suggests I take a quick break and get some food. I’m more eager than ever to power through and get to the bottom of this case so I can join Carver for the raid, but he’s right. I’m not going to be of much use with an empty stomach and headache.
The Daily Grind is packed with the usual summer crowd, but Maya spots us through the window and has our order ready by the time we squeeze to the front. Mocha for me, black coffee for Hanks, sandwiches for both of us, and a homemade biscuit for Shadow that he inhales in two bites.
“You three look like you’ve been through it,” Maya says, sliding the bag across the counter.
“Long day.” I manage a tired smile. “Thanks, Maya.”
We carry our haul across the street to the station and shut ourselves in Hanks’s office. The worn leather couch along one wall is a welcome refuge, dog biscuit crumbs and all. I settle onto the cushion with my laptop and lunch while Shadow hops up beside me, circling before flopping down in his spot.
Hanks drops into his chair and unwraps his food, eyeing me over the desk. “So, what’d you find on the first fiancée?”
I walk him through it between bites—the car accident eight years ago, just a few miles from Maryanne’s beach house. Trish leaving late at night. No skid marks on the road, which means she never tried to stop. And the detail that keeps nagging at me: possible contusions on her neck that the ME couldn’t definitively explain due to decomposition.
Hanks grunts, chewing slowly. “You think Benji strangled her, she got away, and then crashed?”
“Maybe. Delayed death from internal injuries isn’t unheard of with strangulation.” I take a sip of my mocha. “And now his second fiancée is dead. Also strangled.”
“Hell of a pattern.” Hanks scratches his stubbled chin. “But here’s the problem, kid. Benji’s got an alibi for Melody Mathers and Chrissy Smithe. His mom, Samantha’s parents, the maid of honor—they were all crashing at Maryanne’s place. Kim was sleeping on the couch in the living room.” He raises a bushy brow. “You’re telling me nobody noticed him slipping out in the middle of the night to go murder someone?”
