Page 38 of Her Dying Secret

“She probably decided to rest after her walk and fell asleep,” Turner reassured her. “I’m sure she’s fine. Go ahead. Open the door. We’ll get her up and give her and her cat a ride back to your house.”

Worry pooled in Bobbi’s dark eyes as she walked up the three steps to the front door and put the key in the lock.

“I told Mira I would come with her after work to get the cat and bring it back to my place,” Bobbie said. “But she loves that ornery thing.”

Bobbie pushed the door open and reached a hand inside, feeling along the wall until she found the light switch. A dim overhead glow illuminated the living room.

Josie stepped inside. The space was only large enough to accommodate a couch, one end table, a coffee table and a television console. On the other side of the television, near one of the front windows, a cat tree nearly larger than Josie hulked over everything else.

“Mira?” Josie called. “It’s Detective Quinn from the Denton PD. I’m just here to check on you.”

On the coffee table were two mugs. One had a quarter of what looked like black coffee left in it. The other was empty, a light brown film coating its bottom the only evidence of what had been in it. Next to it was a napkin, the handle of a spoon peeking from between its folds.

Someone had been here with Mira. Not Bobbi, but someone that Mira had welcomed with coffee.

Josie turned to say something to Turner, but he was still on the steps, captivated by Bobbi, making noises of reassurance. Shameless.

“Don’t let the cat out,” Josie said. He didn’t even look at her. The only sign that he’d heard her was a weak wave.

“Mira?” Josie called again as she made her way into the kitchen. There was enough light from the living room to find the switch just inside the door. Bright light flooded the room. It, too, was small but clean. A pile of mail sat unopened on the table. An unopened pay-as-you-go cell phone sat beside it. In the center of the table was a large glass vase filled with a dozen red roses. They weren’t as fragrant as the ones at April’s rental house in Newsham, but they were every bit as beautiful—and fresh—though it was hard to say just how fresh. It was possible that Mira had received them over the weekend, before the attack at Tranquil Trails. Josie walked closer to the table, her gaze catching on a small white card tucked among the buds. A piece of it had been torn away and the back of it wasn’t visible. On what was left of the card was one handwritten word: SORRY. A small knot of anxiety formed in Josie’s stomach. Was it a coincidence? The rose from the child’s drawing and these roses on Mira’s kitchen table with a note saying SORRY? Sorry for what? Who would have brought her flowers? According to Mira, there was no one in her life besides Bobbi.

Seth?

Knowing what she did about him from Rebecca and Jon, and from what he had done to April and Mira, Josie couldn’t see him as a flowers-and-apology type of guy.

It was a mystery she could ponder later. For now, she had to check the house to make sure that Mira wasn’t lying on the floor in one of these rooms, incapacitated from her head injury having worsened. Josie scanned the kitchen one more time. A hiss sounded from one of the lower cabinets. The door was ajar. Pale yellow eyes stared at her from inside. Behind the cat was a mess of torn bags—dry food and treats. Josie didn’t even try to disturb that scene. She looked out the back door. There was nothing but grass leading to another sidewalk. None of the yards behind the townhomes were divided in any way. A few neighbors had lawn furniture or children’s toys scattered near the backs of their homes. Mira had nothing.

From the front, she heard Turner laugh at something Bobbi said. As Josie passed through the living room again to get to the stairs to the second floor, she said, “Turner, Mira’s not on the first floor, if you care. The cat is, though, so don’t let it out.”

He didn’t spare her a glance, slowly pulling the front door closed, leaving him alone on the steps with Bobbi. “At least the cat won’t get out,” Josie mumbled to herself as she flicked on the light switch at the bottom of the steps and trudged up to the second floor, calling Mira’s name again.

The overhead light in the upstairs hallway revealed three open doors. Closest to the top of the steps was the bathroom. Josie turned on the light. It was empty.

“Mira? Detective Quinn. Just here to check on you.”

Josie reached inside the doorway to the second room, her fingers searching for a light switch. She flicked it on. No Mira. Just a neatly made twin bed with a matching nightstand. Nothing in the closet but a litter box.

“Mira? It’s fine if you don’t want to talk. Bobbi’s downstairs. We’re just making sure you’re okay.”

No answer. From her position in the hall, Josie could see a portion of the master bedroom. A nightstand. Lamp on top. A portion of Mira’s bed was visible, the maroon sheets and comforter rumpled. The door stood mostly open, giving Josie a view of the entire room once she reached inside the threshold to flip the light switch. The icy fingers of trepidation trailed up the back of her neck. Her heart flapped. She had a flash of Mira’s lifeless body waiting on the floor in the only part of the room she couldn’t yet see.

But when she crossed the room, rounding the bed to check the floor on that side, there was nothing. No Mira. One of the sliding doors of the closet was open, clothes hanging; shoes lined up on the floor. Josie was struck by how few personal touches the place had even though Mira had lived here for a few years. No photos. No trinkets. There was only a small jewelry box on top of the dresser that sat across from the foot of the bed. From downstairs came the muffled sound of Turner’s laughter again.

“That son of a bitch,” Josie said under her breath.

She was only a step away from the threshold when she smelled it. The same rank, acrid, almost earthy odor she’d encountered leaning over April Carlson’s body at the scene of the accident. Adrenaline surged through her veins like wildfire. Her heart seemed to stop for a long, slow beat and then it exploded back to life, pumping at a speed that felt unsustainable. Her hand went to her holster. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion and yet it was all happening at the same time, in the same second.

Her mouth said, “Turner!”

Her brain said, Behind the door.

Her head swiveled toward the crack where the inside edge of the partially open door met the frame. Through it, a single blue eye stared at her.

TWENTY-NINE

There was no time to unsnap her holster, much less draw her weapon. There was no time to yell again for Turner. No time to identify herself properly, to tell him to freeze or stop or put his hands up. There was no time. Seth Lee pushed the door into her at the same time that Josie tried to kick it into him. He won. Her kick slowed his efforts but only a fraction. The door slammed into her with all of Seth’s one hundred eighty pounds behind it. Her body snapped to the right, her head, shoulder, and hip smacking into the other side of the doorframe. Her fingers, scrabbling for her weapon, caught between the wood and her pistol grip. The pain was sharp and immediate, blotting out all other sensation in her body. Like a pinball, she bounced off the frame and back into the door.

Seth drew it back and pushed it into her again. This time her body was turned, and her spine met the edge of the frame and then careened back into the door. The impact of her forehead against it made a loud crack. Some frantic part of her brain screamed at her to try to do something besides getting tossed back and forth like a rag doll. She gripped the doorknob, the pain in her injured knuckles like shards of glass piercing her to the bone. Certain that Seth would expect her to push or kick the door back into him, she instead yanked it away. It felt light in her hands, almost weightless, and that was how she knew he was no longer holding it.

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