Where the Truth Lives - Mia Sheridan Page 0,85

to go to college, when I went to meet her. Arryn, funny enough, was the one who held my hand and took me inside. There were photos, Liza. Photos my mom had sent Josie every year. They could have been tucked away in a photo album, but they weren’t. They were on her walls, as if to say to anyone who entered her home that she had four children she loved, not three.” That brought a hitch to Liza’s breath.

Reed looked over at her, his gaze level, expression so serious that everything inside her stilled. “Love heals, Liza. Those aren’t just words. And I think acting in love doesn’t just heal others. It heals yourself. Josie healed me before I even had a chance to be damaged. Because of her, I never suffered one moment of trauma. And I believe that her choice—for me—helped her heal as well. It showed her that what my biological father did to her took away a lot, but he didn’t take her ability to love and to act with pure grace and selflessness.”

“Wow,” Liza said, overwhelmed at the passion in his voice, the beautiful words he spoke for the woman who obviously meant so much to him. And it inspired her. She wanted to be like Josie. She wanted to believe that her father had taken a lot, but not the best of her. Maybe.

“You should meet her,” Reed said, eyeing her, a smile tilting his lips.

“I’d love that.”

Reed’s smile grew wider and he raised one brow. “You know what I’d love?”

Liza laughed. “What?”

“To take you to dinner.” His smile slipped a bit. “Can I take you to dinner, Liza? I heard you might have some time on your hands this week.”

Liza laughed. “Ouch. Low blow.” But she couldn’t help the smile that lit her face. “I’d love to go to dinner with you, Detective.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ransom tapped the blown-up picture of the leaf brand hanging on the board at the front of the incident room. He went over with the team what he and Reed had discussed a couple of days before, and why they’d separated the two groups of victims.

“I did a Google search on marijuana yesterday, and what using it as a symbol might mean,” Jennifer said. “Suffice it to say, I didn’t come up with anything useful, but man, did I go down some rabbit holes. Who knew there were so many types of weed?”

“I’d like to plead the fifth,” Ransom said.

“Olsen, what have you got?” Reed asked of the detective who had entered the room a minute before and was still taking files from his briefcase.

“I tracked down two of the individuals on those prescription bottles.” He looked at his notes. “Both of them admit to selling their prescribed medications to Toby Resnick for cash. And get this—both of them previously lived at the halfway house where the girl, LuAnn Bradford, who filed charges against the payday loan dude”—Olsen pointed to the picture of Clifford Schlomer on the board—“lived as well.”

Holy shit. “Okay,” Reed said, a spark of excitement lighting in his gut. “Okay. That’s a connection. Great work, Olsen.” He walked to the boards and made a new category for the halfway house, and listed the names of the three people who had lived there. “That can’t be a coincidence. We need to get a list of past residents. See if any other names stand out.”

“On it,” Jennifer said, making a note on the notepad in front of her. “Going back how many years do you think?”

“Let’s ask for five,” Reed said.

“Will we need a warrant?” she asked.

“Let’s hope not,” Ransom answered, unwrapping a stick of beef jerky. Reed nodded in agreement. They could get one if they needed to, but it would slow them down.

“How do you not weigh five hundred pounds?” Jennifer asked Ransom.

Ransom took a bite of the jerky. “All my constant brain activity burns a shitload of calories,” he answered, finishing off the stick of processed meat.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s it,” she said.

The door opened and Reed looked up. Detective Duffy peeked in. “Phone message for Olsen.”

Olsen stood, heading for the door to take the call.

“Go Bucks,” Duffy said, nodding to the board.

Reed frowned, following his gaze. “What are you talking about, Duffy?”

“The leaf. It’s a buckeye, right? OSU?”

“OSU . . .” Jennifer repeated, bringing her phone up and typing something in. She looked up. “The buckeye leaf does look a hell of a lot like a marijuana leaf.”

“Man, what kind of Ohioans are

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