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CHAPTER 40

Aldrich did not have a partner when he raped me and then raped and murdered Amy. My memories of that night mig

ht have shattered, but I'd retained enough pieces to be sure I hadn't seen or heard anyone else at that cabin. What I suspected, instead, was that we were reverting back to an older theory, one supported by what Shannon Broadhurst had said about Aldrich having met "like-minded friends" later in life. Except, it seemed, more than just friends. A true partner-in-crime, who was worried that Koss or I had found something.

Found what? The journal, of course.

"Is it in the car?" I asked. "Shit. Our stuff. We left our bags at the other hotel."

"Called," Jack said. "Paid an extra night. Get it later. Journal's in the car. With my tools."

"I could go and grab your things," Quinn said. "That might be better, so no one sees you guys showing up again."

I remembered the fancy hotel . . . with the single bed. We could explain it away, of course, but it wouldn't be easy.

"Nah," Jack was already saying. "You show up? Ties you to us. Better not. I'll grab it later."

"Thanks for offering, though," I said.

Jack was gracious enough to second that, if only with a grunt. Then he headed out for the journal. Quinn called Evelyn to get her working on the hitman's cell phone records. There was something I could do, too. Something I should do, as much as I'd been avoiding it. I was still thinking of that when Jack slipped back in, journal in hand.

Quinn was on the phone. I was sitting in the corner of the sofa, deep in thought, and barely noticed Jack until he said he'd be reading in the bedroom. I led him to the other end of the room to not interrupt Quinn's call.

"I was thinking that I should really get that case file from Neil. I should read it."

"I can."

Another smile, a little more genuine. "You finish the journal. I'll handle the file. Since Neil said there's nothing on my rape in it, Quinn can read it, too, and help me look at it objectively."

Neil was at work, which proved that on a case I lose all sense of time. I said I'd call back but he was doing paperwork and happy for the interruption.

"I can e-mail it to you," Neil said. "I scanned it all a couple of days ago. And, yes, I expect you to be very proud of me for knowing how to use a scanner. I actually have one on my new printer but hadn't gotten around to figuring it out. This gave me the perfect excuse. I've now officially entered the twenty-first century."

"Congratulations. You're a couple of steps ahead of me. I think the lodge printer still uses a ribbon."

He laughed. "Then you'll be even more impressed to hear that I have the file on a thumb drive, so I can e-mail it to you right now." I could hear him pecking on the keyboard. "And there it goes. One case file, sent electronically."

"I owe you."

"You do. And I'll take a weekend at the lodge with the kids this winter. They want to learn cross-country skiing."

"You've got the weekend and private lessons."

"Great. I'll expect a call later, to talk about the file."

Reading Amy's case file was as hard as I thought it would be. Maybe harder. When we first found the journal, I'd expected to read details on Amy's murder that I'd never wash from my mind. Yet I'd been ready to do it. The case file, with its cold, documented facts, should have been easier to digest. It wasn't. Because those facts weren't written by anonymous professionals.

I'd read a summary of the case years ago, but it had been just that--a typed summary. This was very different. I recognized the handwriting of Dr. Foster on the autopsy--the same Dr. Foster who'd been our family physician most of my young life. I read the report and I heard his voice and I imagined him there, working on Amy, his former patient. The notations about the crime-scene photos were all in Neil's writing. I read a badly spelled typewritten report and didn't even need to check the signature to know it was Myron Young, who'd gone on to replace my father as chief. Other reports had curt notes in the margins, the pen pushed so deep I could still feel rage emanating off the page. Uncle Eddie--Amy's father.

My father and uncle hadn't been allowed to work the case--it was bad enough they'd been first on the scene. But while other police had assisted the prosecution in gathering evidence, it was clear Dad and Uncle Eddie had kept abreast of the investigation, making their own notes and keeping track of the evidence.

There were the pages and pages of meticulous notes written in my father's hand. I read those, and I was back at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, watching him work as my mother and brother slept. Those were some of my most cherished memories and now, seeing his notes here, detailing some of my worst memories . . . It was almost more than I could take.

I think having Quinn there made it harder. I'd rather have read them alone. No, I can be honest now--I'd rather have read them with Jack. Quinn tried to distract me by keeping it professional, hashing it out, trying to help me distance myself from these pages, but I couldn't distance myself. I didn't want to.

That's how it had always been with Quinn. We could talk for hours, and they could be deep conversations and heated debates that got to the core of our beliefs, but . . . Evelyn once said that for Quinn, it was all about the head. Cerebral. She'd been referring to his vigilantism, but the same could be said for the connection I had with him. I told Quinn what I thought, not what I felt.

Jack came to the door a few times, standing in the opening, where Quinn couldn't see from his angle. I'd feel him watching me and look up to see him there.


Tags: Kelley Armstrong Nadia Stafford Mystery