“But why? Are they afraid the bad guy is coming back? Why would he come here?” Josie asked, pulling aside the shade to take another look.
When her grandmother didn’t answer, Josie turned from the window. When she saw the look on her face, Josie understood. The deputy was there for her. They were worried that whoever killed her parents was going to come for Josie. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here,” Caroline said.
Josie climbed into the bed. The sheets smelled of bleach and were cool to the touch. They felt good against her sore feet.
Josie’s mind wandered then to dark and lonely places. Her parents were dead. What could they be thinking? Were they happy she was safe at her grandparents’ house or did they think she should have done more to try and save them? Did they think she should be with Ethan and Becky, wherever they were?
Then it struck her. Josie’s parents, from here on out, for the rest of her life would be looking down on her. They would know her every move, each thought. They knew what she was thinking at that very instant—that she was glad that the deputy was sitting outside in the dark. That a small voice in Josie’s head kept whispering, Ethan did it. That she thought her own brother had murdered her parents and probably Becky because of something as stupid as being grounded. That Josie would be dead, too, if she hadn’t been a step faster than Becky and made it to the field.
Josie opened her eyes. Black shadows danced across the ceiling, and she listened to the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house settling in for the night as she waited for sleep. It didn’t come. Josie heard the squeak of the door as her grandparents peeked in on her. And later, she thought she heard the soft cries of someone weeping but it could have been the hot wind blowing through the fields.
After a while, Josie slipped from the bed and peeked out the window. The deputy was still there. But there was something else. She stared hard into the dark. What was it? A flicker of light? A shift in the shadows?
It was in the dark, Josie thought, where bad things happened.
She turned on the small lamp next to the bed and crawled back beneath the covers. Sleep came for her then, uneasy and fraught with nightmares.
31
August 2000
Agent Santos knocked on Randolph’s motel room door just before dawn on the morning of Sunday, August 13. She and Agent Randolph were staying at the Burden Inn, a low-rise motor lodge that was as grim as its name. It was clean at least.
He answered, ready for the day, wearing his suit jacket and tie.
Santos stepped into the room and was met with stale, hot air. The room was like an oven. “Shit,” Santos hissed. “Is your air conditioner not working.”
“No,” Randolph said, but he wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
“I got a message to call the medical examiner at the state lab. I’m hoping she’s got some results for us.” Santos sat at a small desk and reached for the phone while Randolph tried to coax the air conditioner into operation.
“Yes, this is Camila Santos. Dr. Foster, please,” she said. “I’m returning her call.”
The air conditioner shook and rattled but whatever Randolph did to it seemed to be working. Semicool air breezed across her forehead. Santos sat up when she heard a voice on the other side of the line and Randolph looked on as she listened and jotted a few notes.
“You’re sure?” Santos asked, setting down the pen. “Why would someone do that?” At the response, she gave a little chuckle. “No, I think that’s why they pay you the big bucks. Thanks for letting us know—we’ll add this to the list of things that don’t make sense about this case.”
Santos hung up the phone and looked up at Randolph who was watching her expectantly.
“The Doyles were shot with more than one gun,” Santos said, getting to her feet.
“We did find two types of shell casings at the scene, so that’s no surprise,” Randolph said. “So we’ve got two shooters and two guns.”
“Or one shooter, two guns,” Santos suggested. “Where the Doyles were shot, that’s what’s interesting,” Santos explained. “William Doyle was shot in the throat with a 9 mm and again in the exact same spot with a shotgun. Same with Lynne Doyle, except in the chest.”
“Maybe to conceal the type of firearm used,” Randolph mused. “We know Ethan Doyle had access to a shotgun, did he have a handgun too?” Randolph asked. “But they had to know that eventually we’d find out what kind of weapons were used. Seems pretty calculated for a sixteen-year-old.”