Page 48 of The Vanishing Wife

“Something like that. We’ll also need a comparison between the fluids you collected from Ruby Davis’s remains with this man’s DNA.” Detective Moore handed off the evidence bag. “I understand you’ve been understaffed and overworked with cases for quite some time, Beau, but any information you can discern from these samples could help solve two of them.”

“Understood, Detective.” Beau Pierce didn’t argue. Didn’t add to the detective’s assessment of his caseload or try to give them a reason he couldn’t process their request. He simply took the bag. As if it were the most important collection of evidence he’d ever handled. “I’ll call you if I learn anything of value.”

“Thank you,” Detective Moore said.

Leigh nodded her appreciation and followed the detective to the front of the coroner’s office. Heat slapped her across the face. A number of variables were waiting to connect in the back of her mind, but one stood out the most. “Elyse must’ve seen something to suspect Samuel Thornton of Ruby’s disappearance or murder. Question is: what?”

The ferocity of defeat dragged the detective’s shoulders away from her ears. “I checked with Saige Fuentes’s mother and reached out to Poppy Slater’s parents. Neither of the girls had experienced their first period yet.”

She wasn’t sure if she’d been looking forward to that confirmation or avoiding it altogether. “It’s a connection we didn’t have before. If the evidence connects Poppy’s and Ruby’s murders to Samuel Thornton as we think it will, it seems he prefers prepubescent girls. Which means there may be more victims we haven’t come across over the years.”

It was a sick obsession that had cost so many children their lives. Too many. “Any updates from the school district security cameras around the time Saige disappeared?”

“Not yet. The district insisted I come back with a warrant in the name of protecting their students. I submitted the request to the judge this morning, so we should hear something soon.” Detective Moore checked her watch. “There were four girls in that photo the night they all got drunk last summer, including Ava Portman.”

This was where the real work happened, where she and Detective Moore would bounce ideas off each other and try to fill in the blanks as best they could. It’d worked back at the crime scene, and it was all Leigh could rely on now. For the slimmest chance of solving one piece of this horrendous puzzle.

“Assuming the man turned away from the camera is, in fact, Samuel Thornton as we believe, and if what Ava stated is true, he was working his way through their friend group,” the detective said. “Why wouldn’t he have made an advance on Ava?”

Leigh let that question settle for a moment. “What if he did?”

“What do you mean?” the detective asked.

“Ava’s social media profiles were deleted within the past couple of weeks. Everything she’s ever posted, going back years, gone. Elyse’s too. Those profiles were an important part of keeping up to date with Elyse’s side of the family, especially after the cancer diagnosis. She didn’t have the energy to keep in touch with anyone, so the easiest way to fill her family in on what was going on all at once was with the occasional post,” Leigh said. “There was the fake profile on Poppy Slater’s phone, presumably published by Elyse in the days leading up to her disappearance, and interactions between her staged profile and an unidentified man who admits he lives in Gulf Shores.”

Detective Moore put her hands on both hips and squared off with Leigh. It was a habit she’d picked up on over the past few days. A pattern the detective followed when a lead surfaced. “You think Samuel Thornton may have reached out to Ava through her social media profiles. That he solicited her, and that’s why she deleted her account. Makes sense, but why delete Elyse’s profile?”

Leigh didn’t have more than a theory, but it felt right in the moment. “She wanted any photos she’d posted of Ava off the internet.” But what had happened? If Samuel Thornton had tried to get to Ava, had he been successful? Something clicked as she scrambled to assemble everything they’d found in the investigation into a cohesive picture. “Those photos on Elyse’s phone. The ones IT recovered. They were screenshots of a message conversation. The officer I spoke with couldn’t determine where the conversation originated, but the times and read receipts were readable.”

“I have them on my phone.” Detective Moore slipped her cell from her back pocket, her thumbs working overtime to pull up the images, as Leigh rounded to get a better look at the screen. “IT wasn’t able to clean them up much because of the damage to the digital SIM, but parts of the messages are clear.”

Words stuck out as Leigh battled the sun’s onslaught against the screen. White bubbles framed incoming responses. …be friends. meet. So sexy. Responses didn’t register as anything a fourteen-year-old girl might say. Instead, each line read as a private exchange between romantic partners. More adult.

The detective swiped to the second image. Much harder to make out. No text. Simply a dark rectangle with streaks and shadows. Detective Moore brought the phone closer, then angled it to get a better view. Blocking out the sun’s interference with one hand, she let her mouth relax open in concentration. “What is that?”

But Leigh’s brain—set to find the pattern in anything—created a crystal-clear image. “It’s a nude photo. Of Ava Portman.”

She already had her phone in hand. Scrolling down her list of contacts to Ava’s name. Tapping the screen, Leigh lifted the phone to her ear. The line rang. Once. Twice. A third time. Then dumped her into voicemail. She couldn’t swallow through the suffocating feeling closing in around her throat, like she was the one who was being physically strangled rather than Samuel Thornton. “Pick up the damn phone.”

Detective Moore was on the radio. “Perez, I need eyes on Ava Portman. Now.”

Leigh tried Ava’s phone again, but only the girl’s singsongy voice directed her to leave a message. She waited for the beep, out of her last reserves of patience. “Ava, this is Leigh. Listen, I need you to call me back as soon as you get this. Please.”

She ended the call and tried a third time. No answer.

“Damn it. She’s not answering.” Leigh couldn’t wait to hear back from the officer assigned to keep an eye on the hotel. Instead, she raced for the patrol car.

Prepared for the worst.

THIRTY-THREE

Gulf Shores, Alabama

Monday, September 23

11:07 a.m.

The hotel room was empty.

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