The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,45

black, one white) erupted into a fistfight over Pettus’ firing of a white officer. Only after the mayor stepped in and publicly gave his unconditional support for Pettus did things in the city calm down. Halloran could certainly understand why Pettus wished to remain on Carver’s good list.

“How about this,” Chapman said. “We just talk to him about the investigation, how things are going. Kind of feel him out.”

“That’s fine,” Pettus said, “so long as you don’t insinuate anything. You all just remember—we have no evidence linking him to these girls. Nothing.” He looked hard at Halloran. “Be careful.”

Halloran swallowed. “I will.”

Pettus stacked up the reports on the desk. “In the meantime, you said you want another search of those riverbanks. I agree. Let’s go ahead and do it. And I’m going to call in the state for assistance. We need to find something. Anything.”

* * *

10:30 AM

Marla had been in a stew ever since Wade and Derek left for work. Earlier it was easy to keep her mind off of things as the two of them rushed around in their frenzied morning routines. But after Joel picked up Wade and Derek spun out of the driveway toward town, after she sat down in the living room with a second cup of coffee to relax a bit before starting the laundry, after she turned off the Today show because she couldn’t take any more of Savannah Guthrie’s damned perkiness, she had started to brood.

Wade was seeing someone. She knew it. It wasn’t just a one-time fling like he usually had. This was different. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Was it that girl whose number she had found in Wade’s pocket? Missy? Or was it someone else? And why did she even give a damn? One thing was sure: whoever she was, she had been with Wade last weekend. Wade wasn’t even trying to hide it. He wasn’t even pretending he was out doing something else.

She took a sip of coffee and her gaze fell on the side table. Wade had left his phone. She remembered Joel calling last night, and she wondered if he had ever told Wade about her frantic call Sunday morning. If so, Wade was keeping it a secret—she couldn’t even begin to guess why. Maybe Joel hadn’t said anything to him. But then Joel had seemed angry. Joel had—

Marla set down her cup and picked up the phone. Before she could stop herself, she looked at the call log. Maybe Joel hadn’t called last night. Maybe it was Missy. Or someone else. Her heart pounded, and her hands had begun to shake. 555-4376 . She jotted it down.

That wasn’t Joel. Was it Missy? She couldn’t remember. She hit redial, and as the phone on the other end began to ring, a sharp pain began to throb in her temple.

The call connected. Voice mail. Two girls. Giggling.

“Hi, this is Abby—”

“And Shelley!”

“Please leave a message.” There was more giggling followed by the beep.

Marla disconnected the call. She stared at the phone until tears blurred her vision, then hurled it across the room. It slammed into the wall, leaving a mark.

So which one was he fucking, Abby or Shelley? Or both? She paced blindly around the room, sobbing, banging her fists against the sides of her head. Damn him! Goddamn him! To think he had been talking to the bitch, right in front of her. What a fool she was, what an idiot. And why was she surprised? Wasn’t it just like him?

Ignoring the tears sliding down her cheeks, she trudged upstairs to the bathroom and grabbed the laundry hamper. She pulled the damp towels from the rack and added them to the pile of dirty clothes, then lugged the basket out across the hall to Derek’s room.

She blew out a disgusted breath. Papers, clothes, CDs, magazines. . . everywhere she looked was a pile of crap. Here was a plate with petrified pizza crusts on it. An empty Butterfinger wrapper peeked out from beneath the dresser. The mini-blinds in the window hung cock-eyed, like a drunk had tried to raise them. She shook her head. Why did she even bother? Why did she even bother living?

She sank to the bed. Fresh tears stung her eyes. One of Derek’s shirts lay rumpled among the sheets. She pulled it to her face and dabbed at her cheeks. The shirt smelled of Derek— Irish Spring soap and Tag body spray and the faint hint of masculine sweat.