Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,29

college, so Gene got her a job in the parts department at his store. She was bright and did exceptionally well. That girl could look at a broken piece of machinery and tell you whether it came from a John Deere tractor or an S-series combine.”

Gene laughed, “Something I couldn’t often do myself without looking at the parts catalogue. And the customers loved her.”

“What wasn’t to love?” Cynthia said. “She was absolutely beautiful. Every young man in the county wanted to marry her. She had a wonderful way with people—charming, sweet, unpretentious.”

“But something happened,” Sinclair said.

“One day she didn’t show up for work,” Gene said. “When Cynthia got home from the library, Dawn’s car and all her clothes were gone. She called a month later and said she returned to San Francisco. Said she just couldn’t live in our barren farm country another day.”

“Did she say what she was doing out here?” Sinclair asked.

“She was vague,” Cynthia said. “But I knew she was back in the prostitution life.”

“Did she stay in touch?”

“At first she called most Sunday afternoons,” Gene said. “She knew we’d be home from church and preparing Sunday dinner. Her sisters were usually here with their families.”

“But then the calls became less frequent,” Cynthia said. “Soon we only heard from her on birthdays and holidays.”

“What did she talk about?”

“Nothing about her life,” Cynthia said. “She asked about us and her sisters. And she talked about you.”

“Me?” Sinclair said.

“You have to understand Dawn,” Gene said. “She thought she possessed some sort of inner sense about how the universe worked. I think of it as fate, but to her it was more than that. For instance, she thought you arresting her was something like God’s will—that you were some sort of knight in shining armor who rescued her from the streets of Oakland and put her on the right path.”

“But she went back to the streets,” Sinclair said.

“My understanding is that when she returned to San Francisco, she became a call girl or escort,” Gene said. “Certainly not what we wanted for her, but better than standing on a street corner.”

“Did you have an address for her?” Sinclair asked.

“She had a PO box,” Cynthia said. “She never would tell us where she actually lived.”

“Is there anything else you know about her life out here—a boyfriend, other friends she spoke of, any places she frequented?”

“No, not really,” Gene said. “She was very private about her life. She always sounded the same, though, very upbeat, always happy.”

Cynthia said, “The only person from out there she ever mentioned by name was you.”

Gene cut in, “It was like you were a celebrity—one she’d met and was therefore special to her. She followed your career, which I guess was pretty easy with all the media exposure you’ve had.”

Sinclair said, “The coroner noticed she had a scar from a Cesarean. Did you know she had been pregnant?”

Sinclair heard muffled whispering between Gene and Cynthia for a moment. “You didn’t know?” Cynthia asked.

Sinclair kept his eyes on the telephone to avoid a look he was sure Braddock was giving him.

“Three years ago, she just appeared at our front door one day,” Cynthia said.

“It was actually three-and-a-half years, because she was a few months along and Maddie will be three next month,” Gene said.

“Maddie?” said Sinclair. “So she did have a baby?”

“Yes,” Gene said. “Madison was a healthy eight-pound, six-ounce, girl. The only thing Dawn said when she came home was she had been in a relationship with a man who turned out not to be who she had thought he was. They had been together for over a year. She was going to school full-time and living in a nice apartment. But when he found out she was pregnant, he wanted nothing to do with it.”

“Dawn must’ve remembered a few things we taught her,” Cynthia said. “She was adamant about having the baby.”

Sinclair’s mind raced—three summers ago—the year after he returned from Iraq.

“She was equally adamant about not telling us who the father was,” Gene said.

“Where is Madison now?” Sinclair asked.

“She’s with us,” Cynthia said. “When Maddie was six months old, Dawn signed over legal guardianship to us and left.”

“She left her?” Sinclair said, and immediately regretted his reaction.

“What kind of mother would abandon her daughter?” Cynthia said, choking through sobs.

“She was confused—troubled,” Gene said. “She felt her destiny lay in San Francisco. But she came home several times a year to visit Maddie, always for several weeks in the winter to encompass Christmas and Maddie’s birthday,