Zach read between the lines. The old woman had left the property to Josie, but that was all she had to give. Josie had barely made ends meet for the past eight years, so it was doubtful she had much of anything in savings. Now she was trying to fix up this old farmhouse on her own with few resources, so she could run a business from it and afford to remain there. His admiration for her increased. “Any other family in the area?”
“My mom lives in Cincinnati. We’re not close. My dad”—her eyes lowered—“left when I was a kid. I haven’t had any contact with him since. I have a cousin who lives nearby but that’s the extent of family in the area now.” Her mouth did a strange little thing at the mention of her cousin, and Zach wondered what that meant.
“Detective Murphy mentioned that you used to call him every year to check in, but that you hadn’t this year. That because of moving out here?”
She stared at him for a moment. “How is Detective Murphy?” she asked.
“He’s good. Same old Murphy. Needs to cut back on his wife’s cooking.” He smiled and Josie’s eyes went to his mouth.
She looked away, but then looked back, giving him a small, nervous smile. “He’s a good man. He . . . cared.”
“Very much,” Zach agreed.
Josie looked at her hands in her lap for a moment. “I suppose the reason I didn’t check in this year had some to do with moving out here.” She paused. “But it was also just . . . time. At first, I felt almost . . . obligated, you know? It felt like a small sort of giving up, and I was just never ready before. And I haven’t . . . given up. But that call, it only served to hurt me really. Maybe I almost needed that for a while, but I don’t anymore.” She smiled at him again, a sad one, and his heart squeezed.
She was honest, even when it was painful, which meant she was strong. Possibly stronger than she realized. That pull again. Christ.
Creases appeared between her wide brown eyes. “Detective . . . do you think this copycat has any interest in me? Do I have any reason for concern?”
“I have no concrete reason to think so. But he is mimicking your case, at least in a few ways. It’s part of the reason I came to speak to you, to let you know what’s going on.” He hated to put fear into this woman who’d already dealt with so much and seemed to be in a good place emotionally, but he also wouldn’t risk her safety. “I have a few friends who work for the Oxford police, and they’re going to have a uniform car drive by your home every hour, just to be on the safe side, and so you have no cause for worry. You’ll probably see them. They’ll drive slowly and canvas the area. They won’t intrude. They’ll just check out the house and surrounding areas and make sure there’s no suspicious activity, during the day or at night.”
“For how long?”
“Until we determine there’s no longer a need.” Until we solve this case and catch the motherfucker who not only killed a woman but is causing you to emotionally experience your own crime again. Bastard.
Zach drank the last of his tea, setting his glass down on the tray a little harder than he’d meant to and removing a business card from his pocket. Josie took it from his outstretched hand. “If you think of something that might help with this new case, or if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me on my personal cell phone.” He tipped his chin toward the card in her hand.
She nodded, that crease still present between her brows. He had the ridiculous desire to reach up with his thumb and smooth it out. “Thank you for your time and the information.” He looked around at the porch, swept clean, not a cobweb to be seen, but the railing saggin
g slightly and in need of repair, the furniture old and cracking, pieces of the wicker broken away. “And good luck with getting this place up and running.”
She stood and gave him one last smile. “Thank you, Detective,” she murmured, glancing at his card.
He gave her a nod, their eyes lingering for a heartbeat, before he turned and jogged down her steps, pulling out of her driveway, and moving away from her farmhouse. When he glanced in his rearview mirror, she was still standing on the porch, watching him as he left.
CHAPTER NINE
Before
Marshall knelt beside her, cleaning up the wrappers from the fast food he’d brought. He seemed quieter than usual that night. Different. He’d fed her, given her water, cleaned her wound, changed out her waste bucket—which was a particular indignity on top of all the other indignities she suffered—and now he looked to be packing up to leave. Her heart beat hollowly in her chest.
“What are they saying about me?” she asked. Her voice sounded rusty from lack of use. The only time she spoke was when Marshall came to feed her and do . . . other things. He seemed to be staying for shorter and shorter times. She’d wondered often how her friends and family were reacting to her disappearance, what the police were doing to find her, but hadn’t asked Marshall about it. Maybe some part of her was afraid to know.
She was surprised when he leaned back against the wall next to her, his masked head hitting the cement behind them. “That r-roommate of yours is raising holy h-hell. She calls the police every day. She has a command central going on from your apartment. Other students roaming in and out.” He made a strange chuffing sound. “Printing off f-flyers, making calls until all hours of the m-morning.” He paused. “I volunteer there.” He turned his head as if gauging her reaction to that bit of news, and then turned away. “Your aunt Mavis is there all the time t-too.”
Mavis. Her aunt. Her father’s sister who lived in Oxford. Josie closed her eyes, feeling tears burning behind her lids. She lived in a picturesque old farmhouse in the country. It was a shining beacon of light in her mind. She pictured standing in the field that overlooked the house, where her aunt had brought her to pick wildflowers, and the longing to be there, wide-open sky stretched out around her, hit her so hard it was like a punch to her gut. Josie had loved it there as a kid when her dad took her out. But once her dad left for good, her mom didn’t take her anymore. She said Mavis was weird and kooky, and a bad influence. Which was laughable coming from her mother. The woman who was biologically a mother anyway, though Josie thought of her with no fondness. No, she’d been her first abuser. The person she should have felt safest with . . . but hadn’t.
“And my mother?” Josie whispered, turning her eyes away. She didn’t care. She told herself she didn’t care.
When she looked back at Marshall though, his eyes were narrowed as he studied her. He shook his head. “Your mother hasn’t come by.”
“So you . . . spend a lot of time there? Volunteering?” she asked. She somehow knew he did, thought he probably got off on it. Walking from his apartment to the second floor where she and Reagan lived, acting all concerned, making calls maybe, his stutter growing worse as he spoke to strangers, passing out flyers . . . Leaving to feed her, rape her, returning with her still on his skin to comfort the people who actually cared for her. A shudder went through her.
“As much as I c-can. I have to w-work too, you know.”
“Where do you work?”
He barked out a laugh. “Oh right, you c-care about me now, d-do you?”