My phone rings, cutting off my words. Pulling the thing from my pocket, I see that it’s Wren. I hit decline and look back at her, but before I can start talking, he calls again.
“What?” I snap into the phone.
“The police found Gayle.”
“Is she oka—”
“They found her body, Quinten. Deacon wants you back at the office.”
My gut sinks. We knew something was wrong, but Wren hadn’t been able to find anything on her for close to two weeks.
“Be right there,” I snap before ending the call. “I have to go to the office.”
“Have a good evening,” she says, her voice soft and understanding.
I give her hand a squeeze and leave the room. I’m not going to tell her about Gayle. News like that would only upset her, but as I climb in my truck, I realize I should’ve said something more. We won’t have another class to meet up for, and I doubt she’ll use my phone number just to chat.
I make a mental note to text her this evening, apologize for using her information for personal use, and then pray she keeps the communication open, but for right now, I need details on what happened with Gayle, and how we missed being able to help this woman.
***
“My bots weren’t set up for that!” Wren is saying when I walk into the room. “I was tracking the same stuff I did to sort the list of sign-ups. And let me remind you, that you weren’t happy when you found out I was digging that far into their private lives.”
I push through the office door to find the IT guy pacing in front of his computer. It’s clear that he’s been pulling at his hair, and the tension in the room is so thick even the bird is quiet.
“And no one is saying this is your fault,” Deacon says softly. “There’s nothing we could’ve done to prevent this from happening.”
“Did we give her a false sense of security?” Wren asks, his eyes finding mine the second I step into the room.
“I can’t answer that. She was very gung-ho about shooting. I didn’t see it going this way. I figured if anything, she was going to hurt someone else. Can you fill me in on what’s going on?”
“Gayle’s body was found at a quarry near Columbia, Illinois early this morning. She’d been beaten and then stabbed to death.”
“When?”
“Preliminary reports are saying she’s been dead over two weeks,” Deacon answers.
“So probably since we lost track of her?”
Wren nods. “I should’ve seen this coming. She’s had so many bad relationships. I had to wait until her name was released to even contact the police to give them the info I had because my research wasn’t exactly done legally.”
Deacon frowns again at his admission. “I’m not pissed because you went looking for information after she didn’t show up to class. What grinds my gears is having to find out you were doing it from the Columbia Police. I could’ve handled the call from them a little better and in a much more professional manner if I was informed. Take a breath, Wren. We’ve done all we can do. She was already gone before you started looking, and we can’t follow these women every second of their lives.”
Wren sighs, falling into his office chair so hard the thing rolls across the floor until finally coming to a stop when it bumps into his desk.
I’m informed that the police may be calling me to get information on her demeanor and such from class, and when I go home, I’m so lost in my head with having the same feeling of failure where Gayle is concerned, I don’t remember to text Hayden.
Chapter 18
Hayden
“Are we going to talk about the lies you’ve been telling or not?”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Parker’s eyes dart across the room as if she’s interested in the framed print of the mountains on my wall. Anyone else might think she’s interested in the beauty or wishing for a trip there, but I know she hates the cold, and would choose the beach over snow any day of the week.
“That’s how you want to play it? You don’t want to tell me what you’ve been doing that’s keeping you so busy that you missed the shooting classes?”
She lifts her wine glass to her lips, and for a second I think she’s going to spill.
She shakes her head, an almost imperceptive movement, and her complete silence only makes my suspicions grow even more.
“You’ve met someone.”
“I meet people all the time.”
“You’re spending time with someone,” I clarify. “Who is it? Why aren’t you talking about them?”
“I’ve been working.”
I gasp. “You’re having an affair with Mr. Williams!”
This gets her attention, her head snapping in my direction. The smile on her face is expected. “You mean seventy-three-year-old Mr. Williams?” She scoffs. “Get real.”