Page 118 of Another Girl Lost

“No.”

“We’re playing games now, aren’t we, Scarlett? Looks like you’re going to make me work for it. Okay. I like games.”

He was square jawed and determined.

“Is there a point to this conversation?”

“You know we still have your DNA on file, right?” he said.

“I’m sure you do.”

“The medical examiner pulled hair fibers from a Jane Doe, and when it’s tested, are we going to get a match to yours?”

“DNA pulled from Sandra’s body must be old and degraded. Testing it will take time. Is this a fishing expedition, Detective?” I asked.

He studied me a long moment, tired eyes sharpening the longer they held my gaze. “Tiffany Patterson’s body was found in the trunk of her car.”

The news smacked into me. I glanced at the tall glass window, up toward the half-moon. An unsettled feeling rooted in my belly. This moment held echoes of the day Tanner’s van doors slammed behind me. I knew I was screwed but didn’t know how deep I would fall into hell.

“How?” I didn’t recognize my rusty voice.

“We’re still waiting on that. But I can promise you that DNA pulled from her body is fresh and easy to test.”

“I just told you she was here today. I hugged her before I left her.”

“You’re saying your DNA is on her body?” Margo asked.

I glanced at her. “Am I under arrest?”

“No,” Dawson said. “Not yet.”

“Until I am, leave the premises.”

“We’re going to be talking again soon, Scarlett,” Dawson said.

He opened the doors, and Margo followed, leaving me standing in the center of the warehouse. A warm breeze blew through the open front doors. I moved toward them, slammed them closed, and flipped all the locks.

Chapter Thirty-Four

SCARLETT

Wednesday, July 17, 2024

11:45 p.m.

I looked up at Margo’s apartment. It was dark.

Dawson’s reactions had been expected, but I’d not been able to get a read on Margo. I couldn’t tell whether she was on Dawson’s side or mine.

As soon as they left, I retreated to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot spray splashed the small stall. I quickly stepped in, hoping to wash away thoughts of Tiffany standing lost and alone by her car. I’d waited until she’d started her engine and watched her drive off. I’d thought I’d see her again. I had thought maybe this time I’d helped. But maybe I’d delivered her to her killer.

I dried off, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and walked toward the painting of Della. Tiffany had said she’d not listened to conversations in the diner, but I didn’t believe her. I’d bet money she’d heard or seen something that years of drug use had buried. A girlfriend accomplice or a reincarnated Della could have a lot to lose.

I stared at the delicate brushstrokes of the face that had stalked me for a decade. I covered it again, lifted it, and after slipping on flip-flops,carried it outside. With it propped against my leg, I locked the warehouse and glanced up again at Margo’s darkened apartment window.

I carried the painting across the four-lane road, pausing midway as I waited for the light. When I reached her building, I pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah,” the attendant said.

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