Chapter 7

Lilly pushed her key into the lock and turned it, pausing for a minute to listlessly shake her bangs out of her eyes. God, she was exhausted. Couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so physically and emotionally drained. Not sure if it was this impossible double case or the unsavory Scotty-Christina deal—probably a little bit of both. Whatever it was, she felt as if she'd just been through a wasting illness. She could barely see straight.

No sooner had she opened the door than both cats came swarming about her ankles, and she gathered Olivia into her arms, pressing her face into her warm fur until she squealed. Coming home after a long day of work was the ultimate prize, no matter what anyone said. No more haunting faces. No more nagging voices. No more shadowy victims. No more irate coworkers with spiteful comments to respond to or deflect. Just silence, blessed silence… and her cats.

Most people were scared of being alone. Not Lilly Rush. She preferred solitude to some other evils. Though she had to admit bunking with Chris had been nice… for a while. Nothing good had come out of it, however. That was the thing with people—you couldn't trust them. Offer them a hand and they'll take your elbow. Show a little softness and that's it—a kick in the teeth is all you'll get for being a decent human being, as often as not.

A twig snapped in the murkiness behind her and she jumped, whipping around, her heart in her throat. No one was there, obviously. Relief flooded over her along with a hot, prickly sensation of foolishness—great, Rush, when did you start getting paranoid?

But even after she'd looked a dozen times to make sure the street was empty, the strange, strung-up feeling remained. It wasn't so long ago, that time she'd come home to find someone had broken into it—spray painted her living room walls with a threatening message. That perp had been long since put away, but it had made her realize, chillingly, her fortress wasn't nearly as impenetrable as she'd like. If there hadn't been more important matters to dwell on at the time, she wouldn't have minded making a bigger fuss about it.

It's not gonna happen again, she lectured herself sharply. That was a one time thing. The person who did it was caught. She's in jail. And no one else gives a hoot. So get a grip, will ya?

Her heart was still hammering away as she whisked the cats in and shut the door firmly behind her. Double-lock the thing—no harm in that. Secure the chain bolt.

And if anyone got in, there was always her gun.

"So what have you got?"

"Had a little chat with the Bryants' daughter, Sarah. Nice, blonde twenty-four-year old girl. Pretty jumpy-looking, if you ask me," Vera quipped.

"Wouldn't own up to anything," put in Jeffries. "We poked her every way possible. Her story matches her parents'. Studying at this school in Virginia till a few months ago. Last time she visited her parents was Christmas 2002. Claims she had too much studying to do to come home for spring break the following year."

"And give up a trip to Aruba?" Stillman's eyebrow went up sky-high. "Sounds pretty far-fetched to me."

"Apparently she was flunking. Thus the three extra semesters. She's been taking summer courses to keep up ever since. Working nights, participating in research, tutoring freshmen..."

"I get the picture. Ever pregnant?"

"Nope. Or so she says. Never pregnant, never knew anyone to be pregnant, never heard of Dr. Swanson. Showed her Jane Doe's sketch—said she didn't recognize it."

"You buy it?"

"Hard to tell. She seemed pretty freaked out by the whole thing… but who wouldn't, if a cadaver were pulled off your backyard?"

"So nothing from her."

"Nope, nothing. But we questioned the neighbors and turned up something interesting. Local spinster—you know, the busybody type who spends her golden years glued to the window, hoping to catch everything going on—says the woman across the street from the Bryants was pregnant around 2002-2003. Wasn't too sure about the dates. She got to have a pretty large belly, but there was never any baby."

"Well—that looks auspicious. Did you question her?"

"Went to her house—the family had moved out January of last year. Nobody knows where they went. We got a name, though—Aura Kane. Husband Zachary Kane." Almost as an afterthought, Jeffries added, "And she's a curly, brown-eyed brunette."

"What're you gonna do with them?"

"We can't bury them, if that's what you're thinking, Lil," Frannie answered patiently. "They're evidence."

"But we can't just keep them here, in a box," Lilly went on worriedly. She was a little ashamed of herself for being so sentimental about this. But it just didn't seem right to keep the twins' tiny, crushed little bones in a cardboard box, as if they any old thing picked off a crime scene. Poor babies had been cheated out of a life—couldn't they at least be spared an undignified death?

"We have to. At least until we find their mother and get the true story on what happened here. So far, no one's DNA has matched. These kids aren't related to any of the Feldmans or the Bryants."

Vera burst into the room then, with a blast of cold air. "Rush—come on. Time to go shelter-hunting for that Jason Bailey kid. He hasn't turned up in any local police stations or hospitals, and he's not in jail. So he's gotta be in one of those."

Lilly gaped at him. "Thought me and Valens were looking into that angle."

Vera shrugged. "So did I, but Stillman told me to go with you, and he was pretty clear about it. Guess he thought the neighborhood would be too seedy and Scrawny over there wouldn't be bodyguard enough."

"Oh, please," Lilly scoffed, trying to come off lighthearted and quench the peculiar, uncomfortable feelings set in motion by this unexpected bit of news. Why wasn't she more thankful to be relieved from Scotty's presence at last? Especially considering the words exchanged the day before. She wasn't sorry for what she'd said—the idea of being hung over him was so preposterous—but her conscience stung her a little. She'd been so harsh, and his intentions were probably good… deep down…

Ah, quit being so granny-hearted, she rebuked herself sharply. It's his own fault, really, for sticking his nose where it's not wanted. And if he's wrong, he's wrong—and should face up to it. Not everyone's dying to hop in bed with him, after all.

Jason Bailey surfaced in the third shelter they visited—the largest, poorest, and by far the filthiest. Even the volunteers sitting at the front desk in their overcoats looked grubby. The walls were covered in mold and crumbling with age, part of the windows were missing and the few panes left were coated by a thick layer of grime. The main room stunk with the stench of a few homeless sleeping in a corner.

"It's supposed to be a night shelter, but we don't have the heart to throw them out during these frosty days," the man in charge half-heartedly informed them. "They gotta keep out of the bedrooms though. So if your guy's here, he'll be in this room."

Jason Bailey didn't stray far from the typical rebellious, sullen, crack-addicted teenager. His hair, dyed black, hung in long, dirty tufts, his face was riddled with piercings of all shapes and sizes, his eyes hidden under the dirty woolen cap he wore. The hands clasped around his knees were gracefully long-fingered but rough and blue and chapped with cold.

He refused to acknowledge them at first. Vera had to practically get in his face and point out a few of his nasty old habits before getting a snarled response out of him.

"Whadda you guys want?" Without so much as a glance. "Cause if it's about the dope, I ain't got none."

Sure you don't.

"We're not here to talk about the drugs or the hold-up, Jason," Lilly attempted, crouching down to his eye level. "We just want to talk about your family. And what happened ten years ago."

Twitching his face away, "I got nothin' to say."

Lilly shifted so she was in front of him again. For a second Jason's eyes met hers. They were dull, empty, nearly the same color as his hands. "You're blonde," he mumbled condemningly. "I don't talk to blondes."

"Why? Because your mom's a blonde?"

"I just don't. Big fucking deal. Get outta my face, Barbie doll."

"Hey! Show some respect," Vera snapped. "Come on, kid, be straight with us. We're not gonna give you a hard time about the other things. We're just trying to figure out what happened to your mom."

"Why don't you ask my dad?" Jason's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "He killed her."

Vera shot Lilly a startled glance. "Why do you say that? Did you see it?"

"I ain't seen that old fart in years. Didn't seen nothin'. Never did."

"That's a pretty serious accusation you're making there, Jason," reasoned Lilly. "You must have something to back it up with."

"So what if I did? Nobody cares. I'm just trash. Why should anyone believe me?"

"So why do you think he killed her?"

"Why?" The kid's eyes went from half-open cracks to bulging balloons in an instant. For one sad moment, Lilly saw a ghost of the smiling young Erica Bailey polaroid in his sallow visage. "Cause she was a fucking whore, that's why."

Well, that was one thing he and his dad seemed to agree on.

"So… there was another man?"

Jason Bailey glowered at Vera. "Yeah, there was another guy. Saw them one night. Out in the driveway. Makin' out like there was no tomorrow."

"What did he look like?"

"What do I know? It was dark and I was just a little kid. Thought it was my old man, at first. Then I remembered he worked late that day. And anyways this guy was too tall and had too much hair."

"So why do you think your dad killed her?" Lilly insisted. "Wouldn't it have been easier for her to just run away with this man? You received a letter, two months afterwards—"

"Yadda-yadda. 'Course I remember that stupid letter. My old man wrote it. You gotta be an idiot not to see that."

"You see him write it?"

"No, but—duh, Sherlock. Obvious. My kid sister ate it up but I didn't buy any of that shit. He killed her. And I ain't sorry."

"You ever actually see your dad have a confrontation with your mom?"

"No, man. My old man's spineless, he ain't worth a dime. But I saw him cleaning the bloody knife. A day after she left. In the kitchen sink. A big old breadknife, just dripping with her blood, to stab you when you ain't looking, like this—"

He lunged at Lilly, who was still sitting on her heels a few feet before him. Lilly, startled, jerked herself away but he still managed to reach her shoulder, pounding it hard with his cold stiff knuckle, practically knocking her backwards onto the floor. In a moment he had broken into a sprint out the door and was gone.

"Jesus," Vera yelped, helping Lilly to a standing position. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Aside from smarting with disgrace at being sucker-punched by some runaway addicted kid I was supposed to be interrogating. "So now what? So much for trying to get a handwriting sample off him. He'll be long gone if we ever decide to come back looking for him."

"Nutcase," muttered Vera darkly. "Let's ask the guy at the front desk. Maybe they make them sign somewhere."

"Think there's any truth to what he said?"

"Who knows. But the kid is messed up for sure. He saw something. We should hear what good old daddy has to say about this jolly breadknife story."