Chapter 3
“All right. That’s it for today.” Candace stared out at the sea of young, bored faces. “Don’t forget your final term papers are due next week.”
A collective groan filled the room as the students stood and gathered their books, laptops, and coats.
“If you need assistance, you know my office hours.” Raising her voice over the noise as they stampeded toward the exit, she smiled at their eagerness to escape the stuffy, over-bright room.
It was Friday afternoon—dates, keg parties, movies, video games—all awaited. Any thoughts of studying or working on a term paper were put on hold until Sunday afternoon when the panic of the looming deadline struck home.
She gathered up her lecture notes and slid her laptop into its leather case. Who could blame them? They were young. Life was meant to be enjoyed to the fullest. They didn’t have any worries or fears. They thought they were invincible and nothing bad would ever happen—not to them.
She couldn’t remember a time she’d been so free. Burdened by a lifetime of guilt, she lived with the sure knowledge that if she let down her guard, the nightmare of what happened to her sister would destroy her.
Instead of heading out for a night on the town with friends, she’d do what she always did—go for a run and then spend the evening at home on her couch, watching a movie. Maybe she’d splurge and order in Chinese food to have with her glass of white wine. Exciting times.
The door slammed after the last of the students, and the large lecture theater was empty.
The lights in the hall blazed and drilled into her eyeballs. More than three months had passed since that day when she’d run in Creighton Springs State Park and found the footprints in the snow, but she couldn’t get them out of her mind.
Was she overreacting? The police thought she was. The bearded man was probably an innocent visitor to the park. But if so, where had he parked his vehicle? And why was he packing a rifle? Protection from wildlife? Nah. Most bears had hibernated by late November.
Something fishy was going on or he would have responded when she called out to him. Were her gut instincts right and his intentions nefarious? She shuddered. Had he hurt someone? The questions, one after the other, tumbled on constant rewind through her brain.
Daytime was usually okay. She kept busy preparing lessons, marking papers, and teaching her anthropology classes at Briggston Junior College, and she pushed the ever-present concern to the back of her mind.
The nights were a different story. Alone, and with nothing to distract her, the unsettling images flooded her…the bloody, small, human footprints in the snow, the bearded man, her numbing terror, her worries she hadn’t done enough, that someone was in trouble, that history was repeating itself, that—
“Dr. Cooper?”
She startled at the deep male voice and dropped the papers. They scattered like leaves in a wind across the scuffed oak floor.
A tall, lean man, clean-shaven, with wavy dark hair that brushed the collar of his white shirt, stood at the top of the tier of seats. He was too old to be a student, but too young to be a parent of one of her undergraduates. There was an air of authority about him, something that screamed cop.
She backed up until the lectern pressed against her back.
He smiled, revealing a blinding flash of white teeth. “Sorry to startle you, Dr. Cooper. Dr. Hong, the college dean, told me you’d be here.” He moved down the steps, reached inside his coat pocket, and pulled out a slim, black leather wallet. Stepping closer, he flipped the wallet open and held it before her.
She squinted, but the words were a blur, and she tugged her glasses from her leather bag on the desk and slipped them on. The images cleared. A shiny metal police badge was on one side of the wallet, his photo ID on the other. “How can I help you, Detective Farrell?” She crouched and started picking up the papers scattered across the floor.
“Here.” He knelt beside her. “Let me help.”
They reached for the same paper, and their hands grazed.
An instant zing of awareness shot from her hand direct to her stomach. Their gazes connected, and for a heartbeat, she stared into his eyes—hazel irises, shot with specks of gold. She snatched back her hand and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding.
He finished gathering the papers and set them on the lectern. “Here you go.”
He smiled again, and tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of his all-too-captivating eyes. No man should have such long, sweeping dark eyelashes.
He was tall, really tall. She was five ten, and he towered over her. She gulped and backed up a step, bumping against the lectern.
It wobbled and would have fallen over if he hadn’t reached past her and grabbed the stand and held it steady. “Easy there.” He righted the lectern but stayed where he was, so close his suede jacket brushed her blouse.
His aftershave—a subtle woodsy scent—washed over her, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Thanks.” She winced as the word squeaked out.
“No problem.” He unleashed his devastating grin again like it was a secret weapon. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
Drawn into his intense gaze, she couldn’t look away. Searing heat flushed up her neck and onto her cheeks. She inhaled a steadying breath and drew herself together, forcing an all-business smile to her lips. Stepping back a step, she removed her glasses and slid them into the case. “How can I help you, Detective?”
He slipped the wallet back into the pocket of his brown-suede coat, but before he could respond, the door at the top of the lecture theatre banged open, and a young man strode in.
“Sorry, Dr. Cooper. I forgot my notebook.” He bounded down the stairs and along a row of seats and retrieved a black binder. Retracing his steps, he paused and eyed the tall detective. “Everything okay in here, Professor?”
She nodded. “Fine, thanks. Have a good weekend, Zack.”
“Thanks, Dr. Cooper. You too.” He opened the door and charged through. The door banged closed behind him.
“Do you have an office?” The detective gestured at the vast auditorium. “Somewhere more private we can talk?”
Her stomach lurched. Did his visit have something to do with her sister? After all these years, had the police finally found Charlene? As soon as the faint tendril of hope entered her brain, she rejected it. His visit wasn’t about her sister. He wouldn’t come all the way out to the university to update her. No, the handsome detective was there for another reason.
This wasn’t the first time the police had come to the college. A few months back, a student had been attacked and raped on campus. The police had talked to the victim’s instructors and fellow students to see if they’d noticed anyone following her.
As far as Candace knew, the rapist was still free. The poor girl hadn’t returned to class, and the last Candace heard was she’d taken off the rest of the semester. She shoved back the disturbing thought of young women at risk on campus and focused on the detective.
He was watching her, his dark eyebrows raised, waiting for her to answer his question.
Her cheeks heated. “My office is just down the hall. Will that work?”
“Perfect.” He smiled that devastating smile.
Her legs turned to jelly, and she grabbed onto the wooden lectern to hold steady. It had been a long time since she was so attracted to a man. A very long time.
“Shall we go?”
She blinked. “Go where?”
His grin widened, and a twinkle sparkled in his hazel eyes, as if he were all too aware of his lethal effect on a woman’s hormones. “To your office. You were taking me there so we could talk in private.”
Right. Her office.
A fresh wave of heat engulfed her face, and she hid her burning cheeks behind a fall of hair. “Yes, of course. Follow me.” She released her death grip on the lectern and crossed the room to the door, praying her legs would support her, and she wouldn’t make any more of a fool of herself than she already had.
He followed her out of the lecture theatre and down the busy corridor, dodging clumps of lingering students who talked and joked with one another, or texted on their cell phones, oblivious to those around them.
She halted before a frosted glass door with her name inscribed in black letters across the front, fished in her skirt pocket for the key, and unlocked the door. Holding the door open, she gestured for him to precede her into the tiny office.
His larger-than-life presence seemed to fill the small space and suck out all the air. She set her stack of papers and briefcase on her desk and hurried to the window and slid it open, breathing in gulps of fresh air.
He closed the door but remained standing, as his sharp-eyed gaze took in the miniscule room.
She had the unsettling feeling he noticed every detail and was making judgments. Did he know about her past? Of course he did. The kidnappings had been all over the news, and he was a policeman. He’d have access to the old case files. He would've checked her out before coming to the college. She shook her head, refusing to allow her thoughts to feather into the past.
“Nice office.” His voice was noncommittal. “You have some interesting things.”
She’d always liked her tiny office, found it cozy and comfortable. But now, viewing it through his eyes, she noticed the stacks of books piled on every surface, the dusty plaster model of a Neanderthal skull set atop the overflowing bookshelf, the limp, yellowing fern she’d forgotten to water again, and the piles of student papers she’d yet to grade.
She shoved aside a coffee mug with an inch of greasy-looking liquid coating the bottom, brushed crumbs from the sandwich she’d eaten at lunch off the desktop, and settled on her creaky leather desk chair. “Would you like to sit down?” She pointed at the visitor chair.
“Thanks.” He hefted the stack of books from the seat and set them on the floor. Lowering his bulk onto the orange plastic chair, he stretched out his long legs, and crossed his booted feet, looking relaxed. Too relaxed.
The silence dragged on. The steady ticktock of the institutional metal clock on the wall behind him marked the seconds as if in slow motion.
She cleared her throat. “How can I help you, Detective?” she asked for the third time.
He picked up a carved wooden mask from the corner of her messy desk and ran his long fingers over the incised designs. “This is interesting.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze. “What is it?”
“A Kwakuitl burial mask.”
“Neat.”
Neat? Who said neat anymore? “It’s more than four hundred years old, so please be careful.” She looked at the clock again and sighed. The frustration of dealing with the police after her sister’s kidnapping, made her nervous, but this too-handsome detective really set her on edge. Besides, she wanted to get her run in before the sun set. Ever since she’d encountered the bearded man in the state park, she’d been careful to run only in daylight and never in the park.
He set the mask back in the velvet-lined wooden box. “Really? That old, huh? How come it’s not in a museum?”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She smiled, but her lips were stiff, her attempt at humor a failure. “I uncovered the mask during an excavation on Theodore Island in the Salish Sea last season. After I’ve finished my research, it will be repatriated to the local indigenous group. It’s really quite unique…” She stopped her rambling and rubbed the tightness in the back of her neck. “I assume you’re here for a reason, Detective Farrell. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to get to the point.” She glanced meaningfully at the stack of unmarked papers.
“Of course.” He withdrew a small, spiral-bound notebook from his coat pocket. “Forgive me. It’s late and the end of the workweek. I’m sure you’re anxious to get on with your weekend plans.”
“I don’t have any plans.” She bit hard on her lip to stop any more too-personal confessions escaping.
“Really?” He studied her, his narrowed hazel-eyed gaze probing. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back a grin. “Huh.” He flipped open his notebook and consulted his notes, though she had the distinct feeling he knew every word written in the notebook. “I’m new to the Briggston Police Department, and I’ve been assigned to a missing person’s case.”
Every cell in her body zinged to full alert, and a spark of hope flared. “Is—” She struggled to form the words she’d waited so long to ask. "—is this about my sister? Did you find Charlene? Is she alive?”
A furrow formed between his dark brows. “Your sister? No. Is that what you thought?” His face softened. “I’m sorry.”
The spark died, replaced by anger. She hated the compassion, the pity, the kindness, especially from strangers. Their sympathy brought back all the old feelings of helplessness, loss, and guilt. “So then why are you here?” Her voice was sharper than she intended.
He consulted his notes. “Last November 16th, you reported to the police that you discovered some unusual footprints in the snow while you were running in Creighton Springs State Park. Is that correct?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Had the cops found the bearded man who starred in her nightmares? Had they located the person who’d walked on bare feet in the cold snow? Had they—
“Dr. Cooper? Do you remember reporting unusual footprints in Creighton Springs State Park last November?”
She blinked and met his gaze. “Yes, of course I do.”
He leaned forward on his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “In your statement to Detective Breacher, you indicated you were running in the state park and came across some bare footprints in the snow. You then heard two rifle shots and encountered a bearded man who frightened you.”
Her stomach tightened, and she nodded.
“Care to tell me more?”
“Why? Detective Breacher wasn’t interested. He thought I mistook the footprints for animal tracks, and the rifle shots I heard were branches breaking or an animal crashing through the trees.”
“But you thought different.”
“The prints were human. I’m sure of that.” She pointed at the model of the ancient Neanderthal skull. “I’m a physical anthropologist, and I study early humans. I know a human footprint when I see one, whether it’s encased in million-year-old stone or fresh snow.” She huffed out a breath. “The prints had the high arch that’s distinctive to homo sapiens. No question, they were made by a person.”
“So, you found these footprints?” He motioned for her to continue.
She spread her hands, palms down, on the scarred desktop. “Unfortunately, by the time the police ran their investigation, it was late the next morning, and it had snowed six inches overnight. The footprints were buried.”
“How many footprints did you see?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It was getting dark, and even though I had my headlamp on, the light was poor under the trees. I followed the prints for a few yards along the ridge trail until they veered into the forest.” She brushed a curl of hair behind her ear. “There were drops of blood on some of the heel imprints.”
His eyebrows rose. “You saw blood?”
“Yes, blood stained the snow where the person’s left heel would have been.”
The ticking in his jaw accelerated. “Did you tell Detective Breacher about the blood?”
“Of course. I was worried someone was injured. That’s why I called the police.”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. His coat gaped open, revealing a snug-fitting white T-shirt and the firm muscles in his chest and abdomen. He stared out the window for a long minute, and then he met her gaze. “You’d better start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
She inhaled a steadying breath. “It was a Wednesday, and my 1:30 class was cancelled, so I decided to go for a run to clear my head. It was a beautiful day, and that late in the season, I’d have the park to myself.” She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt.
Running was her life—her escape from the confines of four walls. Nothing was better than the fresh air brushing her face, the burn in her muscles, the steady, soothing rhythm of her feet pounding the ground. She ran most days of the week and always alone, pushing her body to move faster, run one more mile, climb one last hill, seeking escape from the noises in her head and her onerous burden of guilt.
Her running routes varied from the busy sidewalks of town, along country roads past cultivated green fields, and on a treadmill in the gym when winter snows covered the ground. But her favorite place to run was on the rugged trails of Creighton Springs State Park. The beauty of the evergreen forest, the rushing river, glimmering lakes, and the surrounding mountains with their snow-covered peaks soothed her soul.
“Er…Dr. Cooper?”
She picked up a pen and tapped the nib on the desk in a rapid staccato. “Sorry. It’s been a long week.” The drumming was loud in the small office. Too loud. Inhaling a deep breath, she tossed the pen aside and clasped her hands on her lap. “I followed the loop trail around Mercer Lake. That route only takes a couple of hours, and I planned to be back at my car long before dark. I didn’t count on having to climb over a couple of deadfalls blocking the trail. I guess the big wind storm the previous week blew down some trees.”
She unclenched her hands and straightened a stack of papers on her desk. “I-I was running out of light, and that’s when I found the footprints.” Squirming in her chair, she crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Right after that, I heard the rifle shots.”
“And the only person you saw was the man with the rifle?”
“The parking lot was empty.” She smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought I was alone.”
“Let’s focus on the footprints for a minute.” He tugged out the stub of a yellow pencil from his coat pocket and held it poised over his notebook. “Do you remember where the footprints joined the trail?”
“I’m not sure. I was running, and the trail was covered in snow.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “At first, I thought the prints were animal tracks. I mean, no one would be walking in their bare feet. Not in that temperature, and…” Her voice faded. Did he really want to hear all this? She shouldn’t let his good looks fool her. He might seem interested in her thoughts, but he was a cop, and past experience had taught her cops had their own agendas.
His expression remained inscrutable. “What about the blood? Tell me more about that.”
She studied his face. It was impossible to read what he was thinking by looking into his hooded hazel eyes. Did he believe her? Or was he like Detective Breacher and just going through the motions, crossing t’s and dotting i’s so he could dismiss her claims with the clear conscience of having done his due diligence?
Her stomach tightened as once again the questions that had haunted her for the past three months reared in her mind. What if the footprints belonged to someone who was in trouble? A child. An injured child. If she’d followed the tracks into the trees, would she have found the person? She should've pushed Detective Breacher harder and made him take her seriously. She should've—
“Dr. Cooper?”
The detective’s deep voice pierced her self-castigation. She met his penetrating gaze, and a rush of heat flooded her face. “Sorry. You were asking about the blood, right?” She sucked in a breath. “Like I said, the blood smears were where the heel of the person’s left foot would have landed, as if whoever made the tracks had cut her foot on something.”
His eyes narrowed. “Her?”
She shook her head, not understanding.
“You said that whoever cut her foot.” If possible, his eyes narrowed further, and his gaze zeroed in on her like twin laser beams. “Why do you think a woman made the tracks?”
She squeezed her hands together. “I don’t know. They could’ve been left by an older child, possibly a teen.” She struggled to visualize what she’d seen that day…small, narrow human footprints, with a high arch. “They seemed too small to be from an adult, but I can’t be certain. The light was fading, and the tracks were in the shadows.”
He scribbled in his book. “How fresh do you think the blood was?”
“I-I touched the blood, and it was sticky. It stained my glove.” She licked her dry lips and voiced her worst fear. “You don’t think a child was out there that day, do you? One who was hurt and needed help?”
He leaned forward. “Do you still have those gloves?”
“No. I threw them out. I couldn’t bear the thought of having someone’s blood on them, and Detective Breacher made it pretty clear that he didn’t believe me.” She bit down on her bottom lip. Why had she thrown out the gloves? She should’ve known better. The bloodstain could've been sampled for DNA evidence.
His jaw hardened, and his mouth firmed into a thin line. He turned and stared out the window.
She followed his gaze.
The afternoon sun shone on a rolling expanse of lush green grass, shaded by the tall, stately firs of the college common. Daffodils, their vibrant yellow heads bobbing in the breeze, bloomed in the manicured flowerbeds.
Clusters of students lazed on the lawn. Two young men, dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with the college’s football team’s logo and long, baggy shorts, tossed a football back and forth.
Laughter, the sounds of conversation, birds tweeting in the bushes outside her office window, and the faint rush of traffic from the ring road around the campus, travelled through the open window.
“I’d like you to take me there.”
She swung back to him. “Out there? To the college common?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “No. To Creighton Springs State Park. I want you to show me where you saw the tracks.”
“But months have passed. It’s spring now. There won’t be anything to see.”
He arched his dark brows.
The heat in her cheeks flared to a four-alarm blaze. Stupid comment. Of course, he knew the footprints would be long gone. “What—” She swallowed. “—what do you think you’ll find after all this time?”
He shrugged. “We won’t know until we look.” He stood with an easy grace for such a tall man and stuffed his notebook and pencil into his coat pocket. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? But tomorrow’s Saturday.”
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Yes. I’m aware of that.”
He wanted her to go with him tomorrow? An image of the bearded man rose before her, and she shuddered. He’d exuded menace, and his very presence had terrified her. Afraid of encountering him again, she hadn’t been back to the park. And now this detective wanted her to go there with him the next day. She pushed her fears away. “I guess that would work.”
“Great. I have your home address. How about I pick you up at nine?” He strode to the door without waiting for her agreement, twisted the handle, and opened the door.
“Detective Farrell?”
He looked back at her. “Yes?”
“Why now? Why are you interested in those footprints after all these months? Detective Breacher made it more than clear he thought I was wasting his time.”
His eyes turned the icy green of an alpine lake. “Just over three months ago, fifteen-year-old Amanda Jacobs vanished in the middle of the night from her bedroom in her parents’ house in Cardion. There’s been no sign of her since.”
Her stomach plummeted. All too well she knew the devastation the missing girl’s family would be feeling as they reeled from their daughter’s disappearance. “Cardion is miles from the state park. You can’t think the footprints I saw are connected to this missing girl.”
“I’m investigating every possible lead.” His mouth tightened. “We need to find her.” He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him with a solid thunk.
She sagged back in her chair. A young girl was missing. Was her disappearance connected to the bare footprints Candace saw in the state park three months ago? If so, she’d let the poor girl down when she’d desperately needed help. She rubbed the increasing tightness in the back of her neck.
Tomorrow. One way or another, she’d know tomorrow. And then she could deal with her guilt. She leaned forward and rested her head in her arms on the desk.
Tomorrow.