Nowhere to Run (36 page)
“Could be someone else,” he argued.
“One of our family members?” she asked, disbelieving. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The message could be a warning from someone.”
“It
is
a warning, Auggie. Regardless of what the sender intended, I’m taking it as a warning! And though I’ve got issues with some of our family members, I don’t think any of them could be involved in any way with this killer. Maybe . . . the message was from someone who knows who the killer is and knows I’m on the case, but it’s not our family. That I won’t believe.” Something in her own words tickled her brain, but when she tried to place what it was, it escaped her.
is
a warning, Auggie. Regardless of what the sender intended, I’m taking it as a warning! And though I’ve got issues with some of our family members, I don’t think any of them could be involved in any way with this killer. Maybe . . . the message was from someone who knows who the killer is and knows I’m on the case, but it’s not our family. That I won’t believe.” Something in her own words tickled her brain, but when she tried to place what it was, it escaped her.
“You gotta keep your mind open, Nine.”
“Well,
whoever
sent it to me got it from somewhere. That’s all I’m saying. And the most likely place is the house.”
whoever
sent it to me got it from somewhere. That’s all I’m saying. And the most likely place is the house.”
“If you see dear old Dad when you’re there, don’t mention my name.”
“Yeah, like he won’t ask about you. ‘How’s your twin, September? Have you seen August lately?’ That’s pretty standard.”
“He disowned us,” Auggie said. “Not the other way around.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. But I gotta go see him.”
She negotiated around a tight corner and back to her apartment complex with its sets of upper and lower units painted separately, giving it a faux townhouse look that separated each set from the others by different facades, colors and design elements. September and her lower neighbor’s unit sported tan shingles with black shutters. “I’m not crazy about going out there tonight, but I need to do something.”
“Be careful, Nine.”
“Oh, don’t start that whole big brother crap with me.”
“As soon as I can, I’m going to help you catch this bastard.”
“Nope. No way.” September was firm. “D’Annibal took me off Zuma, and put me on Do Unto Others even before I got the message from the killer or
whoever
. I’m on this one, Auggie. Don’t step on me.”
whoever
. I’m on this one, Auggie. Don’t step on me.”
“I’m not going to step on you.” He sounded offended. “I want to help.”
“D’Annibal chose me and Sandler,” she reminded him. “Give us a chance, for God’s sake. We’re capable. Okay? Capable.”
“If it
was
the killer who sent you that artwork, then he’s zeroed in on you.”
was
the killer who sent you that artwork, then he’s zeroed in on you.”
“You’re deaf, I swear. Let me do this! If you—” September stopped herself from saying something she would regret. She knew the main reason he was acting this way was because he was afraid for her.
“If I . . . ?” he prompted.
“Just don’t do anything yet. I’ll go to Dad’s and see if I can find anything at the house. The last vic’s lab work is being processed and when it’s back, Gretchen and I will see if there’s anything that connects her more firmly to the victims found in the fields. We’re digging into all of their backgrounds, doing all the work. Trust me. There’s nothing for you to do, so just . . . wait.”
After a long pause he finally said, “Okay.”
“Thank you. Go be with Liv and forget about me for a while. I can take care of myself. Even with Dad. I’m going to ask him about the kitchen bulletin board. It was Mom who hung our elementary school stuff up there, but he might remember something about it. Mom did put the artwork that was sent to me at the station on the bulletin board, the falling leaves. She had it up for a long time.”
“She had mine up there, not yours,” Auggie said.
“Bullshit.” September pulled into her designated spot in the carport, cut the engine, but stayed in the car. “She had your leaf artwork up there, too?”
“I don’t know about yours, but mine was there. We both did a bunch of the same projects all through elementary school. I didn’t remember it was from second grade, but if you say so I’ll believe it. Mom was always tagging up some stupid thing we’d done and declaring it art.”
“Mrs. Walsh was my second-grade teacher. The artwork that came to the station was from when I was in her room. I remember.”
“Well, there you go. But I know it was
my
artwork on the kitchen bulletin board. Maybe yours was there, too.”
my
artwork on the kitchen bulletin board. Maybe yours was there, too.”
September squinted, thinking hard as she got out of the car. “God, Auggie, maybe you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t mine. I left a lot of stuff at school, I remember. You were always better about bringing everything home. It used to piss me off.”
“Ah, yes. I was an approval-seeker in those days.”
“So, what does that mean? That my project never made it home, and then . . . it fell into the hands of the killer . . . or whoever?”
“All I know is somebody sent you a message meant to scare you. If you find more elementary schoolwork at the house, it doesn’t necessarily mean anybody at the house sent it to you. Maybe that project was found by someone with a twisted purpose.”
“Someone who knew it was
my
second-grade work and that I’m a cop, so they could send it to the station?”
my
second-grade work and that I’m a cop, so they could send it to the station?”
“You were just on the news, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“I gotta go, Nine. Take it easy with dear old Dad. Don’t let him get to you. And call me later and let me know if you find some more artwork. We made so many beautiful pieces back then.”
“I’ve always wondered if maybe we should have chosen a fine arts school instead of the police academy.”
His snort of laughter was his sign-off, and she was still smiling as she walked past the door to the unit below hers, headed up the private flight of steps that led to each upper unit, then pulled out her keys, unlocked her door, and quickly let herself inside, closing the door behind her and throwing the deadbolt. She wasn’t nearly as cavalier as she would like Auggie to believe.
She looked around the small space: U-shaped kitchen, living room with television and DVR. Along the back of the overstuffed couch was the quilt her maternal grandmother had given her. September had called her grandmother Meemaw when she was learning to talk and it stuck. Meemaw had died the same year her daughter Kathryn, September’s mother, had been killed in an automobile accident. Meemaw had had health issues, or so her father had told her, but to this day September believed Meemaw’s death was from a broken heart at the loss of her only child.
Before she could change her mind, September traded her work clothes for jeans, a black tank and sandals, and headed to the Rafferty estate on the southern edge of Laurelton. The Raffertys, already wealthy, had been made wealthier by businessman Braden Rafferty, September’s father. After Kathryn’s death, he’d become even more single-sighted and hard-driving, and he’d added to the Rafferty fortune, often on the backs of others, which had earned him more than a few enemies along the way . . . and lost him a relationship with his youngest children, September and Auggie.
Braden Rafferty was known for his money, his influence, his business acumen and his winery, The Willows, but he was not known for being a family man despite having five children. He was also not known for his fidelity and stick-to-itiveness. Though September still ached for the loss of her mother, and though she knew her father had loved Kathryn as much as he was capable of, she also knew Braden had made her mother’s life a living hell. She liked to think Kathryn Rafferty had found peace in the hereafter. It made the “here” so much more bearable.
Now, driving through the pillared gates, September drew a fortifying breath. She pulled up to the sprawling Rafferty home and parked on the wide, concrete apron, edged in travertine, that Braden had put in for his guests, which really, when you thought about it, was all September was to him anymore.
Showtime.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Bush
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-2833-8
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