“It was a joke,” he said. “My wife knows about it. And, last I heard, that wasn’t illegal.”
“Damn it, Francesca, don’t make things worse.”
Jonah’s mouth moved close to her ear so only she could hear. “Live to fight another day,” he breathed. Then he and Finch shoved her into the car and slammed the door so she couldn’t say anything else.
4
Butch stood at the corner of his property, watching as the police drove away. He was in big trouble now, and he knew it. Maybe this time there’d be no way out.
Paris came up beside him. Fortunately, Elaine and Warren had taken their son inside. Although he lived with his in-laws, they usually minded their own business. It was Paris’s freak of a brother, Dean, who got on his nerves. Dean hovered on the porch behind them, hoping to overhear what they had to say, but for his own safety he didn’t venture any closer. Butch was almost sad about that. Angry as he was, he could’ve used a target.
“Did you go on a dating site?” Paris asked. “Did you submit a profile?”
There was no point in attempting to deceive her. If she wanted the truth, all she had to do was search dating sites. Or go to that Moretti woman, who probably had a copy of his profile. Why give Paris a reason to do that? They had to stick together at all costs.
When he didn’t answer, Paris lowered her head. “That’s what I thought.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he insisted.
She shaded her face, apparently eyeing the little puffs of dust that’d been kicked up by the police cars. “It says quite a bit about you that I’m relieved to hear it.”
The sarcasm bit deep, made him bristle. “It’s not as if you’re perfect, Paris.”
“At least I can be faithful.”
“I can’t help it. Sex is all I think about.”
“And now you were the last person to see a woman who went missing. Don’t you realize what that means? What if she’s dead? What if they find her body and it has your DNA on it? They’ll put you behind bars!”
“I wasn’t the last one to see April Bonner alive. There’s no way. Unless she killed herself, someone else had to be involved.”
When his wife didn’t respond, he looked over and found her watching him carefully. “You believe me, don’t you?” he said.
Sighing, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is if this Moretti woman keeps digging, our son could lose his father.”
“Don’t talk like that. Moretti’s done here.” He could only hope that was true, that this wouldn’t go in the direction Paris feared. When he was a boy, his stepfather used to punish him by locking him in a box the size of a coffin out in a metal shed. During the summer, he’d nearly suffocate. Small, confined spaces still terrified him. He already knew he could never bear living in a jail cell.
“How do you know she’s done?” she asked.
“Because I’ll make sure of it.”
“Who was she?”
He could tell by the change in her tone that she wasn’t referring to the investigator. “Who are you talking about? April Bonner?”
“Who else?” She sounded weary, as if this incident might get the best of her despite how hard she’d fought to keep their family together.
He could easily recall April’s kind brown eyes, her timid but eager smile, her round cheeks, her body, soft from lack of exercise. They’d exchanged some intriguing e-mails, but she hadn’t turned out to be his type at all. “No one. She was just a…a means to an end. You know that. That’s all it ever is.”
“What happened with her that was so different from all the others?”
“Nothing. The night didn’t end well, I’ll admit that. You know how I get sometimes. But I didn’t kill her.”
Paris shoved her hands in her pockets. “It has to stop, Butch.”
He slipped his arm through hers and was gratified when she leaned into him. He hadn’t lost her yet. And he never would. “It will. I promise. Don’t give up on me. We’ve come so far. We can get through this, too.”
Francesca had canceled her credit cards and cell service. She’d also left a message with a locksmith, asking him to contact her first thing in the morning. Now that she was finished with everything, at least everything she could do after hours, she was lying in bed, pretty sure she’d never had a more miserable afternoon. She’d been involved in some tragic cases—peripherally when she was with Phoenix P.D. and then the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, and more directly after she’d started her own agency—but never had she experienced anything more enraging than having Butch Vaughn flat out lie to her. It was one thing to have him claim he hadn’t meant to frighten her; she’d expected that. But she’d never dreamed he’d try to keep her purse, or that he’d take so much joy in making her feel powerless. Now he had her iPhone, her car keys—and her house keys because they were on the same ring—her wallet and her ID, all of which he’d basically stolen from her right beneath the noses of ten police officers.
He thought he was clever. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with what he’d done to her or to April Bonner. If he’d killed April, she’d find the proof she needed to put him away. The poor woman had to be somewhere. And what about those other bodies, the ones in the mass grave Finch had told her about? Was Butch responsible for those murders, as well?
It held the remains of seven women….
She believed Butch to be capable of extreme violence. She’d never met an individual who scared her as much.
This was what some of the people she took on as clients went through, she realized. Now she’d become a victim, too. She tried telling herself it was good experience to have, that in future she’d be better able to relate to their feelings of helplessness and frustration. But trying to find something positive in what she’d gone through didn’t make these late-night hours tick by any faster.
Agitated and restless, she stared at the ceiling. Although she tried to avoid it, she kept picturing Butch sitting at his kitchen table going through her purse while the rest of his family slept. Was he holding her driver’s license right now, memorizing her address? Had he checked MapQuest to determine the best route to take to her house?
Surely he wouldn’t be that obvious. Besides, she lived two hours away, which meant he’d need a wide margin in which to be gone. But just knowing how easy tracking her down would be made every creak and rustle—normal noises on any other night—sound like someone was attempting to break in. She was so wound up she could feel her pulse beating in her fingertips. Would morning never come?