Page 80 of Remember Her Name

Silently, Turner picked his way through more dirt and debris alongside her until the huge machine came into relief. He tipped his head back to take it all in, waving his light around like a conductor to try to get a full picture of it. “What the hell is this?”

The words caught in Josie’s throat as the memory of the last time she’d stood before it came flooding back. Clearing her throat, she tried again. Her voice sounded choked. “It’s a soft-flow dye machine.”

The metal beast was comprised of an immense, complex system of pumps, nozzles, and pipes, all surrounding a cylinder so enormous that a ladder was necessary to reach the top of it. The metal chamber was infected with rust. The last time Josie had seen it, a long fissure left a gaping, jagged hole in the center of it. Now, the wound was so large, it had split the chamber into two. One side sagged to the ground, the framing beneath it having crumbled. The other held straight. Despite her thrashing heart, Josie stepped closer and tried to see inside the two cavities. She was too short.

“Turner,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Can you see inside either of those?”

“These were cleared. If you think Isaac—or Bell—is hiding in there, forget it.”

“I know they were cleared. I still want to see if there’s anything inside.”

He pointed his phone’s flashlight under his chin, giving his visage a creepy, disembodied vibe. “Rats. Rats are inside. Happy? If you want to look inside, climb up and look.”

The last thing she wanted to do was climb into the hulls of the dye machine, but her gut—or maybe it was past experience—told her that if there was any place in this building where they might find something useful, it was there. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. She could keep trying to coax him or she could just tell him the truth. The second option was about as appealing as a colonoscopy. Then again, the last time she’d asked something of him—to treat their K-9 handler, Luke, with respect and not mention his scarred hands—Turner had done it.

With a sigh, Josie said, “I can’t. I can’t go inside of that thing. I mean, I can, but—” She’d need Noah there with her, or Gretchen. Or she could just white-knuckle it and hope she didn’t pass out. “When Sophia Bowen didn’t succeed in killing me in the stairwell, she forced me into that thing and…I just don’t do well in dark, confined spaces, okay? If there was someone in there who needed rescuing, I’d jump right in and pray that my adrenaline was stronger than my panic attack, but like you said, there’s not. So…I’m asking you to do it. Please.”

God, she hated saying please to him. She hated talking about this with anyone besides Noah, Gretchen, and her therapist. She waited for his laughter, for some cutting remark, for a teasing comment, but nothing came. Instead, he asked, “You don’t do well in dark, confined spaces because of the Bowen bitch or because of something else?”

Her eyes found his in the semi-dark of their lights. For once, the mischievous gleam she usually saw there was absent. He tugged at his beard again.

“Does it matter?” she said.

There was a beat of silence. Then he shook his head. “No, no. It doesn’t matter at all. I’ll check the one on the left first. Can you just keep your light on the opening?”

Shocked at his non-reaction, Josie mumbled a yes and did as he asked. It was an easy climb for him with his large frame and rangy limbs. He disappeared inside one half, the light from his phone bouncing wildly as he looked around. When he emerged, his upper lip was curled in disgust. “For future reference,” he said, “I don’t do well with rats and it’s because of this experience.”

A laugh burst unexpectedly from her throat. She’d never laughed at anything Turner said before. She laughed at his expense quite often but never at his jokes. What was the world coming to?

His voice echoed from inside the other half of the cylinder. “I think we’re getting along now, Quinn.”

“No, we’re not.”

Moments later, he climbed out, one hand extended over his head. Something shiny dangled from his fingers. “I got something. A necklace.”

He jumped down from the dye machine and held it in front of her face. The necklace was in pristine condition. A glittering gold chain with a matching charm in the shape of the letter J.

J for Juliet.

The chain was broken, like someone had torn it from her neck. Had she managed to do it so she could leave them a clue? Or had it merely come off when Bell struggled to get her out of the tube?

“Is there any blood in there?”

“I couldn’t see any,” Turner answered.

“Bell kept her here,” Josie said, excitement overtaking her anxiety. “He took her from her house last night around midnight, less than twenty-four hours ago, in one of the Bowens’ cars.”

Turner let the charm dangle, glinting in the beams from their flashlights. “But he went home afterward to ruin his wife’s life and ask her to give you some dumb, cryptic message.”

“Then he left in his own vehicle and came here.”

“Because the girl was here,” Turner said, waving his phone toward the dye machine. “In there. We still got a car problem, Quinn. This guy doesn’t have access to the classic cars from the auto shop. But he drove the Bowens’ car to that school in West Denton and left it there.”

“But he had Juliet with him, and he brought her here.” Josie picked up the thread. “They couldn’t have made it on foot, which means he had to have driven her here. We can check the GPS history on the car outside to see if he used that to stash her here last night.”

“He still would have needed to keep a car here,” Turner said. “To leave in. What are you thinking? The grandmother type? She has a car? Or maybe there’s a car from the Schock’s Auto Repair lot that isn’t accounted for?”

“I don’t know,” Josie said. “But right now it doesn’t matter. What matters is that there’s a very good chance that Juliet Bowen is still alive and if she is, we might be able to find her before he kills her.”

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