Page 12 of Her Wild Coast Promise

Sometimes this means a victim had a history of food insecurity, such as with homelessness or severe poverty. It’s just one more sign that this girl was already so vulnerable. It probably hadn’t taken much to get her turning tricks. Did the drug use come later, as a way to cope with the horrors of her situation? Or had she already turned to using to quiet the demons she was already fighting?

“I’ve saved the best for last. DNA that matches Terrilynn Silva’s body.”

“But not Floris Van der Hoff’s,” I say, mostly to myself.

“No.”

I thank the coroner, but before I can end the call, he adds, “One more thing, and I have to say, it’s odd, and possibly controversial.”

“Go ahead,” I say, checking my watch.

“I found trace ink on her right palm. It’s a phone number.”

“Like she drew it there?”

“Exactly. With a ball point pen. It was nearly washed away by the saltwater and her perspiration, but, deputy, the number is your work line.”

“Um, what?”

“I ran the test twice to be sure. The victim had your work phone number written on the flesh of her palm.”

“Why would she have my number?”

“You’re the detective,” Dr. Caldwell replies.

I thank him and we end the call.

With a deep breath, I try to sort through what I’ve learned. Was Jane Doe trying to reach me? Or did her killer put it there on purpose, like a personal message?

This doesn’t get me any closer to her ID, but her link to Terrilynn via the DNA evidence at least narrows our search, even though it paints a grim picture: two teenaged girls strongly suspected to be engaged in sex work are now dead.

Fuck.

Do I have a serial killer on my hands?

Halfway to Sheriff Kauffman’s office I remember he’s not here, and the next time he makes an appearance, it’ll be to clean out his desk. Kayla told me his surgery is so urgent they’ve squeezed him into the schedule for Tuesday. And though Kayla didn’t tell me to leave him alone, it’s what he needs to have a stress-free recovery, and that’s what I plan to do.

That means it’s up to me to lead the department. No more taking orders. I’m now—at least temporarily—the one giving them.

I fight the heavy weight of this new responsibility. How am I supposed to balance that while taking on this rise in crime? Two young girls and a misguided athlete murdered. Kidnapping. Prostitution. Arson. It’s difficult to think my sleepy little town is under siege, but there is no denying it now.

I spin and return to my desk. But instead of settling into my cubby, I slide on my coat and grab a rover. Driving will help me think, plus I’m meeting with Brian Ambrose to discuss the Soren Creek survey camp fire in an hour. Outside the station, the sky looks like a bruise, and a thick, icy wind is blowing off the ocean. No snow yet, but the forecast predicts an inch overnight.

Once in my SUV, I tap Hunter’s number.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Hunter answers.

I curse. “Would you quit that?”

“Nope.”

I give him the abbreviated version of Dr. Caldwell’s report.

He whistles. “So the same person had sex with both of these girls right before their deaths.”

I accelerate onto the freeway, heading north. “Most likely her killer.”

“What about a John?”

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