Unseen (Nell Brach Book 2), page 2
Slowly, we walk from the parking lot toward our families. The park is full today of everyone doing what we’re doing—family picnics, softball, football, playground activities, and people hiking the trails.
Grace asks, “If he does relocate here, do you think your mom will move out of my mom’s place and in with him?”
“Yes, in a heartbeat.”
Mom and Olivia glance up as we approach. Mom smiles widely. It’s a good and happy smile. I’m pleased to see it, but I can’t stand the fact Dad’s the one who has put it there. He’s going to break her heart, just like he has done countless times over the years, and I’m going to be the one to pick up the pieces. Only this time it won’t just be her, it’ll be Tyler as well.
The baby squirms in my arms. I’m just about to hand her off when she chooses to snuggle in, tucking her head against my chest. I press a kiss on her soft red hair. Guess she’s going to be here a while.
Grace rubs her back. “If she gets heavy, just hand her off.”
“I’m good. It’ll be my core strengthening for the day.”
“Or more like a lower back workout.”
Tyler catches sight of me and waves. I wave back.
Matthew announces loudly, “Okay, I’ve got hot dogs, burgers, and barbecue drumettes. Who wants what?”
Thirty minutes later everyone is either sitting or standing around the picnic table finishing the last bites of our cookout. I drag my remaining drumette through mustard and eat it as I throw my paper plate away.
Standing, Dad clears his throat. He smiles at Mom and she nervously gets up from the picnic table to stand beside him. He’s six-four and she’s five-three. Their size difference never seems dramatic until they’re right next to each other. Tyler and I get our height from him, but we get our light hair and brown eyes from Mom.
“Thank you all for coming.” Dad puts an arm around Mom. “We have exciting news and you are the people we want to share it with, our family.”
Dad casts a glance at me. I fold my arms and behind my aviators, I stare at him. He clears his throat. Good, I’m glad I make him nervous.
“First, let me start by saying how humbled I am that you have welcomed me with open arms. I’m fully aware I don’t have the best track record as a father. But I aim to change that. I’m finally at a spot where I make a good living, I’ve got a nice home, and I want to build a future full of promise and family.” He smiles lovingly at Mom.
He continues, “For five months now I’ve been traveling back and forth from Georgia nearly every weekend.” He looks at Tyler. “I’ve loved every minute of getting to know my brave, talented, intelligent son.”
Tyler grins.
“I’ve loved every minute of my time with Jill.” His arm around Mom tightens. Her cheeks flush under the attention. “And I’m slowly getting to know Nell again.” He looks at me.
No, he’s not. What the hell does that mean? I barely speak to the man.
He laughs. “It’s taken me a long time to get to this place in my life. I know who I am and what I want. And what I want is my family. So, I asked Jill to marry me, and she said yes!”
Tyler woots.
Mom laughs.
Olivia jumps up.
Grace smiles.
Dad picks Mom up and swings her around.
Matthew squeezes Grace.
Their daughters dance around my parents.
Luca goes back to looking at his phone.
And I stay right here by the garbage can, numb. This is not good news.
I now stand propped against my vehicle, watching everyone clean up from the family picnic. Mom’s been glued to Dad’s side ever since the big announcement.
Questions. I have so many questions.
Is Dad moving here?
Is Mom moving there?
Has Mom checked with her probation officer?
What about Tyler? I’m his legal guardian. They can’t just decide to take him. Surely, they know that.
What about Grandpa’s house that I live in? Technically it belongs to Mom, but she hates that place. There are too many bad memories linked to it.
What about Tyler’s private online school? He’s thriving in that environment. It was a good decision to enroll him. Hell, if Dad wants to help so much why hasn’t he offered to pay Tyler’s tuition? It’s not exactly cheap.
A shadow falls over me. I glance up to see my brother quietly approaching. He takes the spot beside me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“I know your ‘deep thought’ face and you’re definitely in it.”
I focus on changing that face—whatever my “deep thought” looks like—into a pleasant one. “It’s a lot. That’s all. I wasn’t expecting an engagement announcement.” Though I suppose that’s a better one than, We eloped!
But isn’t every child supposed to be excited their parents are getting married?
“I sort of saw it coming,” he says.
I want to ask him all the questions running through my brain, but they need to be directed to Mom.
Tyler nudges me with his shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I hug him.
“I won’t leave you,” he whispers. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
My heart melts. My arms around him tighten. My brother is my whole world. My feelings on this aside, this is about what’s best for Tyler.
I need to sit down with both Mom and Dad and discuss what this means. Sooner rather than later, because this is the kind of shit that eats me up.
I should also find a family lawyer. I have a feeling I’m going to need one.
THREE
Monday, 3:30 p.m.
I stand at the open door of my grandfather’s shed. For the most part, I haven’t done anything with this in the years I’ve lived here. His old tools and hunting gear line the shelves to the left. In the center is a dusty foldable table with two chairs. On the right are cardboard file boxes containing his research on long ago cases—both solved and unsolved.
The one in the far corner is what led me to find Tyler seven years earlier and bring peace to so many parents whose sons had gone missing.
I knew the name Rylan Scott sounded familiar. He’s in one of these boxes. I just have to figure out which one.
It only takes me fifteen minutes of searching to find what I’m looking for. Sheriff Owens gave me a file on Rylan Scott, sure, but this one here in the shed will have more.
After wiping off the table, I sit down and open Grandpa’s version of things. There are many of the same items—pictures, lab results, forensics, investigative notes—but other things as well.
There’s a thick paper with giant black X’s drawn in crayon over and over again in rows; contact information on a foster home the girl was placed in; and papers legally changing the girl’s name, though her new name has been redacted.
I jot down the number of the foster home, located in Knoxville. Then I scan a few notes, scrawled in my grandfather’s slanted writing:
No prints on the murder weapon
Unreliable witness—traumatized, mute, unable to recall details
Alibi?
DNA present due to Rylan’s efforts
Wife’s questionable life
No forced entry
Tattoo…?
Quickly, I thumb through the rest of the pages, but I don’t see any mention of the mother who signed over rights. Other than her notated name, Natalie Scott, and the statement she made, there’s nothing else. It’s like she disappeared. She’s a ghost.
Why run? Why sign over rights? Was she scared, or did she see an opportunity to finally be untethered?
Back to the little girl. Her name was Mackenzie Scott. Why did my grandfather facilitate changing it? Why redact it from a personal file? Was he concerned someone would find this file? Was he worried for the girl’s life? Or was he trying to give her a clean slate with a new future?
The lead investigator on the case was Captain Joe Bacote. I know him. Or rather I met him a couple of times. Sheriff Owens was right. My grandfather and Captain Bacote were longtime friends. They used to go hunting together. The last time I saw or talked to Captain Bacote was years ago at my grandfather’s funeral.
Did Captain Bacote’s thoughts on the case align with my grandfather’s?
I’m about to dial the number to the foster home where the little girl was placed when my phone buzzes with a group text:
Sheriff Owens: Nell, I realize you have the afternoon off but I need both of you at Memorial Gardens ASAP.
Vaughn: I just finished my exam. I’ll be there soon.
Me: Me too.
Sheriff Owens: We’ve got a body.
FOUR
Monday, 4:15 p.m.
Memorial Gardens takes up a good portion of Iris, a town that butts up to White Quail and is home to our county’s paper mill. Vaughn’s Mini Cooper is already here when I pull up, plus Sheriff Owens’ car, an ambulance, two squad cars, and the county forensics van.
A gate stands open, leading onto a long and winding trail bordered on both sides by thick pines. Halfway down the path stands a uniformed officer and a man with his dog, both looking off to the left where I assume everyone is.
In the distance, the paper mill’s stacks emit white billowing clouds. A nearby water tower glows brightly in the sun with IRIS painted in giant letters.
Some minutes later I come up next to the officer.
She nods in the direction they were looking. “About fifty yards in. It’s bad. Brace yourself.”
“You found the body?” I ask the man.
“M-my dog did.”
I look into his anxious eyes. “What’s your name?”
He has to think about that. Poor guy’s in shock. “Fred Gentry.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gentry. We’re going to need you to stay around for questions. I’m going to have Officer Franks escort you from the trail to wait. Okay?”
He nods.
I let the black lab sniff my hand, before rubbing its head. When they’re down the trail several paces, I move into the woods. Almost instantly the air around me stills like the animals and bugs know something is wrong. My hiking shoes sift through dry underbrush, producing the only sound.
As I shift around a tree and duck under a low-hanging branch, the back of Vaughn comes into view. He stands next to Sheriff Owens looking down into a gulley where county forensics is currently taking pictures.
I step up next to them. A heavy-set woman with short salt and pepper hair lies facedown partially buried by dirt and leaves. Her yellow shorts and white underwear are pushed down, gathering around her ankles and exposing her butt and the back of her legs. She wears a large white tee shirt, soaked with blood and shredded from the stab marks.
So many marks.
Vicious ones with no pattern. Angry stabs that drive deep into the fleshy fat of her back, arms, and butt. Her head rests at a cocked angle, and her jaw is hinged open as if she’d been in the middle of a scream.
A few feet from her body is a backpack that’s been charred, inside and out, with the igniter fluid left beside it.
Letting the camera dangle around his neck, the forensic tech uses a brush to remove debris, fully exposing the woman’s body. He pauses, leaning in to study her dirty face. Only, I don’t think it’s dirt. I can’t tell from here, but there is something wrong with her skin. It looks like someone used that lighter fluid on her as well. The tech probes inside of her mouth. He moves down her body picking up one hand to inspect the fingers.
He looks up at the three of us. “Whoever did this didn’t want us to identify her. The killer burned her face and fingers and pulled her teeth.” A silver object next to her head catches my attention. It’s partially buried, but the tech sees it also. He picks it up. It’s a Zippo lighter. He shows it to us, nodding to the igniter fluid. “Let’s hope it happened post-mortem.”
“How long has she been here?” The sheriff steps down into the gulley.
“Almost twenty-four hours.”
A mosquito lands on my neck. I swat it. “She was trying to get away and the killer kept slashing her.”
“I was just thinking that.” Taking his Ray-Bans off, Vaughn follows the sheriff down to the body.
I stay where I am, analyzing the area around her. The gulley’s about twenty feet long and ten feet wide, dipping down roughly six feet before climbing back up to the edge. Over to the right, I note a different pattern in the leaves and pine needles. They’re not haphazardly scattered as is usual for a forest. They’re matted, exposing dirt underneath, almost like a trail.
I walk the edge around to that spot, coming to a stop at a downed tree. Two sizable limbs separate and come back together, forming a hole. Directly under that part is a dried pile of human feces. Blood slashes the bark.
“She wasn’t raped,” I say. “She was sitting right here going to the bathroom. The killer attacked. She fell forward, tumbling down into the gulley. The killer followed, continuing to stab until she finally stopped crawling away.”
Wearing latex gloves, Vaughn slides a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her shorts. It’s thin and waxy, like the type you wrap sandwiches in. He points to a torn burgundy sticker. “Francis House.”
“That’s the homeless shelter.”
FIVE
Monday, 7 p.m.
Two-story and white brick, Francis House was originally a sewing factory that went out of business. It sat empty for decades until one of the local churches bought it and made it into a shelter that has provided services for men and women going on ten years now.
A few people gather on the sidewalk in front. As I bypass them without saying a word, Vaughn nods to each person and greets them with a pleasant Hello and How are you and Pretty evening tonight, huh?
I try the knob on the red metal door, finding it locked, and ring the bell.
A moment later, it opens. An average-sized man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard smiles. I’d place him in his early thirties. “Yes?”
Simultaneously we flash our badges and introduce ourselves.
“Are you the person in charge?” I ask.
“I am. Everyone calls me Preacher Mitch.”
“We need to ask you a few questions,” I say.
“Of course. Come on in.”
We step into a small entryway that leads down into a large room sectioned off by dividers, creating an eating area, a sleeping space for men, one for women, and a lounge with a TV and board games. About twenty people are here producing a slight buzz of conversation. Two women with hair nets circle the tables, refilling glasses or picking up garbage.
“We’re just wrapping dinner,” Preacher Mitch says. He points down a hall. “My office is down there.”
I trail behind, peeking in and out of open doors. Boxes fill most of the rooms with clothes and toiletries and canned and boxed food. At the end of the hall, we enter a well-organized and clean office with a desk and laptop, multiple filing cabinets, and a corkboard filled with pictures.
While I look at the pictures, Vaughn holds up an evidence bag with the wax paper stamped Francis House. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes, we wrap sandwiches in it. They go in our bagged lunches.”
“Do you keep a record of who you give bagged lunches to?” Vaughn asks.
“No. That’s one of the benefits of Francis House. We don’t ask questions. We offer refuge for those in need. As long as they follow our one rule, they’re allowed through our doors.”
“And that rule is?”
“Respect one another. Simple enough. Will you tell me what this is about?”
“We found this on a dead body,” Vaughn says. “We’re trying to identify the woman.”
Preacher Mitch becomes silent.
I turn from the photos to look at him. I’m surprised to see so much pain on his face for a woman we haven’t even identified.
“Where?” he asks, his voice quiet and reverent.
“Memorial Gardens,” I tell him.
He nods.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask.
“Only six months.”
“Do you know the regulars fairly well?”
“I do.”
I tap a photo of two women, both Caucasian, one light-skinned and skinny with long medium brown hair, the other olive-toned and heavy with short salt and pepper hair. Sitting beside each other on one of the cots out in the main room, they smile for the camera.
“Who are these two?” I ask.
“That’s Rebecca and Cathy.”
Vaughn steps up beside me. I point to Cathy with the short hair. He nods.
“When was the last time you saw them?” I ask.
“They were both here last night for an early dinner. They said they were coming back, but neither one did. That’s not unusual, though.”
I take the picture from the corkboard. “Where do they go if they don’t sleep here?”
“Usually Tent City or the Iris Motel. Of the two, I try to steer them toward Tent City.”
“Why is that?” Vaughn asks.
“Because the Iris Motel is disgusting. Sure they get a bed, a shower, and a meal, but Gilda—she’s the owner—always expects something in return.”
I give Preacher Mitch my card. “If you see either one, call me.”
SIX
Monday, 7:45 p.m.
Tent City is out in the country, almost to the county line. Iris Motel sits next to the interstate, putting it closer to where we currently are. We opt to go there.
On the way, I dial Tyler.
“I’m good,” he says by way of answering the phone.
“You sure? It’s past my usual time getting home.”
“Dad and Mom are here. We’re playing Monopoly.”
