We All Sleep Alone (Finley Creek #11) - Calle J. Brookes Page 0,82
Or even Lacy.
Izzie had them beat, hands down. They left the small park in Waco where they’d stopped to take a break and stretch. Allen headed south toward Victoria. There was a campground there. His plan was to hit Victoria for the rest of the day, then bounce to another campground in a nearby state park one county over.
If Izzie was feeling up to it, they’d take a tour of the old mission at the park the next day. He knew cabin fever was setting in. The pain was getting to her. She had the wig and dress—they’d have to hide the cast in the long flowing wrap she’d found to go with it in the things he’d grabbed from Linda’s things. They could take a few hours to try to forget what had happened to her. Forget what they were really doing out there.
Other than one or two comments earlier, she never complained. Even about the pain. Mostly it had been about inactivity. Izzie didn’t sit still very well. At all.
He shot another glance at her. She was sound asleep in the passenger seat. She had a blanket over her lap. Allen reached over and shifted it to cover her.
She didn’t look so snarky now. He’d come across two references to a cranky second-shift nurse in Henedy’s journal who had confronted him. He suspected it referred to her. Henedy had mentioned how she’d reminded him of Henedy’s wife. Repeatedly.
Allen had met Jennifer Henedy several times. She was an inch or so taller than Izzie, he thought, had the faintest start of the typical middle-age spread going on, and had short-styled dark hair and medium-dark eyes.
Superficially, there could be a resemblance between her and Izzie. Whereas Jennifer Henedy was—in his opinion—a cold bitch, Izzie was passionate heat. Kindness and compassion. Humor. Integrity and intelligence.
The woman was damned near fascinating.
The journal had mentioned that nurse and how she’d questioned Henedy’s decisions. From what information Allen had, he would have questioned the choices, too.
Henedy had made some dumbass decisions. He’d obviously tried to learn from them. He was humble in that way, at least.
Nothing in the journals was offensive or concerning. Nothing stood out, good or bad. Henedy came across as even compassionate and concerned in many places. Mostly, he was just bland.
Nothing even hinted at madness.
Not like Logan’s journals had when they’d finally been turned over to Shelby. He’d read all about his friend’s downward spiral and had known exactly where he had failed Logan. Those failures were burned into Allen’s brain for eternity.
Henedy’s journals were almost innocuous.
That was all Allen had found so far.
It was dated well over ten months ago, a few months after Nikkie Jean had joined the department.
Henedy had written that he’d first found Nikkie Jean to be a plain little thing. Not that remarkable, though she’d reminded him of a woman he’d once known. He’d thought Lacy was gorgeous and sexy and absolutely terrifying. Allen had to agree with that. She was. Nikkie Jean had barely registered on Henedy’s radar back then.
Something had changed between now and then.
Allen had stopped reading as Henedy had started talking about another nurse. One at County. She had never been identified by name fully. With a C.
He would find out, though. If this “C” knew anything about the man, Allen was going to get that information. He’d also follow up on anything about the dark-eyed nurse that reminded Henedy of his wife.
Nikkie Jean had told him Henedy had been rambling about his wife that day. A daughter they could have had. How his wife had left him.
Immediately after shooting Izzie. Nikkie Jean had sworn she thought he’d called Izzie Lizzie or Elizabeth a few times.
Allen didn’t know if that mattered or not.
He didn’t always understand peoples’ motivations for what they did. But to him, that fact stood out. For all he knew, Henedy had been looking at Izzie and imagining his wife in her place. Killing her in a rage.
He was good at sewing together flesh and bone, to fixing traumas to the body. Not figuring out what would drive a man like Wallace Henedy to shoot an innocent woman.
He looked at that woman again.
Her mouth was slightly open, begging a lucky man to kiss her. If he wasn’t driving, he’d lean over her and do that. A soft brush.
Well, if they had been lovers, he would. There was no harm in fantasizing now.
His body tightened at the thought. Almost a constant state for the last twenty-four hours.