Page 48 of Another Girl Lost

“Maybe more than I realized. What about you?”

“I’m a hopeless addict. I loved my work to the exclusion of my marriage.”

He ran his hand along her jaw. He didn’t want to leave her. “Be in the bar on Tuesday night. I want to see you.”

“You can give orders in here, but out there, I’m my own woman.”

Irritation swarmed, ominous and disturbing, as he realized he needed to see her again. “Is that a yes or no?”

“It’s a wait and see if it suits me to return.”

A smile tugged at his lips, belying any fears that she could be slipping away. She liked taking the orders, but she was the one running this show. “Okay.”

His gaze skimmed over her smooth thigh. There was lean muscle there, but she wasn’t too slim. He liked a woman with muscles.

“See you around, Dawson. And keep me posted on that case.”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“I’ve got to get some rest. Got an early call tomorrow.”

“What case are you working?” He didn’t question that he was curious about her.

“Who knows? I’m the new guy.”

She’d dominate whatever case was tossed her way. “I’m sure you’ll run the room in a few months.”

“We shall see.”

He chuckled. “Tuesday night, Margo.”

Dawson left her hotel room, feeling buoyant. For the first time in weeks, he believed he could make a difference and maybe could solve Sandra Taylor’s murder.

He strode down the hallway, wishing he were still in bed with Margo. He punched the elevator button and, when the doors opened, stepped inside. He rode up to his room on the fifth floor, waved hiskey in front of the lock, and pushed open the door. He glanced toward his neatly made bed. A few hours of sleep would be nice, but he was too jazzed, too optimistic to sleep, so he opted for a shower instead. He stripped and turned on the hot water. As the room steamed, he hesitated, raising his forearm to his nose. The scent of Margo still clung to him, and he wasn’t keen to wash it off.

“Get a grip,” he muttered and stepped into the shower. He buried his face in the hot spray, savoring the heat, willing it to give him more energy. Finally, he shut off the tap, toweled off, shaved, and dressed in suit pants and a clean shirt. He made a strong cup of coffee on the little one-cup Keurig machine he’d brought with him when he’d moved out of the house. The cup brewed quickly as he flicked on predawn news. Another hot day. Two gang-related shootings. A kid killed.

He sat at a small round table and flipped through the case file to an old picture of Scarlett taken after she was rescued, when she was still in the hospital. Her blond hair hung in oily strands around her pale, gaunt face. The first time he’d seen this picture, he’d felt a punch of regret. She’d been an at-risk kid for most of her life, and she’d been ripe for a guy like Tanner. And he’d spoken to Tanner and missed it all.

Scarlett’s medical file detailed the horrors: scars from repeated whippings, vaginal tearing, malnutrition, and a hairline fracture on her right wrist.

Many in the press called her lucky, but this kind of abuse created a damage so deep it never really healed. The Scarlett who’d been snatched died spiritually, and what had been rehabbed and released from the hospital after her rescue might have Scarlett’s DNA, but that was about it.

The Scarlett he’d seen yesterday was reserved to the point of cold. If she had any emotions or feelings about Tanner, Sandra, or Tiffany, they were buried under ice so thick, no amount of sun or heat would ever fully melt it.

Hers was a common reaction to assault. The reserve was a form of protection. He found it slightly unnerving, but he didn’t blame her.

But he did fault Scarlett Crosby for lying, and she was lying to him now. Despite her nonreactions to his questions, he could tell she knew, or at least suspected she knew, more about the other girl in Tanner’s house.

He shifted his attention to Sandra’s file and cross-checked for similarities to Scarlett. Both had known Tanner. Same age, similar appearance, lived within three miles of each other, and they went to the same high school.

The crimes against the two girls hadn’t initially been connected ten years ago because there’d been significant delays with the filing of their missing persons reports. After Scarlett’s rescue, he’d tried to reopen Sandra’s investigation, but by then he was on administrative leave.

He opened his laptop and searched for East Norfolk High School. The yearbooks for the last twenty years had been digitized and put online, making it easy to find the 2013–2014 school year and Sandra Taylor. She’d been a junior. Her smile was bright and wide and her eyes were vibrant blue and wary. She’d been in the social service system since she was twelve and had been in six homes in four years. Many kids had clubs or activities listed under their names, but she had nothing.

As he stared at Sandra’s face, he thought about the nearly mummified corpse now lying at the medical examiner’s office.

He scrolled back through the years and found Scarlett Crosby’s picture in the freshman class. Like Sandra, she’d been a fresh face. Written under her name wasArt Club.

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