Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sheriff Forbes closed the door of her police cruiser, and John followed suit. They were both in plain clothes today, since technically, John was supposed to be at home watching basketball with four of his soon-to-be brothers-in-law.

“Tell me a little more about her.” Sheriff Forbes tilted her head to examine the house. There were no cars in the driveway, the windows were dark. John noted the black paint beginning to peel on the shutters, the front hydrangeas looking a little too beleaguered despite the recent rains. It was a single-story ranch-style home, more like the starter homes Katie was eyeing than Melanie Templeton’s mansion.

“I haven’t gotten a good read on her yet.” John ran his hand over his bald scalp. “She gave her name as Kim Smith. Ran her through the databases but so far, no hits on that or Kimberly Smith. According to Melanie Templeton, Kim showed up about three months ago, glommed on to her fairly hard. Doesn’t appear she owns the house.”

The sheriff gazed up at the house pensively, her posture strong. Some things from the service never left a person. “A rental.”

“Maybe. Haven’t been able to track down rental records or anything like that. House was registered to Ivanocorp, a multinational corporation with its hands in just about everything, including real estate. The wife of the founder actually was murdered a few months ago.” The sheriff turned to look at him, her gaze sharp. “I haven’t found a connection yet between Nikita Ivanovna and Kim Smith.”

“There will be one. What does Ms. Smith do for work?” The sheriff approached the front door while waiting for his answer.

“Unclear.” He joined her on the stoop, his shadow dwarfing her. “She was not very forthcoming in the interview. Clearly she gave us an alias.”

They knocked several times, but there was no answer. Forbes pointed silently to a security camera tucked discreetly into one of the eaves. The red light was off. “Police,” Forbes said sternly, knocking again. Then she bent over, reached down, and lifted the plain brown welcome mat.

“Not the smartest place to hide your key,” John remarked as the sheriff picked up the small silver key with the hardware store logo embossed on one side. “It’s like she’s asking for us to enter.”

“We have reasonable cause.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Police!” she called out again into the echoing foyer. There was surprisingly little furniture in the front rooms. They moved through the first floor, following the foyer through the empty living room, then into the kitchen. There was a single wine glass on the dish rack, but also a distinct smell of funk. “Tell me about the owner who died.”

“It was the founder’s wife.” John absently opened a door, noted a powder room. “Nikita Ivanovna. She was shot during a ballroom dance competition three months ago. I spoke to the local police. No leads yet on suspects.”

“Hmm.” The sheriff turned to the other hallway and headed toward another door. “Police.” She knocked at the door but, when there was no answer, pushed it open.

Sheriff Forbes hit the light switch on the wall, illuminating its contents.

John sucked in his breath sharply.

“That’s your friend, right?”

All over the walls of Kim’s bedroom were photos of Patrick. Some were printouts from websites, some seemed to be candid shots taken from a distance. It was worse than clutter, manic and disorganized. It felt like stumbling across a dragon’s hoard and smelled about as bad. “How far back do you think these pictures go?” There was a collage of photos clustered by her bed. In them, a shirtless Patrick posed on a campus green, wearing athletic shorts bearing the Villanova logo.

“Call your friend.” Sheriff Forbes took her own phone out of the pocket of her khakis. “I’ll put out the BOLO.”

****

Anita decided to avoid the elevator and headed instead for the stairs. She didn’t have the time for any distractions.

As she ran down the hallway toward their adjoining rooms, she clutched the phone so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

He had to be there, he just had to be there.

She fumbled with the key card for the electric lock, but it finally blinked green.

“Patrick!”

But the word died in her throat.

He wasn’t there.

Tousled bedsheets, a lingering hint of his aftershave mingling with her body lotion, but not him.

Suitcase. He must have taken his suitcase if he was leaving the competition.

She dashed into his room, but no. There it was, splayed open on the bed, his clothes all neatly folded inside its leather walls. His toiletries were still on the shelf in the bathroom. But no Patrick.

Patrick was gone. Tears burned in her eyes, and she didn’t care if it smeared every single ounce of makeup. Patrick was gone, and it was all her fault because she had lied to him when he deserved—

He deserved to know that she loved him.

The shock wave of the realization nearly toppled her backward onto his bed. She was in love with Patrick. Wildly, madly, passionately in love with her best friend, and she needed to stop lying to herself and to him. She needed to take a chance. She could not run from this, could not shove it down or lock it away.

Where was he?

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and her heart fluttered and crashed when she saw it was from John.

—Is Kim Smith there?—

Kim? Ooooooooh.

Anita sank onto Patrick’s bed. She had missed it. She had gotten so distracted she had forgotten about the danger. Ridiculous, stupid error.

Now Patrick was radio silent.

An image came to her, a quick meeting of the eyes as Anita had pushed her way out of the ballroom last night during the fight.

She texted back.

—Yes.—

Three dots.

—Calling Harrisburg PD. Don’t worry.—

Anita threw her phone across the room. Don’t worry? What a ridiculous platitude. Men. As if she were some damsel who needed them to come to the rescue.

Patrick was missing. She was in love with him and would never have the opportunity to say anything, because he had been kidnapped by Kim, apparently a psychotic internet stalker/bird killer/poisoner and—and bad hair-dyer person, and Anita was not proficient enough in sleuthing to figure out their location.

Internet. A person could do an internet search on anything, right?

She knelt and searched wildly for her phone. There it was. It had somehow nestled itself into one of Patrick’s well-worn T-shirts, one sporting the logo for a cat café in Tokyo.

She shifted her weight back on her heels, holding the phone in one hand and the T-shirt in the other. Tokyo. Patrick had drunk way too much sake and left his phone at that cat café. She and a very wobbly Patrick (who would not stop screaming “Ssssssake!” with progressively more slurring of the S) roaming the streets of the city until they had found it. Of course he had to buy a T-shirt. Never again, Anita had vowed. Not never to roaming streets with a drunken Patrick, because she had never laughed harder than she had that night. Never to losing his phone. They had just needed a faster strategy to track it down. So they had added his phone to her GPS tracking app.

How had she not realized she was in love with him then?

Adrenaline and hope flooded through her. With a few quick swipes on her screen, there it was. The reassuring homing beacon ping of the GPS phone locator. She squinted at the direction.

Patrick was still in the hotel. Kim. Kim was in the hotel.

She frantically pulled outward on the map, trying to narrow it down.

There.

She allowed a smile to tilt her lips and dashed from the room as quickly as her sneakers could take her.