Chapter Two #2
“Good afternoon, I’m Rita Meade reporting live from Key Biscayne, Florida, where a female body has been discovered just offshore at Hobie Beach tangled in old fishing nets.
I’ve learned the identity of the body is believed to be that of Laura Sanders.
I’ve also learned law enforcement is not ruling out the possibility this is a homicide.
” I pause. My earpiece is slipping. Shit.
I press my finger to my ear and work to keep my face neutral.
“Are you there, Rita? We seem to be having some technical difficulties.”
“No, I’m here,” I say, pushing on the foreign earpiece, but it’s too late. They’ve cut from me.
Carl pulls back from the camera and clears his throat. “Well, that was a first.”
I pluck the earpiece from my ear and place it in Carl’s hand. “It’s fine.” Or maybe it’s lucky, I think.
He squints at me. “You okay? You don’t sound like yourself?”
I exhale. “I need to tell you something.”
His expression darkens. “What?”
I glance at the scene next to us, then back to him. “Laura Sanders is the source who reached out to me. And when she did, she sent me an article on a school where a skull was found during a recent renovation.”
“And?” Carl says, setting his jaw.
“And it’s a school I went to. And I think the skull belongs to a girl I went to school with.”
“What the hell, Rita?” Carl throws his hands up. “You told Dom this, right?”
I shake my head.
“Holy shit.”
“Carl, I’m going to tell him.”
“You just went live and didn’t disclose any of this.”
“I know, but—”
“You let me come down here without telling him. He’s going to think I knew and kept it from him too.”
“No, he’s not. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Rita, no way Dom’s going to think I didn’t know.” He rubs his face. “This is bad.” He points to the scene. “You can’t go back over there until you tell him.”
“They’re going to move the body soon. I’m going to talk to the next of kin—then I’m going to call Dom and fill him in. You don’t have to go. I have my phone and that wireless mic. I can get the visuals.”
“Dom will be pissed if I’m here and you shoot the vis.”
“I’ll be fast,” I say.
Carl shakes his head, but he holds his camera up.
Marshall Sanders stands off to one side, his shoulders slumped.
Their money couldn’t help Laura stay alive, but it will help in her death.
Money talks when it comes to death, loudly.
I wonder if Marshall is going to be talking.
Showing up here with a lawyer tells me he knows up to 70 percent of women are killed by an intimate partner.
I walk toward him and the man in the suit. Marshall should have brought a family spokesperson with him, not a lawyer. I can handle lawyers, but those spokespeople are brutal. They are usually related to the victim in some capacity, and they are ruthlessly protective of the next of kin.
Marshall Sanders spots me, and his stare could burn a hole through metal. But if I let evil looks bother me, I wouldn’t be on my way to an Emmy. The lawyer is too busy staring at his phone to notice me.
“Mr. Sanders, I’m Rita Meade,” I say, holding out my hand.
The lawyer keeps his head down but says, “No comment.”
Maybe he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.
“I know who you are,” Mr. Sanders says, his eyes red rimmed as he steps in front of his daughter. She hugs her arms over her chest. I stand in front of her, too, and block her view of the bay. There are some things that can’t be washed off with Vaseline and face soap.
My cell vibrates again. Christ, I should have powered it off.
I feel Carl behind me. I know his camera is on even though the light is not. He’s aware the light can scare them off.
“I know this is a hard time,” I say. “But I’m here to help.”
Mr. Sanders scoffs. “By parading our grief all over national television?”
“No comment,” the lawyer says to Mr. Sanders, clearly frustrated his client is not following the rules.
I stay focused on Mr. Sanders. “No. By keeping this story valid. By making sure we get to the truth. By being a voice for your wife.”
His hand balls into a fist. I sense Carl behind me, moving closer.
“No comment,” the drone lawyer says again.
C’mon, Marshall, give me something, I think.
“The truth is the most important thing to me, Mr. Sanders,” I say. “And I get to that by digging. You can help me. We will fight together to bring the person responsible to justice. I’m a fighter. I’ll fight for Laura.”
His daughter peeks out from behind his leg and looks at me with large brown eyes.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve knelt to her level.
It takes every ounce of self-control I can harness not to reach out to her.
No touching her, I remind myself. First rule in my field, never touch or hug the victim’s family. Ever.
But her eyes are calling to me. They look vast and empty and remind me of another pair of eyes I once knew. Mine.
“I like your earrings,” she says in a quiet voice.
I place the mic between my arm and side and unhook my gold hoops from my ears; then I hand them to her. “They’ll match your necklace,” I say, touching the gold chain around her neck. And before I can stop myself, I put one arm around her small shoulders and hug her.
“My name is Rita. What’s your name?” I say.
“My name is—”
“Get away from her,” Marshall Sanders yells as he pulls his daughter toward him.
I stand. My hand is shaking now. I’ve never done that before. Things are definitely off. This whole damn day is off. Get control, Rita. “One statement and I’ll leave you alone,” I say to him with a slow and steady voice.
His lawyer throws up his hands and looks at me. “Can you please go away?”
“Laura had her . . .” Marshall Sanders swallows. “Demons.”
Sweat rolls down my back. “What kind of demons?” I ask.
He leans in close to me, so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “You know what kind.”
I jerk away from him.
“That’s it,” the lawyer says. “We’re done here.”
The lawyer takes Marshall Sanders’s arm and pulls him away. The young girl looks back at me as she walks away, my earrings clutched in her tiny hand.
“I got it,” Carl says.
Demons. My skin tingles. I got the sound bite I need. Husband of Laura Sanders claims she had demons.
My phone vibrates yet again. I hand the mic back to Carl and pull it from my pocket.
Debby again. I open it and see a series of messages about one person only, my father.
It’s not one long sentence. It’s four separate messages, and when my brain comprehends what she has sent, my world goes from being off kilter to being completely knocked off its axis.
Your dad is in the hospital.
Widowmaker.
You need to come home.
Now.