Chapter 65
SIXTY-FIVE
Wisteria Lane
Ellie rolled her shoulders, aching from too many late nights, but little Iris couldn’t wait. Now that she might have a lead with the sexual assault theory, she couldn’t go home and crawl into bed with Cord like she wanted.
And she did want that.
But she had to speak with the family of the other victim on her list. Jordan Orwell might be the final piece of the puzzle and reveal something important to break the case.
She parked at the Orwells’ house, a white traditional colonial perched on a hill that probably was bright green in the spring and summer, but now the grass was brown and brittle.
Not opulent or grandiose, but at one time it had probably looked stately with its glorious mountain views and vibrant colors dotting the countryside.
Now the house looked sad, bare of fall or the upcoming holiday decorations but a house that had lost its fervor for life. Or maybe the home’s owners had. The loss of a loved one, especially a child, could derail a person’s life.
Ellie parked, the wind whining around her like a child’s cry boomeranging off the mountain as she walked up to the front door. Windchimes tinkled from a tree adjacent to the front stoop and rotting birdfeeders leaned precariously as if standing on their last leg.
Ellie rang the bell, waiting patiently and wondering if she should have called ahead.
Dark had long set in and although her work hours lingered into the night when she was working an active case, she realized some people turned in early.
Especially people with early morning jobs or retirees who’d exchanged the rat race for pajama lounging in the morning, setting their own schedule and sipping coffee for hours.
Sometimes she longed for that. Especially with Cord.
But for now, her job was her passion and little Iris’s face taunted her. Those big eyes, lost without her mother. She’d been stolen or hurt or worse… and needed help.
Dammit, she wanted to find Iris alive.
She reached out her hand to ring the bell again, but the door opened and a man appeared, his jeans worn, his face even more weathered than his pants.
His hand shook with the beer in his hand.
Behind him, feather dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling in the foyer, at odds with the dismal feel of the house.
The man’s bloodshot eyes raked over her with a scowl. “Who the hell are you?”
Ellie questioned her judgment in coming at night without backup. “My name is Detective Ellie Reeves,” she said. “Is your wife here?”
He rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes. “Yeah, but she’s already sleeping it off upstairs.”
Again Ellie questioned her decision to come here tonight. “I’m very sorry to have bothered you. Maybe you and your wife could come to the station tomorrow and we can talk when you’re both fresh.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and took a swig of his beer. “Now why would I want to do that, lady?”
Ellie refused to let him intimidate her. In his inebriated state, if he did become aggressive, she could throw him to the ground in one move. And she wouldn’t hesitate to do it.
“Because it’s about your daughter.”
His eyes darkened. “My daughter killed herself. She’s gone.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Ellie said, her tone gentle. “I’m not sure she did, and I want to know what happened.”
He grabbed her wrist. “Are you accusing me of something?”
Ellie stood her ground. “No, sir. But if you don’t take your hands off me, I’m going to arrest you right now.”
A vein pulsed in his craggy cheek as he bared his gritted teeth. But he released her, then raised his hands and stepped back.
Ellie exhaled and glanced at the dreamcatchers behind him. Instead of bright vibrant colors, the color was predominantly black and looked like crow feathers.
An image of the crow feathers the killer left in her driveway flashed back.
What did they signify here?
And was the man defensive because he was drunk or because he had secrets to hide?