Chapter 3
THREE
The beautiful Della Nixon was hiding something.
Anthony had been a cop long enough to see the signs.
But there was genuine fear in her captivating face.
Which only cemented the twist in his gut that said he was in the wrong place.
He should be out hunting down the criminal responsible for tormenting her and killing her friend.
The trauma was real. So what was it that she wasn’t saying?
He’d have to familiarize himself with the details of the case, but he didn’t doubt that Jason Vaynes belonged behind bars, never to be allowed to walk freely in society again.
Maybe getting to know the details of Della’s case would help him track Vaynes down if he could get back out there. And that meant seeing these letters.
“You believe me?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared him down.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
She shook her head. But her thumb tucked itself into her fist that rested on the table.
Interesting.
“Well, let’s see them. Where are they? At your place?” He hoped his expression didn’t show the questions or suspicions lurking in his head.
“I brought them here.”
“Why didn’t you show them to the police?”
“He was in prison. So there wasn’t really anything he could do but mess with my head. Until he escaped.”
It sounded good, but there was still something Anthony couldn’t quite pin down about her. “We’ll need to classify them as evidence, but there might not be much we can get off them in terms of evidence if you’ve handled them already.” He stood, ready to see these threats for himself.
“After the first one, I was careful not to touch them without gloves. I kept the envelopes and letters all in a plastic baggie. Just in case. And the police officer I talked to said he was sending someone here while I worked, so I brought them to give to you.”
That showed some forethought at least, but the chain of evidence was already tainted. Still, he wasn’t going to let anything, big or small, go without tracking down every possible clue.
He was, after all, here to protect her.
And if he so happened to catch a serial killer and restore some goodwill with his department, so be it.
Della led him out of the small break room and down the hall.
Loud voices cheering over the unmistakable sound of sports announcers meant a bunch of the crew were watching a game in the lounge.
A quick peek as they walked by, and he saw Penny Mitchell there, on Bryce Crawford’s arm.
He’d worked with them last spring to put Sosa away the first time.
What would they think if they knew how badly he’d messed up?
But it was Chief Conroy Barnes’s opinion that mattered most. Anthony wouldn’t make it to detective if he didn’t do some damage control and prove that he had what it took. He’d been cultivating CIs and trying to prove himself for too long to miss the mark now.
But in the back of his mind, his father’s voice lingered, the disappointment clear in his aloof glance when Anthony had shown him his rock collection.
The boy won’t amount to anything. Just look at him.
He had banished that voice long ago, only to hear it incessantly since losing Sosa. Anthony shook the memory away as they approached the women’s locker room.
Della stopped outside the door. “Let me check and make sure no one is inside.”
He’d have to trust that she wasn’t tampering with the evidence any further. She seemed almost desperate for someone to believe her, so it didn’t benefit her to mess with the letters any more than she already had.
He waited in the hall until she opened the door and left it propped open. “Come in.”
He followed her to the middle row of gray metal lockers.
She spun a combination lock and opened the one with her last name on it.
A feminine scent, exotic and floral, wafted over him.
A down coat and rain boots took up most of the space.
On the top shelf rested a clear makeup bag holding an array of dainty bottles and brushes.
Della pushed the coat aside and opened a brown leather purse.
She dug through it, then paused. “What—”
She snatched the bag and brought it out of the locker. She mumbled something as she opened the bag as wide as possible and continued to dig.
She finally looked up, her face pale.
“What is it?”
“They’re gone. Someone stole the letters.” She gripped her bag tight enough for her knuckles to go white. “I promise you they were here in my bag when I started my shift this morning.”
If she was lying, the wobble in her voice was some of the best acting he’d witnessed.
He kept his voice calm and steady. “You sure you didn’t forget them in your car, or they might’ve fallen out?”
“They were here. I made sure of it.” She spun and dug into her locker.
Looking over her shoulder, he watched. Nothing behind her coat or under her boots. Nothing on the shelf with her products and makeup.
She faced him, lifting her chin. “I promise you, I had them.”
He gave a slow nod, not wanting to completely discount her, but also not yet convinced. “So where are they?”
“Obviously they’ve been stolen.”
“You sure your locker was closed completely this morning? Locked?”
“You watched me unlock it. I gain nothing by lying to you.”
“I never said you were lying. But under stress, we space out. Overlook stuff. Maybe we should check your car. Or see if one of your coworkers found them and turned them in to the receptionist. Just in case.”
“I’m telling you, I had them in my bag when I got to work this morning. I double-checked. Someone broke into my locker and took them.”
“Why would anyone do that?” He knew most of the crew. They wouldn’t stoop that low.
“To mess with me? How should I know?”
Those furrowed brows? Yeah, she was angry now.
And although she was probably hiding something, maybe this wasn’t it. It didn’t really make sense for her to fake the letters’ disappearance. Unless she’d never had them in the first place. But to what end would she lie about that?
“All right, then, is anything else missing?”
Her shoulders relaxed a smidge at his question, almost as if his belief in her really mattered. “I’ll check.” She turned back to her locker, this time methodically moving the products on her top shelf, scanning the locker from top to bottom. Her breath caught.
“What is it?”
“My hairbrush and”—she swallowed—“a picture.”
“What picture?”
“The picture I had of Lily.” She pointed to an empty spot inside the door. “It’s gone.”