Page 14 of Remember Her Name

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Anyway, must be nice for her to work from home.”

Josie found a spot on the street. She could argue that he practically worked from home given how often he disappeared during shifts, but it was a waste of time. “Did you send the photo or not?”

“Of course I did.” Turner’s phone appeared in his hand. A moment later, he flashed the screen at her. It was a post from one of Denton PD’s social media platforms featuring the photo of Cleo Tate and asking for the public’s help in locating her. Josie skimmed the rest of the text, absorbing the highlights. Abducted from the city park at approximately tena.m. Seen with a white male, 5’9” or 5’10” in a white sedan.

Josie hoped that Brennan had updated Remy Tate as she had asked. They hadn’t told him about the blood found at the scene and had confirmed the abduction after speaking with him. If all he was hiding was an affair, she didn’t want him finding out from social media or the midday news that his wife had been kidnapped.

She turned off the car and hopped out. They walked the small concrete path to the front stoop. Turner reached past her and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he tried again. There were no home surveillance cameras anywhere around the door. They didn’t need one. As a member of the Denton PD, she knew this particular area of the city saw little to no crime.

“Come on,” Turner muttered. He tugged at the handle of the screen door. It creaked open.

“Turner,” said Josie, but she was too late. He pounded a fist against the main door, making it quake in its frame.

Seconds later, a man opened the door, blinking against the daylight. Josie put him at about five foot nine. Blond wavy hair fell across his forehead. Stubble lined his jaw and dotted his upper lip. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes,suggesting he hadn’t slept well in some time. Early to mid-thirties, Josie estimated. His black basketball shorts and gray Denton University Alumni T-shirt showed off the lean, well-muscled arms and legs of a runner.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice raspy as if they had woken him from a nap. He blinked again, eyes dropping to the gun at Josie’s waist. “Oh. Right. Come on in.”

He ushered them inside. “My wife said she called the police but she’s been working all morning. I figured I’d wait until this afternoon and if no one came, I’d call again.”

Josie and Turner didn’t even have a chance to identify themselves or present their credentials. The living room they stepped into was cool and dark, decorated in a soft gray with white accents. Just inside the door was a narrow table filled with sympathy cards. Across from that, a rumpled blanket lay on the far corner of the couch. A box of tissues peeked from its folds. The end table was filled with orange medication bottles, a remote control, and a novel by S.A. Cosby. Behind all of those things stood a large, framed photo of a young woman. It was a school photo taken from the shoulders up. The girl wore a closed-lip smile. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief, making her look as though she was holding back laughter. Pale blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the generic blue background.

“I told you I called!” came a woman’s voice from elsewhere in the house. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

The man started to roll his eyes but quickly stopped when his wife stepped in from what was presumably the kitchen. Long black hair, shot through with gray, cascaded down her back. A green tank top and a pair of denim shorts hugged her sinewy body. They must both be avid runners. She was easily the same height as her husband, and it looked like she had at least tenyears on him. The smile stretched across her face was anything but warm and it was directed at her husband.

He turned back to Josie and Turner, looking them over, as if noticing for the first time that they weren’t in uniform. Turner was dressed for church while Josie wore her standard Denton PD polo shirt and khakis. His gaze snagged on Josie’s face. “Aren’t you that reporter? What are you doing here? With all due respect, we’re not up to talking with a?—”

His wife cut him off. “Isaac, please. She’s got a gun! She’s not the reporter.”

“You’re thinking of my sister. Trinity Payne. We’re twins.” Josie took out her credentials, holding them out for their perusal.

Turner flashed his as well as he looked around the room. “We’re not with the press. We’re detectives with Denton PD.”

The woman stepped forward as they put their credentials away and extended a hand. “Please excuse my husband’s rudeness. Sheila Hampton. This is Isaac.”

Turner took her hand first, studying her long elegant fingers as they brushed the sleeve of his jacket. He snatched his hand away as if she’d burned him. He really did have a way with people. If Sheila noticed, she didn’t let on.

Isaac didn’t offer to shake hands. “I wasn’t being rude.”

“You didn’t mean to be rude,” Sheila corrected. “But you were.”

Choosing not to engage, Isaac instead addressed Josie and Turner. “I’m confused. Do they normally send detectives to investigate stolen cars?”

“Usually, one of our patrol officers would take the initial report,” Josie explained, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Turner rubbed at something on the cuff of his suit jacket, frowning. “Hey, lady, did you have something on your hand?”

“Turner,” Josie admonished under her breath.

“Oh, sorry.” Sheila wiped her palms on his shorts. “I thought I washed it all off. It’s glue. I’m an industrial designer.”

“What the heck is that?” Turner asked.

Sheila scratched at a shiny streak on her forearm. More glue, presumably. “We design and develop products. Anything from furniture to medical equipment. Appliances, electronics, you name it. I specialize mostly in safety equipment. I was working on a prototype of a new kind of hearing band. You know, instead of those clunky headphones. For construction sites, mostly. Just trying to stay busy while I’m here.”

“Sheila.” Isaac’s tone held a warning.

Turner said, “You don’t live here?”

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