Her father’s gaze warmed with interest. “You know we’re a vault.”
Melina had no doubt. “The driver’s name is Bonnie Guthrie. She did time in California but missed her last appointment with her parole officer. She’s not the child’s mother, according to the child.”
“And?” her father prompted.
She popped open her soda and took a long pull. She skipped over why Ramsey had originally come to Nashville. “FBI got involved when an officer found a pickle jar filled with severed fingers in the trunk of Guthrie’s car. All the fingers appear to be female. The medical examiner has pulled prints. We have identification on two of the victims.”
“It’s not like you to discuss your cases with us,” her mother said.
And here came the part that dug into uncomfortable feelings. “The kid kind of reminded me of myself. The way she was just left.”
“Aren’t the scenarios fairly different?” her father asked.
“You always gloss over how you found me. And I’ve never pressed for details. Now, I’m pressing.”
Her father glanced at her mother. And when she nodded, he sat a little taller. “A call came in that there was a child on the side of the road.”
“Who called it in?”
“We know the call came from a pay phone at Stella’s Diner. Back in the day, no cells.”
“I get it. Old school,” she said. “Did anyone ever talk to the folks at the diner?”
“I did, after I picked you up,” he said. “You were standing on the side of the road hiding behind a guardrail.”
“I remember that part of the story.”
“No way I would have found you if someone hadn’t told us to look near mile marker one twenty-five.” His voice grew quiet. “I drove past you twice and saw no sign of you. I decided the third time would be the charm. That’s when I saw your yellow jacket. You reminded me of a frightened animal.”
Her mother rubbed Axel’s head in a soft, loving way, as if she were calming that lost version of Melina.
“When I reached for you, you took off running,” her father said.
“You said I came straight to you.”
“No. I had to move quickly to snatch you up. You started kicking and screaming, and I held you tight until you calmed down. Must have taken a full five minutes. Finally, I think all the trauma just wore you out, and you collapsed against me.”
“That’s when he called me,” her mom said. “I met him at the station.”
“Foster care took me,” Melina said.
“For seven days,” her mother said. “Took that long for your daddy and me to pull every string we had to get custody.”
“When you went to the diner, could anyone tell you who called the police?” Melina asked.
“The call came in at 10:05 p.m. on a Thursday night,” her father said. “The restaurant manager didn’t have surveillance cameras, and it had been a busy night. There’d been an event at the local high school, and the place was packed full of kids and parents. But Brenda, the woman working that night, did remember a woman coming in with a boy. She remembered thinking the woman wasn’t a regular customer and the boy looked upset.”
“Did Brenda say what the woman looked like?”
“Blond. Dressed kind of showy. Drove a big car.”
A faint memory of a car flashed. The vehicle had a wide back seat and was stuffed full of suitcases and garbage bags filled with clothes. “Did the woman or boy call?”
“She’s not even sure if either one of them made the call. In her words, it was busy as hell and she didn’t know up from down.”
“Anything else about this woman?” Melina had pushed aside this story for so long she had almost convinced herself that it did not matter. Now, the scant details teased her with a past that suddenly felt as if it mattered very much.
“Any names? Credit card receipts?”
“None. Paid cash. Didn’t leave a tip. They each ate, used the restroom, and left. No one saw them before or since.”
“How do you know they haven’t seen them since?”
“For a few months, I checked in at least once a week. Social services searched for your birth family but stopped after a few months. I kept looking just in case there was someone who might make a claim on you.”
“Your father knew I wasn’t going to let you go without a fight,” her mother said.
“Whoever the woman was, she never came back to Nashville.” Her father studied his daughter with the keen eye of a veteran cop. Every so often she caught a glimmer of the badass cop he had been back in the day. “Has this case brought all this up?”
She sighed. “I suppose it has. I had a dream last night.”
“What kind of dream?” her mother asked.
“Being in the back of that oversize car and then getting yanked out and being left on the side of the road.”
“You used to have nightmares when you were little, but they stopped when you were about ten or eleven,” her mother said.
“They never really stopped. I just stopped talking about them.”
Her mother frowned. “You always had the same dream?”
“Yes.” Melina did not like seeing her parents’ deepening frowns. She had never liked seeing them worried, especially about her. Maybe that was why she had stopped talking about the dream, excelled in school, and been a model student at the academy. Somewhere buried in her subconscious was the idea that if she was not perfect, they would not want her. “But it’s nothing like it used to be, and these days, the dream doesn’t bother me that much. I think seeing Elena today just reminded me of how I ended up.”
“Who’s overseeing this child’s case with social services?” her mother asked.
She checked her phone. “The guy’s name is Richard Barnard.”
“I don’t know the name,” her mother said.
“I could make some calls,” her father said.
“That’s kind of what I was hoping, Dad. Better I stay out of it since this is an active homicide investigation.”
“Homicide?” her mother asked. “That poor girl.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I’ll look into it.” Her father’s tone had shifted from dad to cop. “I’ll see to it she gets the best foster home.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Any time, squirt.”
Sonny was glad to be home. It had been nice spending the night at his lady’s house, but it was time to get back into his routine. There had been a season when he could be on the road for months and be content. But as he had gotten older, he’d liked sleeping in his own bed. Liked having his stuff around him.
Restless, he shoved the key into the lock and pushed open the door. He dropped his small duffel bag and flipped on the light.
The instant his gaze scanned the small living room, he knew something was wrong. He quietly closed the front door behind him and reached for the SIG in his waistband under his shirt. He chambered a round and very slowly crossed the pine floor toward the couch and collection of photos he had taken on the road for over fifteen years.
The house was silent except for the slight hum of the refrigerator. He flipped on the kitchen light and confirmed that the space was as neat and clean as he had left it. He liked a clean house. Liked knowing the scent of pine waited for him when he came home.
He jiggled the back doorknob and discovered it was locked. Still, the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he could not shake the feeling that someone had been there.
“Bonnie,” he muttered.
She had been calling him for weeks, but he had ignored her. He had no idea how she had gotten his number but knew damn well how clever the woman could be.
Seeing her had been a kick to the gut. It had taken everything to remain calm. Once he’d checked his emotions, he’d recognized that familiar hangdog expression on her face. She’d had a sob story and when that had not worked on him, she’d cut to the chase. She wanted the key, but once he gave it to her, she would realize he had spent the money.
His fingers itched as he imagined wrapping them around her pencil neck and squeezing until she died. Then the kid had gotten out of the car, looking for Bonnie.
If not for the kid, he would have strangled Bonnie right there. He had sure dreamed of it often enough. But the kid had gotten to him and twisted his heart in ways he had thought were not possible anymore.
She was a cute little thing. She needed a real parent and protecting, something he had never really had. But all that was drowned out by the deep sense of betrayal he still felt toward Bonnie.
He had been a teenager when the cops had cuffed Bonnie’s hands behind her back and led her to the squad car. She was all he had in the world and was the closest thing he had to a mother. When she was taken away, he was scared shitless. He scrounged enough money for a bus and rode it to the city jail. Bonnie had always gotten out of scrapes, and he prayed she’d find a way out of this one.
When he arrived at the city jail, his hands were trembling as he sat in the visitors’ room and waited for Bonnie. When she’d appeared, he’d been so glad to see her.
“Baby, you came to see me,” she said through the thick glass.
“What do I do, Bonnie?” He scooted closer on his seat, wishing he could hug her.
She sniffed and leaned forward a fraction. “Is all our stuff still at the motel?”