Near You (Montana Series #2) - Mary Burton Page 0,13

the case and decline to help. That was not going to happen, but he did not know that. Yet.

Known for his direct, if not abrupt, style, Bryce McCabe had been on tenterhooks around her, as if he were juggling a dozen fragile eggs. His underestimation irritated her, but of course he really was not so different from everyone else in Missoula. Since her husband’s death in the fire he had set, those who knew her, as well as strangers, tiptoed around her. Most did not know what to say. They wanted to be kind, but they were also curious about Clarke. How are you feeling? Did you know what Clarke was doing? Tell us all the dirty little secrets. Bryce had never once brought up Clarke when she’d visited his office, and that was a point in his column.

Lecturing a classroom of police officers was far different from fieldwork. Regardless of the personal demons a case like this might summon, she was here to stay.

And most surprising, now that the initial shock was wearing off, she realized she was fascinated by this crime.

As she turned onto the highway, her thoughts drifted to the body and possible theories. This killer had a distinct message and mission and a specific victim in mind. Murder was not enough for him. He was bent on eradicating their identities on all levels.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter as she slowed for a stop sign at a T intersection. She flashed to the blackened skull’s slack jaw welded into an unending silent scream. “Help me!”

Ann trusted that the killer was paying close attention to this investigation. He had deliberately drawn attention to his work, suggesting he craved the fame and notoriety. There had been a media blackout on the first murder; however, a second killing would establish a trend and set off alarm bells in the press. The killer wanted his bodies found.

Had the killer already posted pictures hinting to his crimes? Uploading direct images or videos could trigger warnings with viewers and inquiries from law enforcement, but partial photos of the body or vistas around the crime scene could go unidentified for a long time.

If her university students had taught her anything, it was that everyone now lived in the fame-hungry world of social media. Nothing, including a meal, a drink, or a communal gathering, really happened unless it was documented online.

I’m right here. Can’t you see me? Find me.

A truck whistled by her car in the adjacent lane, snapping her mind back into focus. She turned on her blinker and headed toward the interstate.

With three hours until Nate was finished with camp, she had a bit of time to work on setting up the new house she had rented on Turner Street. The basic pieces of furniture had arrived, but all the little things, including dishes, glasses, sheets, bookshelves, even her bed frame, needed buying.

She was living in chaos, and as tempted as she was to return to her parents’ ranch house, to do so would be admitting they were right—and that she was not ready to live alone.

“Let us protect you and Nate. You’re safer out here on the ranch,” her father had said.

But her mother and father had put their lives on hold last year, and she refused to let them continue. Two weeks ago, when her brother and she had gratefully sent them off on another motor home adventure, she had moved back into town.

As she pressed the accelerator, her last words to her parents rattled in her head: “I’ve been through the worst. I’ll be fine.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Missoula, Montana

Wednesday, August 18

3:45 p.m.

After an hour spent racing through the box store, Ann had managed to buy sheets and a comforter decorated with stars and planets for Nate’s bedroom, glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars for his ceiling, and two high-wattage bedside lights for reading. Also in the cart were plain white towels, bath mats, shower curtains, and a blue-and-white quilt marked 50 percent off. She did not have the energy to choose glasses and plates, so she bought long sleeves of durable paper plates and cups. It had been easy to make basic decisions last year, but now they felt insurmountable.

Analytically, she recognized her behavior as classic avoidance based on a fear of the future. If she were counseling an individual like herself, she would have praised them for the small steps they had accomplished. But she was not a patient, and she was stronger than any stupid anxiety that, honest to God, could not