Unseen (Nell Brach Book 2), page 5
“But will you do everything in your power to continue making sure she’s unseen?”
THIRTEEN
Tuesday, 5:45 p.m.
On the way back to White Quail from Knoxville, I dial Vaughn.
He says, “I had Lisbeth do her aging magic on a ten-year-old photo of Natalie Scott. Cut her hair, put gray in it, and add about fifty pounds and it’s a match to Cathy.”
“Rylan called her Cathy while we were talking. Still, we’re going to need DNA.”
“Already requested a match to the sister, Paige Bell.”
“Perfect.”
“How did it go with Rylan?” he asks.
“His only request was for me to deliver a letter to his daughter.”
“Wow.”
“He’s not looking for any last-ditch effort to overturn his sentence. He’s willingly dying to protect his little girl from the real killer. A lot more was said. Too much to talk about on the phone.”
Vaughn says, “Forensics came back. Based on the wounds, a six-inch blade was used.”
“Paige was done with a Cold Steel six-inch tactical folding knife. Knives are like guns. Once you find your favorite, you stick with it.”
“Tactical, as in former military?”
“Possibly.” Or a cop…
“Are you saying the same person did both?” Vaughn asks.
“Same vicious stabbing. Six-inch blade. Ten years later and they finally got the right twin, who, according to Rylan Scott, apparently had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd and was suddenly rolling in the dough.”
“Why wait ten years?”
I say, “Cathy’s been living off the grid. Could’ve taken that long to find her. The killer scraped her identity so we wouldn’t make connections.”
“The violence behind the kill leans toward a personal vendetta.”
“My grandfather was digging into Cathy’s past. We need to pick up where he left off.” Because if I can prove the same person killed both Paige and Cathy, I’ll be able to get a stay of execution. We can put the real killer away. Destiny will remain safe.
“Motivation rooted so deeply that someone waited ten years. That’s some vendetta.”
I ask, “Do you think forensics can match Paige’s stab marks to Cathy’s?”
I can’t see him, but I can feel him smile. “I already asked. The answer is no. Forensics can’t use pictures. They would need Paige’s body.”
That’s not going to happen.
I spy my exit up ahead and click on my blinker. “Other than Lisbeth, you haven’t told anyone anything, correct?”
“Correct.”
“I’m going to swing by the station and get everything from Lisbeth to put back in my grandfather’s file. Can you come by my house tonight?” I steer my SUV down the off-ramp. “I want to dive into Cathy’s past. I also want to research the woman who raised Destiny. And we still have Twitch to figure out.” I hear Vaughn’s blinker turn on. “Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m leaving Destiny’s neighborhood. I wanted to get eyes on her. Make sure she’s okay. If someone figured out who Cathy was, they may already know who Destiny is.”
Not likely, is my first thought. But he does have a point. “Rebecca did say that Cathy told everyone she saw her daughter.”
“It’ll send up red flags if we suddenly take her into protective custody.”
“Agreed.”
“We don’t even know if Destiny remembers who she really is.”
“She was nine when she witnessed the murder. Trauma like that burrows in deep. Add into that the lie Grammy told her about her mother dying, and you’re right—she may honestly think she is Destiny Larson.”
FOURTEEN
Tuesday, 8 p.m.
Headlights flash across my living room window. I peek out, not recognizing Vaughn’s Mini Cooper. Instead, a maroon SUV pulls in with a Lyft sticker on the windshield. Vaughn sits passenger side, not in the back. The woman behind the wheel sees me, giving me a timid wave.
That’s Charlotte Swift. Because of her, we were able to solve the murder of a thirteen-year-old girl. The last time I saw Charlotte, I wasn’t exactly nice. Now, though, I wave back, letting her know I’m not a bitch. I was just stressed.
Vaughn and Charlotte exchange a kiss, he climbs out, then she pulls away.
I open my front door. “You and Charlotte Swift, huh?”
“Yes.” He grins.
“How long has that been going on?”
“It’s brand-new.”
“Tell me all about it,” I say like we’re girlfriends and not partners in crime.
He laughs as he follows me into the house. “Nothing really to tell. I was in Target a couple of months ago. I saw her looking at pet supplies. We struck up a conversation. Then I saw her again at a red light. We were stopped right beside each other. Anyway, fast-forward and we’ve had several dates. We just got a bite to eat.”
I study his face. “You look happy.”
“I am.” He looks around. “Where’s Little Man?”
“In his room. You can go say hi. Meet me at the kitchen table.”
Minutes later we’re seated beside each other. The contents of my grandfather’s file are strewn across the table. Vaughn sifts through it, studying the redacted page, the drawing with the bold X’s, the detailed notes, the photos… From Cathy’s file, he takes out the pictures of her stabbed body and places them next to the ones of her twin sister. Seeing them side by side like this is eye-opening.
I say, “Rylan doesn’t want a stay of execution, but I can do this. We can do this. We’ll have the DNA test by tomorrow night that proves our homeless woman and Paige Bell are twin sisters. Both murders were done with a six-inch blade. If we can find the murder weapon used on Cathy, I would bet it’s a tactical folding knife just like what was used on Paige. That leaves us with Destiny-slash-Mackenize. Assuming she’s blocked the event from her mind, if we can get her to remember the details, anything, we have a shot at filing for a stay.” I hold up the drawing paper with the X’s on it. “If we can get her to tell us what this is.”
Vaughn runs a hand over his slicked-back hair. “I’ve been thinking about the word ‘vendetta.’ It’s no coincidence Cathy was murdered the same week her husband is set to die. It’s poetic justice. Like the killer’s been waiting for this week to arrive.”
“Interesting take.”
“And even more reason to carefully monitor Destiny. Yes, she was the only witness. She is the one person who can identify the real killer. More importantly, she is Rylan and Cathy’s daughter.”
“As in the killer would target her no matter if she was a witness or not?”
“Maybe…”
“Sounds like a lot of patience and planning.” I sit back, looking at it from that angle. “Doesn’t the violence of the kill seem more spur of the moment? The words ‘patience’ and ‘planning’ don’t match the viciousness of the stabbing. At least in my mind, they don’t.”
“Just throwing ideas out, seeing what sticks.”
“Of course. Likewise.” From under a pile of pictures that I found in an old album, I pull out a black-and-white photo of my grandparents with a pretty, dark-haired woman. “While I was waiting on you, I did some digging into the lady who raised Destiny Larson. She was a longtime friend of my grandparents. They all went to high school together. She never married and never had children. She used to babysit my mother. She had a small cleaning business her whole life. She used to live here in White Quail. When she adopted Destiny, they moved one town over. She was the perfect person to raise, and hide, one scared little girl.”
“Hide in plain sight.”
I pick up the photo of Cathy that was taken ten years ago. Once upon a time, she was a beautiful woman. That picture Destiny showed us of her as a baby with her mother is definitely Cathy. I see it now. “What did you do?” I murmur. “Who did you piss off?”
On the table next to everything else sits my laptop. Vaughn turns it around. “Let’s see if we can figure that out.”
FIFTEEN
Wednesday, 8 a.m.
I knock on Destiny’s door. It takes her a full minute to answer. Dressed ready for work in her khaki pants and navy monogrammed polo, she smiles. “Oh, hi. You again.”
“Good morning.” I show her the black-and-white photo that I found. “Our grandparents knew each other.”
“No way.” She takes the picture, giving it a long study. “Wow, my grammy was beautiful.”
“Yes, she was. You can keep that if you want.”
“Really? Cool.”
Next, I hand her my card. “My partner gave you his, but I wanted to make sure you have mine as well.”
“Okay.” She takes it, but the gesture seems to confuse her.
“One question and then I’ll let you get to work.”
She nods.
“Do you know the names Rylan, Natalie, and Mackenzie Scott?” Closely, I watch her face, looking for any hint of anything—that she knows who she really is; that she has no clue; that she’s scared; that she’s cautious; that she’s forming a lie to tell.
“No, I don’t think so,” she finally says.
I nod. “That was my only question. Keep my card handy.”
“Will do.”
Back in the SUV, I text Vaughn:
Me: Destiny doesn’t know she’s Mackenzie Scott.
Vaughn: With last night’s search on Natalie Scott giving us what we already knew—that she was a stripper—we’re left with Rebecca. Other than Rylan Scott, she’s known her the longest. Maybe Cathy said something to her about her past and how she was suddenly rolling in the dough.
Me: Plus, Twitch is still dangling out there.
Vaughn: Agreed. See you in a few.
SIXTEEN
Wednesday, 8:45 a.m.
When I pull into the station, Vaughn is waiting in the parking lot. He climbs in. “I just got off the phone with Preacher Mitch. He said he overheard some of his patrons this morning talking about Rebecca. Apparently, she got beat up pretty badly. Someone saw her under the overpass near the Iris Motel. The preacher was planning on checking on her. I said we would.”
Fifteen minutes later, we see her huddled under the bridge up against the embankment surrounded by overgrown grass and random litter.
She’s not moving.
My gut knots.
Vaughn is out of the vehicle before I even stop it. “Rebecca, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t respond.
I cut the engine and jump out.
Cautiously, he climbs the embankment to where she is. I follow. Her backpack is on her shoulders. As I draw near, I notice the lumps and bruises on her face. There’s no telling what the rest of her body looks like.
Vaughn squats down. He leans in, about to check for a pulse when her eyes flutter open.
She shrinks back. “No,” she groans. “Please.”
“It’s me, Detective London, and right here is Detective Brach. You’re okay. We won’t hurt you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Who did this to you?” I squat down next to my partner.
She shakes her head.
“Let us take you to a clinic.” Vaughn reaches for her.
“I’m fine.” She pushes away. “Please, leave me alone. I can’t be seen talking to you.”
“Who told you that?” I ask.
She struggles to stand and we help her. When she’s on her feet, she staggers in place. I’m afraid she’s going to fall down the embankment. Gently, I grasp her arm. She winces.
“You may have broken something,” I say.
“I didn’t break anything.” She pulls from my grasp. “I’m just beaten up. I’ve had worse.” Sniffing, she dabs at the blood seeping from a cut on her bottom lip.
She walks down the grassy slope with us huddling beside her in case she falls.
Vaughn’s voice comes quiet, nearly deadly. “Who did this to you?”
“Twitch, okay? Now leave me alone.” When we reach the pavement, she walks away.
We have no choice but to let her go.
SEVENTEEN
Wednesday, 10:30 a.m.
At Francis House, we touch base with Preacher Mitch. “Please tell me you found Rebecca,” he says.
“We did,” I confirm. “But she walked off. We’re looking for Twitch. What can you tell us about him?”
“Supposedly he’s retired Special Ops.” Preacher Mitch takes a photo off his corkboard and hands it to me. “He’s bad news.”
With a buzzed head and a bushy beard, he’s a squirrelly-looking man.
Vaughn glances at the photo I’m holding. “What’s your definition of bad news?”
“He steals other people’s food. He makes women do things to him. He’s got a foul mouth. And he refuses to put away his knives. He’s always showing them off. He’s got quite the collection.”
“You said that Cathy and Rebecca arrived here with him. Do you know how long they’ve been traveling together?” Vaughn asks.
The preacher shrugs. “Years, I think. That’s normal though. Groups come and go all the time, some stay together, some split off, a couple will settle here, a couple more out at Tent City, some will move on, some will stay… It’s different every time.”
“If Cathy had a secret, who would she tell it to?” Vaughn asks.
Preacher Mitch laughs. “Everyone. Cathy kind of had a big mouth.”
“Where can we find this Twitch?”
EIGHTEEN
Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.
The homeless encampment, Tent City, has been squatting on abandoned farmland for a couple of years now. We’ve notified the owner who lives out of the country and doesn’t seem to care. As long as they don’t cause problems, Sheriff Owens says to leave them be.
Vaughn and I weave through the makeshift tents asking about Twitch. One man hunches over a camping stove stirring a can of soup. He barely looks at the photo we show him as he shakes his head. A woman under a tarp playing solitaire responds the same way. A man curled under a tree napping mutters No. A woman sitting cross-legged with a cat in her lap gives a slight nod to the right.
We follow her signal down to the end. With an unkempt gray beard that extends down his neck, a wiry man sits on a bucket. Covered in tattoos and dressed in a white “wife beater” shirt, he sharpens a large military knife with a stone.
He watches us as we approach.
We come to a stop a few feet in front of him.
“Can I help you?” He sucks his teeth.
We show him our badges.
“Put the knife down. Now,” I command.
“Make me,” he sneers.
I lunge, popping him in the nose with the heel of my hand. The knife flies. He tumbles from the bucket. Roughly I grab him, flip him, and jam his face down into the grass. I grind my knee into his bony spinal cord and cuff him.
Then I yank him to his feet and shove him forward. “Walk.”
A string of curses erupts from Twitch’s mouth.
I look over to Vaughn, who stands with the knife already bagged, staring at me, smiling.
I shrug. “He said ‘make me.’”
NINETEEN
Wednesday, 4 p.m.
Twitch now sits in an interrogation room. I stand next to Vaughn looking at our suspect through the two-way mirror. In the room with us are his belongings amounting to one military-issued duffel full of clothes, miscellaneous items, and several knives—including a Cold Steel six-inch tactical folding one.
Vaughn references the file he printed after scanning Twitch’s prints. “Real name is David Archer. Barely four years in the military. Not special forces. Dishonorably discharged. Forty years old. Last known address is in Knoxville. Has a long list of arrests for drunk and disorderly, trespassing, harassment, domestic violence, etcetera. Ready for this? He has an ex-wife. They were married for less than a year. Million dollars if you guess who.”
“Natalie Catherine Scott.”
“Married at eighteen. Divorced at nineteen. He joined the military. And she hooked up with Rylan Scott. Had Destiny at twenty-one. Took off nine years later.”
“Cold Steel six-inch tactical folding knife right in his things. How handy.” I check my phone to see if we have forensics back on the knife. We don’t. “I’ve got Lisbeth working on where this guy was ten years ago, the day Paige Bell was murdered.”
“Okay, say he did Paige and framed Rylan. Why wait this long to do the correct twin? He’s been traveling with Cathy and Rebecca. He could’ve done it any time. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘patience’ and ‘planning.’”
“No, but he does scream violent stabbing. Maybe things have been okay between them. Then Cathy did something to piss him off and his rage flared. He tracked her to Memorial Gardens and finally did what he wanted to do all those years ago.”
The door opens. Sergeant Rogers steps in. He looks at Twitch through the two-way. “Well, if it isn’t ole Twitch. I didn’t know he was in this neck of the woods.”
Does this man not have anything else to do but interfere with our work?
Vaughn closes the file. “How do you know him?”
“Frequent flyer at my last posting. I busted up quite a few brawls he got in with his girlfriend of the month. Last one he did a number on her. But she refused to file charges, so—” Rogers waves his hand toward the mirror. “Guess he’s our problem now. Want me to talk to him?”
“No.” I take the file from Vaughn’s fingers. “Let’s go.”
Rogers holds up his hands. “Fine. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”
