Page 10 of Husband Missing

Come on, sweetheart.

Josie narrowed her eyes then grinned triumphantly. She held her palm out, keeping it low in case Shirley turned around.

With a barely suppressed groan, Turner fished a dollar bill out of his jacket pocket and discreetly deposited it into her hand. It was all part of Noah’s behavior modification program. After Turner joined Denton PD, every third word out of his mouth whenever he addressed Josie was either “honey” or “sweetheart” and he insisted on calling Gretchen “Parker” rather than her actual name, Palmer, no matter how many times he was corrected. Now, whenever he screwed up, he owed them a dollar. It worked both ways. Whenever Josie or Gretchen called him a name to his face, they owed him a dollar. They all had jars on their desks like a bunch of damn kindergartners. Josie was certain that she and Gretchen had already collected at least two paychecks’ worth of Turner’s money, whereas his own sad jar only held two or three dollars from the times that Gretchen couldn’t contain herself. Apparently, nothing brought Gretchen more joy than calling Turner a jackass to his face.

Stop being a creep, Josie mouthed at him.

He rolled his eyes, stopping abruptly when Shirley turned to face them. What Josie was sure Turner thought of as a charming smile spread across his face. He offered his hand. “Shirley, always a pleasure to see you, though I wish it were under different circumstances. Detective Kyle Turner.”

To Josie’s surprise, Shirley smiled back and shook his hand, her eyes lingering on his face. “I remember you very well.”

Good lord.

Turner couldn’t resist shooting Josie a wink. Awink. Now her plantar fasciitis had plantar fasciitis. He often claimed that women flirted with him. No one ever believed him. Not that he was unattractive. In his mid-forties, he was actually quite handsome with a full head of dark unruly curls shot through with gray, a neatly trimmed beard, and deep-set blue eyes. He was over six feet, lean, and he always wore a suit like he was headed to court for testimony.

No, it wasn’t his physical appearance that made it impossible for Josie to see his appeal. It was the fact that he was so damn obnoxious.

“I found something on the footage,” Josie announced. “In case you’re interested.”

SEVEN

Turner was watching the video on Shirley’s tablet when the door to the trailer banged open. Cool air poured into the small space, washing over Josie’s sweat-damp skin. For a few seconds, there was nothing beyond the threshold but darkness. Then, Tilly Phelan stepped inside, one of her pale, thin hands gripping the doorframe to pull herself up the last step and inside. Whenever Josie saw her on television, she looked like the wife of a politician. Classy and refined, white hair always twisted into a perfectly styled updo, not a strand out of place. Elegant but modest dresses paired with pearl necklaces and earrings. A serene closed-mouth smile. Tonight, the tip of her nose was bright red. Broken blood vessels mottled the whites of her eyes. Rogue strands of hair framed her face, having escaped her chignon. The buttons on her black and white checkered sweater were fastened unevenly.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she panned the room, taking in Shirley, Josie, and then lingering on Turner. “My daughter,” she croaked.

Josie stood up and edged past Turner and Shirley so she could get out from behind the desk.

“Till,” a man’s voice called from the doorway.

Ignoring it, Tilly stepped closer to them, her steps sure and confident. She regarded the gun at Josie’s waist briefly before dragging her blue eyes back up, frowning. “I know you.”

“Mrs. Phelan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Josie introduced herself, presenting her credentials.

“Till,” the man bellowed from outside.

Tilly Phelan’s fists clenched at her sides. Taking a deep breath, as if to marshal all her patience, she yelled over her shoulder, “Mace! Your father needs help!”

“I can do it myself!” Clint Phelan snapped as he appeared in the doorway, even as two large hands materialized at his lower back, giving him a gentle push up the last step.

The patriarch of the Phelan family was tall. Even with hunched shoulders, he was nearly the same height as Turner. He was dressed as Gina had been, in a flannel shirt and jeans cinched by his signature brass belt buckle with its elaborate patterns of leaves and vines surrounding a polished, oval-shaped stone of varying shades of brown. Josie had seen him on television wearing it with his suits. His hair was thick and silver, luxuriant for a man in his eighties. Tears streamed down his face, forming drops along his chin before falling onto his chest. He made no attempt to wipe them away. Josie wondered if he even realized he was crying.

“Till,” he said, more quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Where is she? Find out where she is. I want to see her. I need to see my girl.”

Tilly was focused on Josie. “I know you.”

Turner drew up beside Josie. “Mr. and Mrs. Phelan,” he said. “Detective Kyle Turner. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He flashed his credentials. Clint didn’t give them a glance. Tilly was still focused on Josie.

Turner nudged Josie’s arm with his elbow. “Everyone knows this one, Mrs. Phelan. She’s a local legend. Isn’t that right, Quinn?”

Josie ignored him. “You’ve probably seen me giving press conferences. Or you’re thinking of my sister, Trinity Payne. She’s got her own show.”

Clint said, “I need to see her. I need to see my Gina.”

“No,” Tilly said to Josie. “It’s you. You were onDateline. Some big case. Lots of big cases, I think.”

Josie nodded, wondering if it was easier for Tilly to focus on something so trivial rather than the reality that she’d just lost a child.

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