Page 68 of The Grave Between Us
He kicked open the front door and rushed inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “FBI! Ian! Come out here, now!”
Nothing, save for the wail of the alarm.
The glass door to the back porch was broken, shattered all over the kitchen floor, and the door to the garage was open, lock picks still stuck into the doorknob. Kitchen cupboards were open, dishes thrown on the ground. The fridge was open, food smashed, milk poured out.
Siting on the kitchen counter was a police scanner, tuned to the emergency channel. It wasn’t something Cole owned, and he knew Noah didn’t have one, either. They didn’t need a police scanner.Cole could hear reports fly back and forth, units responding to his address, responding to the alarm company’s report of a break-in. Buried beneath the noise, he could make out the stern voice of the search team commander.Ian. He’s been listening the whole time. To everything.
Cole swept the corners of each downstairs room, flicking on light switches with the back of his hand.
Every picture they’d had on the wall, all the photos they’d put up of the three of them, or of Noah and Cole, or Noah and Katie, had been thrown down and smashed. The photos of Noah had Noah’s face punched out, like Ian had taken a pencil and run it through Noah’s face. Cole’s stomach churned.
Upstairs, Katie’s room had been trashed, the mattress torn from her bed, her posters ripped down, her desk toppled over. Her makeup was smashed and her vanity destroyed. Eye shadows and blushes were ground into the cream carpet, a rainbow smeared across the floor. Her lipsticks had been shattered under the heel of a boot.
In his and Noah’s bedroom, the dresser had been torn through, Cole and Noah’s clothes thrown in every corner. The bedroom and bathroom mirrors were smashed, and Noah’s toothbrush and comb and razor were in the toilet.
Either he or Noah made their bed each morning. Even if they flung towels around or left piles of dirty shirts on the closet floor, the bed was made, every day.
Ian had stripped off the comforter, and it looked like he’d rolled in their bed, wrapping the sheet around himself as he did. Cole crept closer, peering at the rumpled linens.
Fresh semen stained the fabric, still glistening.
Cole’s pillowcase was gone.
And an orange paper crane sat atop Noah’s pillow.
Cole’s phone rang. The alarm was less intense upstairs, muted through the floor. He roared as he dug it out of his pocket, and he answered without looking at the screen. “What?”
“Agent Kennedy?” The solid, weighty tone of the search team commander’s voice came over the line. “We’ve just removed Mr. Kerrigan’s remains from the grave. There’s something you need to see. Your suspect put something beneath Mr. Kerrigan before he buried him. I’m switching to video.”
Cole fumbled with his phone, accepting the change from voice to video call. Suddenly he was back in the woods, walking with the commander through the fallen leaves and wet dirt. The commander said, “Okay, I’m at the grave now,” and then he squatted down, held the phone out. Gloved hands—the forensic anthropologist’s—were there, moving through what looked like postcards in the bottom of the grave…
Not postcards. Photos. Polaroids.
A hundred Polaroid photos of Noah.
Noah and him, at Oak Haven Meadows. Getting out of the car, walking to the barn. Noah in the front passenger seat of the car, Cole driving him around Des Moines. Noah and him drinking smoothies after Noah’s physical therapy appointment. Noah and him eating dinner at Noah’s favorite restaurant, the night of Katie’s dance. Noah and him walking across the FBI’s parking lot. Him walking across their driveway with his coffee cup, getting into the SUV. Noah at home, taken through the windows: in the kitchen, drying dishes as he smiled toward the kitchen table, where Katie and Cole were sitting together. Sitting on the couch, reading on his iPad. Upstairs in their bedroom, in profile, unbuttoning his shirt, his head turned to the side, grinning—
“Is this the killer’s next target?” the forensic anthropologist asked. His voice was distant, far from the microphone, and his hands kept sifting through the photos. How many days and hours had Ian been there, so close he was inside their lives? Inside their home?
A hundred photos of Noah at the bottom of a grave.
A paper crane on Noah’s pillow.
Cole dropped his phone and screamed.
Chapter Nineteen
Noah flewacross town as soon as Jacob asked, “Hey, boss, the police scanner is reporting a B&E in progress at your address. Know anything about that?”
He arrived along with Sheriff Clarke but behind the West Des Moines police, and behind Director King as well. Crime scene tape was already strung across his porch and over his front door in a giant X. King stood on his front porch, glaring down at his phone.
Noah took the porch steps two at a time. He charged the front door, shouting, “Cole! Cole, where—”
“Downing!” King’s arms wrapped around his waist. He hauled Noah back, dragging him away from the front door before Noah could break through the tape. “You’re not authorized inside! Back off!”
“That’s my house!” Noah snarled. “That’s my fucking house! Get your hands off me!”
“It’s an active crime scene. You can’t go inside. You know that, Downing!” King dragged him down the steps and out to his front lawn.
