Page 10 of Vision of Justice

The victim’s son blew out a long breath. “My sister is a traveling nurse. She’s out of the state right now, but she sometimes stays there in between assignments.” Clayton scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ll need to break the news to her.”

“If you’d like support, that’s something we can do as well.” It wasn’t uncommon for him to provide death notifications to other family members.

“No, no. She should hear it from me.” His wife hugged him around the waist, showing her support.

Examiner Rahimi gave Clayton his contact information and told him he’d share the autopsy results as soon as they were available. They both reiterated their condolences before leaving the couple to grieve. He’d have additional questions for the victim’s son, after he’d done his own research. Clayton Bigelow was a wealthy business owner, which meant nothing, except that he had no financial gain to be made for his mother’s death. Money was a large motivator for murder.

By the time he unlocked the front door of his house, his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. He took his shoes off at the door and strode down the hall toward the kitchen. A low growl sounded to his left where Gilligan was sleeping on a heating pad Jules insisted on leaving out for him. The chihuahua always seemed to be cold despite the late July heat.

“Morning to you too,” he said, walking straight past him. The refrigerator was stocked with bottled water, so he snagged one and went straight to his room. Only when he’d showered and changed into clean clothes did he fall into bed. Two hours of shut-eye, three tops, and he’d be back at the State Police barracks to start his day.

Chapter Seven

Every cell in Sasha’s body leaped at the jarring buzz of the doorbell. Her paintbrush clattered to the floor, slapping phyllo blue against the easel and leaving a smudge against her forearm. She exhaled, picked up the fallen tool, then crossed to the window. Detective Lambert was at her front door, his rigid posture framed by another fitted dress shirt—lemongrass green this time, paired with dark gunmetal pants. The way he’d looked at her the night before, the liquid pull that had warmed through her stomach as they’d sat inside the car, assailed her. He was all man, and not only in his looks. The low roll of his voice, the way he carried himself, did funny things to her insides.

Another night had passed without rest, visions of the worst variety flipping together like an endless deck of cards. Worry for Gus, a man she’d only just met, and her neighbor who had been presumed dead. She rubbed her hands against her thighs and hurried down the stairs, naked feet squeaking over glossed wood. A rush of heavy, humid air infiltrated the foyer as she swung open the door.

“Are you okay? Is my neighbor…” An acidic tang flavored her mouth, and she couldn’t get the word out. Dead.

“May I come inside to talk?” His brows lowered, serious, despite his easy stance. His feet were planted wide on her porch, powerful arms loose at his sides.

“Of course.” She turned her back to him and walked directly into the living room. “Something’s happened to Dorothy, hasn’t it?” She leaned against the arm of the couch, tucking her legs beneath her.

“I’m sorry, Sasha.” Gus took a seat in the adjacent accent chair like he had the first night they met. “Dorothy was attacked. We’re investigating her death as a homicide.”

“Oh.” A breath shook from her lungs, and she covered her mouth with her hand before dropping it to her sternum. Her heart fired in quick pulses beneath her fingertips.

“How did she die?” she whispered as a terrible chill settled beneath her skin.

“Exsanguination. Blood loss after being stabbed. The attack occurred sometime between when we left the gallery and arrived back at your house.” His response was clinical and to the point, but his eyes gave him away. Law enforcement wasn’t a job to him, it was a calling. She had a feeling that no matter how much death Gus had seen, he still thought of the victim as more than a statistic. “I know you said you keep to yourself, but have you noticed anyone new in her life? Maybe she was leaving the house more frequently, or you didn’t see her out as much as you normally did?”

“I’m sorry. There’s such a gap between the houses.” She shook her head, pain lodging itself in the back of her throat. Escape and avoidance had finally caught up to her. It had taken a murder and an abduction mere feet from her home to realize that there were dangers to spending the majority of her time in her head, pretending reality didn’t exist.

“Any strange vehicles parked on your street?” His voice was patient, eyes steady. If she focused on his face, she didn’t feel as though the floor had shattered beneath her.

She searched her memory banks for anything out of the ordinary and came up blank. “No. We’re far from the main road. If anything is off, it’s easy to notice. It’s generally quiet here—well up until right now.” Then the thought struck her, and there was a sickening twist in her gut. “Oh, my God.” She recoiled and flew to her feet, pacing the area in front of the coffee table. “This has something to do with me finding Melissa Fletcher, doesn’t it?” Her voice edged on hysteria, and burning tears blurred her vision.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find whoever did this,” he said with absolute certainty.

“If I had come right home and called the police instead of taking time to search, maybe they could’ve caught the kidnapper and rescued the girl.” The room wavered, leaving her slightly disoriented.

Gus frowned, lips disappearing in a thin line. “Then Melissa Fletcher could be dead. And, that’s assuming Melissa’s abductor also murdered Dorothy Bigelow. We’re not ruling anyone out at this point in the investigation.” His voice was firm, eyes unwavering as he searched her face.

“Do you believe in coincidences?” She held her forearm across her stomach, trying to ease the sea-sick churn in her abdomen.

“No,” he answered immediately, hazel eyes emitting total conviction. “Every homicide we investigate will end in a trial, and it has to be air-tight. Science leads the case, not luck.”

She continued to pace, chewing along her bottom lip. How scared the woman must’ve been.

“You couldn’t have done anything to help her.” His face darkened, looking more severe than she’d ever seen.

“Then why do I feel so damn guilty?” She whirled to face him, hands clutched at her side.

“You’re used to blaming yourself.” There was something in his voice that she couldn’t identify, and he stood slowly.

“What did you say?” She brought her arms back to her waist, feeling like a scared teenager seated in front of two police officers with grim expressions. She could only guess that he’d discovered the story of her past. A quiver of dread speckled to life in her chest, but she shut it down, pushing it back. She was just being paranoid because she wanted to keep her demons secret.

“Sasha, please sit.” He stepped forward and held out a hand to her.

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