Mallory Kane - High School Reunion

Cade turned his head and pinned her with his electric-blue gaze. “My question wasn’t rhetorical.”

She forced herself not to look away. “I didn’t think it was. What do you think about her position on the floor?”

“I asked you first.”

“Fair enough.” She stepped closer. “Yes, I’m here for the reunion. I flew in to Memphis this afternoon and drove straight here.”

“Flew in from where?”

“D.C. I work at FBI Headquarters. I’m a criminologist with the Division of Unsolved Mysteries.”

His gaze sharpened, but all he did was nod.

“Misty invited me to stay with her. I tried to call her several times, on her cell and her home phone, but she never answered, which was odd since she’d made me promise to call. I pulled into her driveway at 8:03 p.m. Rang her bell, knocked on the door, then drew my weapon and turned the knob. It was unlocked.”

Cade turned around and crossed his arms. “You said that. Do you know how unlikely that is? Misty’s—”

“Borderline agoraphobic. I know.” She nodded. “Not to mention a tad obsessive-compulsive. Even in grade school she couldn’t stand to be inside a house alone with the doors unlocked.”

“Which means either she let someone in or they picked the lock.”

“That lock’s at least sixty years old. It could probably be opened with a credit card.”

“So you walked into a dark house that you knew shouldn’t be unlocked, not knowing whether you’d find a burglar, a murderer or a rapist?”

“Or my best friend from high school.” Laurel kept her expression neutral, but it was an effort. “I’m a trained agent with field and crime-scene experience. I know how to enter a suspicious dwelling.”

His face darkened. “Without backup?”

Laurel shrugged. She knew he was right to question her, but she wasn’t wrong. Not totally. She let it drop. “So what do you think about her position?”

“Someone conked her from behind.”

“While she was sitting on the couch?”

“Nope. She’d have slumped over.”

Images of what must have happened played out in Laurel’s head. “Picture this.” She turned to look at the foyer door. “I come in the door. Either it’s unlocked—doubtful—or I somehow unlock it without Misty hearing me.” She stepped toward the couch and raised her hand. “I’m holding the baseball bat. Did I bring it in or pick it up here?”

Cade still had his arms crossed. He nodded toward the couch. “I’m thinking the bat was Misty’s. It was probably near the front door—for protection.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I gave it to Shelton—Officer Phillips—to check for prints.”

“Okay, I’m holding the bat. I raise my arm and swing—” She demonstrated.

“What are you doing?”

The scene in her head freeze-framed. She looked up at him. “Trying to get a picture of what happened.”

“You do realize you’re talking as if you’re the attacker?”

“Oh. A lot of the time I work alone, looking at forensic evidence from photographs or video. I talk to myself.”

His brows drew down. “So you walk in the perp’s shoes. I reckon I see the crime unfolding like a movie—it’s how my dad always did it. I guess everybody’s got their own way of doing things.” He scrutinized her. “So, Gillespie, if you’re acting out what the attacker did, you need to use your other hand. The blow was to the left side of Misty’s head.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. “You’re right. The attacker had to be left-handed.” She looked at her hands. “Wouldn’t you think at least one perp would use the wrong hand, just to throw off the police?”

Cade’s mouth turned up at the corner and Laurel’s pulse jumped at the hint of his killer smile.

He shrugged. “Plus you’ve still got Misty sitting on the couch.”

“Okay. Let’s start over.” She started to turn back toward the door.

“Hold it.” Cade stopped her with a hand on her arm. A large, blunt-fingered, warm hand.

Crime scene, she thought. Crime scene, not high school.

“Are you planning to act out the entire thing?”

“I like to when I can.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Okay, go ahead.”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Why did Misty get up? Did she hear something and turn around? Here. You be the attacker and I’ll be Misty.”

Cade sent her a look. “Might as well. We don’t have much else to go on. Shelton lifted prints off the dining table, but Misty had a reunion committee meeting here a couple of days ago, so there are going to be dozens of prints.”

“It was three days ago. You stand here, behind the couch.” She moved to go around to the front but Cade caught her arm again.

“Aren’t you going to give me the blunt object?”

“Ha ha. Don’t make fun of me unless you have a better idea.”

He shook his head.

“Here’s something else to think about. Look at the couch.”

“Yeah, I know. Blood spatter across the cushions. Proves she wasn’t sitting.”

“Have you taken samples?”

“Got a few. Don’t forget that this isn’t D.C. It’s Dusty Springs, Mississippi. We’re not equipped to handle a lot of lab work, and I can guarantee you that the state lab won’t consider a minor breaking and entering, even with injuries, top priority.”

Laurel didn’t comment. She knew she could use the FBI lab in D.C., but if she offered, Cade would want to know why she’d use their resources for such a relatively insignificant crime. And she wasn’t ready to explain the reason she’d violated her promise to herself never to set foot in Dusty Springs again. She knew the suspicion that had drawn her back here was flimsy at best. She needed to gain Cade’s confidence before she told him her theory.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m sitting on the couch, watching TV. I hear something. I get up and turn around. It would explain the blow to the left side of her head—”

Cade swung the imaginary bat. “But not her position on the floor.”

“Use your left hand.” Air stirred against her cheek as he feigned a blow to the left side of her head. “I crumple into the exact position where she was found.”

“So she had to be facing the TV.”

“But if she stood because she heard the intruder, why didn’t she turn around?”

“Her cell phone.” Cade said it at the same time as Laurel spotted it on top of the TV.

“She got up to answer her cell phone.” Her stomach sank to the floor. “It was me. I called her from the airport at that very moment.”

“Your call may have saved her life.”

Laurel frowned at him.

“If she’d been sitting on the couch, the attacker would have had a much better angle, and the blow would have struck much harder. It could have killed her.”

Laurel looked at the cell phone. “Have you got gloves?”

“Nope. You’ll have to use a tissue.”

“Misty assured me she’d be at home. She always watches Secret Lives at six. At first I thought she didn’t answer because she was engrossed in the show.” She pulled a couple of tissues from a box on the end table and used them to pick up Misty’s phone. She accessed the incoming calls.

“I called her at 6:25 when the plane landed. Then at 6:58, and 7:20.” She looked at the muted TV. The logo in the corner of the screen identified the station that carried Secret Lives. “If she was watching the show, then she was attacked after it started but before it ended. So she was attacked between 6:00 and 6:30.”

As soon as she’d seen Misty’s floor littered with photos and paper, she’d known what the attacker was after. But now she had to face her own responsibility for Misty’s attack. Her mouth tasted like cotton. She couldn’t delay any longer. No matter what Cade thought of her shaky theory, she had to come clean. She needed his help.