her family there at the wrong time. The young girl from last night was wearing a bracelet, the same as Annie Strickland. We’re going through databases to narrow down the list of vendors, especially since we believe Sarah Mastille served as a model of Annie Strickland.”
“Okay, we’re not going to be able to keep this from the press much longer.” His attention turns to mine. “And Ms. Strickland is in Detective Higgins and your care? Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, but she starts classes tomorrow. I don’t know what the backlash will be.”
“Okay, I’ll be sure the police officers are in plain clothes and will let the university know the protocol.”
He stops for a second, his hand rubbing his forehead. “There’s no way we can talk her into holding out until this case is solved?”
Would I feel better if Malia was in my care all day long? Hell yeah, but I can’t ask her to give up the little bit of normalcy left in her life. “No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought.” I think we’re done, but he only continues, “So, Smith Turner was released this evening, just two hours ago. We have a unit trailing him. This could be a simple copycat, which doesn’t exonerate him, but for now, he’s a free man.”
I’d never thought he was the psychopath who killed an entire family. “Okay, thank you, sir.”
With my gloves on, we enter the house, and my gut says something is not right in regard to this case, and I learned a long time ago to trust it. It’s never steered me wrong in the past.
“What are you going to tell Malia?” Higgie asks when we both kneel one yard from the window, according to her directions. I give a noncommittal shrug, my eyes focusing on what we might find. “By the way, I’m surprised Vanessa didn’t give you her long spiel about her being right and interviewing Malia right away.”
“I’m sure it’s coming,” I reply, using the crowbar to shift the beams of wood connected. “But,” I contend, my voice a little short because all my weight is on the crowbar, “I don’t think Malia would have remembered. Seeing the pictures was what jogged her memory.”
The boards are tight, but with a little wiggle room, and the help of some rot I can smell from the wood, and one last vigorous drive of the bar, the pieces are finally unearthed. “Fuck, that was not as easy as I thought.” But as I bring up the wood, I pull up the subfloor, too—a two-for-one endeavor.
“How was it so hard to pry it open, when Malia said it was easy for her sister to slide the journal in and out of?” Higgie asks.
“Good question, kid,” I pull at the statement Malia had written before I left, reading through it. “Ah, right here, she says that the house had a lot of work done on it, a year after the murders. I’m assuming it was fixed then—at least this would be my guess.”
Higgie has his gloves on, and shimmies on his stomach, leaning as far under the window as the little alcove is, as per Malia’s nine-year-old remembrance. “Anything?” I ask.
“Fuck, I can’t get to the back of the alcove. I’m trying to touch the foundation wall.” I let out a long gasp, taking in a calming breath.
“I have a better wingspan, shorty, so let me in there.” My patience isn’t something I have as I almost pull him from the opening, putting a set of clean gloves on.
“Hey, hold on one second,” he complains, but I’m already on my stomach, my arms to the back of the foundation wall, and I span them from one end to the other.
“You know,” Higgie begins, “if the murderer is the mystery man Malia tells us of, then maybe he knew about her journal.”
This is not something I want to think about, not when finding this journal is the one way I know I can stop this psychopath.
“Yeah, I’ve thought of that, too,” I admit, ready to call it quits for now. This whole floor is about to come up if there is any chance Annie’s entries can shed some light onto who killed her family.
“I’ll get more crowbars,” he starts. I’m dragging my hand on the earth below on either side and touch something that’s not a part of the foundation.
“Wait,” I demand. I reach as far as I can, and with a pinch of my thumb and index finger together, I pull something from