LITMIR.BIZ

      Gretchen was waiting for Mac when he crossed the room to his desk, and she didn’t waste time with hellos or even to ask where he’d been all afternoon. “Reports are on your desk. The fire was arson, gas line was purposely damaged. The DNA results are back from the Preppy Pricks. And we’ve got our artist’s mock-up on what she looked like.”

      “Jesus.” Mac snatched up the files and glanced through them. “Good things really do happen in threes.”

      “That’s bad things.”

      “Hmm. See if Hudson Walker’s DNA matches with the baby’s.”

      “Already told ’em. We should get a call soon.”

      “And the rest of the Preppy Pricks,” Mac added as an afterthought.

      “They’re checking them all,” Gretchen said impatiently. “What do you think of this?” She plucked the rendering of the victim’s face from the pile and held it in front of Mac’s eyes. He gazed at it hard. “This your little girlfriend?”

      “I only saw pictures of Jessie.”

      “Me, too. And?”

      “I think this is pretty close,” he said slowly, though his heart was beating like a drum as he looked into those sexy, knowing eyes, the perfect mouth that he imagined twitching upward in a teasing, knowing grin. “What are little boys made of?” He could almost hear the rhyme slip through those sensuous lips.

      “Don’t go all careful on me now,” Gretchen warned with a snort. “You’ve been saying it all along and now you’ve finally made me a believer. This picture’s a dead ringer for Jezebel Brentwood. Those bones are hers and her baby’s. And DNA’s gonna prove it.”

      The phone on his desk rang and Mac swept it up. “McNally.”

      Gretchen’s brows lifted and Mac nodded that it was indeed the lab tech with the information. “Thanks,” Mac said thoughtfully, hanging up a moment later.

      “Well?” Gretchen demanded.

      “It’s Jessie. The baby’s DNA matched her father’s.”

      “Walker?”

      “Zeke St. John.”

      Gretchen screwed up her face in disbelief. “Walker’s BFF?”

      “Mac!” Pelligree called from across the room. “Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department reported a fatal accident on Highway 101. Victim’s name is Renee Walker Trudeau.”

      “What?” Mac jumped to his feet.

      “Jesus Christ,” Gretchen murmured.

      Pelligree was sober. “Her brother identified the remains.”

      “I’m going,” Mac said, snatching his coat and heading out the door.

      For once Gretchen remained behind, sinking slowly into a chair. She and Pelligree looked at each other in the wake of Mac’s departure.

      “He was right,” she said on a note of admiration. “There’s a helluva lot more to this case than any of us thought.”

      Chapter Eighteen

      Soft music…some vaguely familiar hymn whispered through the funeral parlor. Becca sat staring vacantly at the closed coffin, a testament to how badly Renee’s body had been mangled in the “accident.” Sprays of flowers surrounded the glossy wooden casket and candles burned brightly, but the cloudy, gray day seeped through the windows, bringing in the gloom of winter. The gangly nondenominational preacher with a bad comb-over and rimless glasses stood at the dais as the music faded. He led the mourners in prayer, though Becca could barely concentrate.

      Seated next to a grim-faced Hudson, a few chairs away from a blubbering Tim Trudeau, Becca kept her own ragged thoughts at bay. The group of mourners was larger than the small room in the funeral home, and the back doors had been opened to a covered area that had been extended with tents and outdoor heaters. Either Renee had made an incredible amount of friends in less than forty years, or a lot of those who’d come to pay their respects were the curious.

      Renee Trudeau’s death had made every major and local paper, as well as the news. Her connection to St. Elizabeth’s, a school that had been previously riddled in scandal and murder, as well as the discovery of the bones and the supposition that they belonged to Jezebel Brentwood, had given her an unwelcome celebrity. The police had yet to make a formal statement, but Becca was certain it would be forthcoming soon. She’d seen the news van parked in the lot and had witnessed Detective Sam McNally arrive and slide into a back row, just inside the doors.

      “…tragic loss…trust in the way of the Lord…always be remembered as a wife, friend, sister…”

      Becca’s fingers were linked with Hudson’s, but he was staring straight ahead, miles away, his gaze upon the preacher but his sight turned inward to thoughts of his twin.

      Would Renee still be alive if she hadn’t been so fascinated with Jessie’s disappearance? Whether her car had been intentionally pushed off the road or sideswiped by a hit-and-run driver—which seemed more and more unlikely—Hudson’s sister’s death could be directly attributed to her quest for the truth about Jessie.

      Becca thought of her visions and felt Hudson’s grip tighten over her hand. Fighting tears, she bowed her head when instructed to pray and heard Tim, Renee’s soon-to-be ex-husband, sniveling and snorting, as if he’d lost the love of his life.

      Maybe he and Renee could have patched things up. Now no one would ever know. Nor would Becca be able to reconnect fully with Hudson’s sister, his twin, the only family member he’d had left.

      She was gone…

      Killed. As was Jessie. As was Glenn…

      All of the group from St. Elizabeth’s was in attendance, all mourning and grief-stricken, all not saying what everyone was thinking—Who’s next? Becca had caught a glimpse of The Third, taciturn as he fingered the small pamphlet about the service, and she’d seen Mitch chain-smoking on the porch right before the service, looking like an absolute wreck. Tamara, toned down in a long black skirt and sweater, was a couple of rows over, not far from Zeke and Evangeline. Zeke was glum and Vangie was a doe in the headlights.

      None of them could believe another member of their group, Hudson’s vibrant, passionate sister, was actually dead.

      Becca’s insides twisted and she fought the sting of tears as

Скачать книгу