Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

“Sure.” Loudly, she said, “Layla, it’s me. Get up.”

“Zoom in closer?”

“Come on, sleepyhead.” Brooke tapped a few keys.

The screen filled with a close-up of Layla’s image. Though her nightgown reached up to her chin, Sloan noticed the discoloration at her throat. Layla’s face was drained of color. Her cheeks were hollow. She lay unnaturally still.

He’d witnessed enough autopsies to know that this woman would never respond to Brooke’s calls for her to wake up.

Riveted, Brooke stared at the screen, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. Layla, beautiful Layla, was carefully posed on the bed in the one-room cabin. Her head tilted to the right, toward the door and the kitchenette. Her shiny black hair fanned out on the pillowcase. Her pink gown was buttoned all the way up to her chin. The flowered peach comforter tucked under her arms had been smoothed to perfection, and her long fingers laced together below her breasts. Brooke stared at the plain gold band that gleamed from Layla’s left hand—stared so hard that her eyes strained and began to water. Not again.

Twelve years ago, Layla was forced to be Hardy’s bride. That had been her role in the sick little family he had created. Night after night, he’d come to her, demanding his rights as her husband. At first, Layla had screamed. And she must have struggled, because Brooke had heard the crashing around and had treated Layla’s wounds the following day. Her blood had been literally on Brooke’s hands.

After a while, Layla had given up and quit fighting. Her desperate cries had faded into quiet sobs. At the end of the seven months they were held captive, Layla’s voice had been silent in the night.

Brooke buried her face in her hands. Layla didn’t deserve an early death, not after what she’d survived. She’d worked so hard to get through law school. Her dream had been to defend other victims who had given up hope and had nowhere else to turn. Why had she been taken? Why? Brooke dropped her hands. There was no answer. Sometimes, life didn’t make sense.

In a flat voice, she said, “Layla’s dead.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

Sloan didn’t make the mistake of trying to comfort her with a touch or a pat on the shoulder or a hug. He kept his distance. Smart man. She could already feel her grief transforming into anger, and she might lash out at whatever or whoever was in her path. “I should call the sheriff.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Give me directions to the cabin or an address so I can contact the authorities and the ambulance.”

She wrote the information on a sticky note. Her fingers trembled, but she took care to make her penmanship legible. “We don’t have a spare key hidden at the cabin, and the windows are secure. Still, I’d appreciate if they don’t break down the door.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

He stepped away from the desk but didn’t leave the office. Hovering in the doorway, he kept an eye on her. His voice was a smooth murmur as he made phone calls. She overheard him tell someone to treat the cabin like a crime scene.

The image on the computer screen wavered before her eyes, and she forced herself to inhale a steadying breath before she made a promise to Layla Tierney. “You will have justice, my sister. I will find the bastard who did this to you, and I will make him pay.”

Adrenaline surged through her veins. A wake-up call. This sensation was unlike her panic attacks or the nervous tension that sapped her energy and left her paralyzed. She felt powerful, strong and filled with purpose. There was nothing more she could do for Layla, but she’d make sure the killer was caught and no one else came to harm.

With a few keystrokes, she exited the computer connection to the cabin. If Franny came in here and stumbled across the image of their dead friend, she’d be devastated. Brooke rose from behind her desk and confronted Sloan when he ended his call.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“Please sit, Brooke. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Still standing, she said, “We should get going.”

“You tried to reach Layla at the cabin yesterday. What time?”

“It was after Franny and I left her apartment—between four thirty and four forty-five. The cabin was empty.”

“And today?”

“It was three hours ago, before I made lunch. One of the twins contacted me, and I told her I’d check again.” At the time, she hadn’t been worried. Over the years, she’d grown complacent, believing all of them were safe and could lead relatively normal lives. Clearly, a mistake. “This was my fault. If I’d gone to the cabin this morning, I could have prevented Layla’s murder.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Based on the time I contacted her, she must have been killed during the three-hour window between eleven thirty and right now.”

“I advise against making assumptions,” he said in a firm voice that was both aggravating and authoritative. “Until we investigate and have evidence, we can’t draw conclusions.”

“But it’s obvious.”

“Think about it, Brooke.” Rather than handling her with kid gloves, he seemed to be using a direct approach. “Did you see signs of violence in the cabin?”

She appreciated his candor. “There wouldn’t be blood spatters if she was strangled.”

“But she would have struggled,” he said. “I see no defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No bruises or scratches. We don’t know what happened. Or when. To determine the time of death, we need a coroner’s report.”

“You’re right.”

“She might have died elsewhere and been transported to the cabin.”

Brooke was ashamed that she hadn’t considered all those possibilities. Where was her brain? Her intelligence seemed to have deserted her at a moment when she needed to calm down and concentrate. Sloan was right when he told her not to base her thinking on unfounded suppositions, which was precisely why she needed to go to the crime scene and gather information. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

“When was the last time you spoke to Layla?”

“I can check my phone records, but I think it was four days ago, on Monday. She’d made an appointment to look at a property she might lease as an office and wanted me to come.” Brooke sat behind her desk, brought up her digital calendar and pointed to the notation. “See, right there. It was supposed to be tomorrow at ten in the morning. I should call and cancel.”

Verifying a meeting with a property manager seemed trivial, but Brooke knew she’d make that call before the day was over. She was compelled to take care of details. Life went on even when Layla was dead. Oh, God, this was so unfair. Tears threatened, and she tossed her head, shaking them away. “I’m ready. We should go now.”

“I can’t take you with me, Brooke. Bringing a witness to a crime scene is against the rules.”

The clever man already knew her well enough to present the argument that would be most persuasive. He was aware that she hated to disobey normal conventions. But her need to avenge her friend surpassed her habit of coloring inside the lines. She had to convince him.

“Lipstick,” she said.

“What about lipstick?”

“Layla is wearing a particular color—Rosy Posey—that Hardy liked. She’d never choose that disgusting pinkness for herself. And the shiny, narrow wedding band is almost a perfect match for the one that Hardy forced her to wear.” She could be straightforward, too. “I know more about Layla and the things that happened to us than anyone else. You need me. I can be a valuable asset in your investigation.”

“And I’ll review my findings with you. But you should stay here, where you’re safe. It might be best for you and Franny and the others to go into protective custody.”