Page 85 of Closer Than You Know

Vera watched Eric drive away.

It hadn’t been easy to coax him into leaving, but she’d managed. As soon as they’d arrived, despite the fact that a deputy was watching her house, Eric had insisted on coming inside and searching the place for any hidden intruders. Didn’t matter that her security system had still been armed and every window in the house was screwed shut.

The only reason Bent hadn’t been waiting for her return was because she’d called him on the drive back and filled him in on the meeting and because he had another press conference scheduled at three. He’d wanted her to come to him, but she’d complained that she was far too exhausted. He probably saw right through that story like peering through a screen door. But he’d let it go. He had his hands full—even more so now.

Bent had downloaded a recent photo of Patrick Solomon—who looked eerily like his grandfather had when he was young—and was issuing a BOLO. He would release the photo in his press conference.

On the drive home, Eric had set up a three-way call on his cell phone with Will and Alcott to inform them about Solomon’s latest confession. Alcott was sending an agent familiar with the case to Nashville to be near Palmer Solomon in the event some sort of intervention wasneeded. He was also contacting someone in London to make an official notification to Patrick’s mother, Pamela, since she refused his calls. She, as well as Christopher, would be under close surveillance. During the same call, Vera had confronted Alcott about Solomon’s claim that he had warned the agent about potential danger to Vera. Alcott had insisted that, at the time, he’d felt certain Solomon was only jockeying for a meeting with Vera one last time before he died.

Vera wasn’t entirely sure she believed Alcott, but it was irrelevant now. There was no time for raising hell. She had a mission that couldn’t wait. Solomon had said his grandson had left a gift—a secret message—somewhere in the house for her. She intended to find it ASAP. If there was any possibility that it could help lead her to Eve, she had to find it. Then she was going to find him.

She went to her bedroom first. It was the most likely place, if he’d left something especially for her. Disgust tasted bitter in her mouth. Sometimes she wondered how she had survived this long with so many monsters in her orbit.

She started in her closet. Didn’t take long. She had donated most of her business wardrobe when she sorted through her stuff from Memphis. Nothing unexpected in the closet. Since there was no carpet, just the old hardwood floor and a few throw rugs, she lifted each one and checked beneath them. Under the bed was next. Between the mattress and box springs, and then she tore the bedding off the mattress, removed sheets and pillowcases. The effort proved futile, as far as her search was concerned. But the scent of the man who’d shared this bed with her less than twenty-four hours ago lingered on the sheets ... the unmistakable smell of their lovemaking had her trembling.

Probably hadn’t been the best move she’d made since returning to Fayetteville. Likely wouldn’t be the worst.

Moving on, she searched all pieces of furniture, shelves, and any little niche that might hold an item.

There was nothing new in her room. She exhaled a big, weary breath.

Why should he make it easy?

From there, she picked methodically through the other upstairs rooms. One by one, including the bathroom.

Back downstairs, she shoved her sheets into the washing machine and then executed the same search, moving from one room to the next. Her mother’s library proved the most difficult. There were literally hundreds of books and dozens of photo albums. Hoping for the easier avenue, she started with the albums.

By the time she was halfway through the pile, she’d sunk to the floor and had photo albums spread all around her. Each album was big and thick and loaded with pages and pages of family pictures. Memories sifted through her, making her heart swell.

It was the eighth one she selected that opened to a nine-by-eleven envelope made of stock brown kraft-style paper with a metal clasp. Her name was scrawled across the front. Anticipation buzzed along her nerve endings. The weight of the envelope warned there was something more inside than a single note.

She unfastened the clasp and removed the contents. On top was the expected note. Beneath it were eight-by-ten photos. The images captured there had her eyes widening in surprise and her breath stalling in her lungs.

Her mother ... naked save for a sheet draped over her from her chest down, lying on a mortuary table.The missing funeral home photos.Vera’s shoulders slumped as her entire being seemed to melt into an invisible puddle of muck. These had been missing last summer when she had tried to find them.

Seven months ago, the former county medical examiner had suggested Vera’s mother was murdered by a family member. The very idea was ludicrous. Their mother was in the final days of a horrible battle with cancer. She’d either fallen asleep or gone unconscious while taking a bath and slipped under the water. It happened far too often to those already feeble from illness and then pumped full of pain drugs.

Except—Vera’s fingers felt stiff and icy as she shuffled through the photos—there were bruises just like the ME had said. The placement of the bruises suggested she’d been held down prior to death. The marks were on her shoulders and just above her breasts ... there was even one near her throat. How ...?

Not possible. There had to be another explanation. The photos had been doctored. Something.

Except the images were right in front of her eyes. The photos slightly yellowed by time. Maybe the bruises were made the day before she died, but how and why and by whom?

This was insane ... completely crazy.

How the hell did Solomon’s grandson, a.k.a. the other half of the Messenger, know about these missing photos? Solomon had to have told him all sorts of things about Vera. Things not known until seven months ago.

Fingers trembling, she picked up the note the piece of shit had left.

Dear Vera,

Found these hidden in your sister’s house. I guess she kept them so she could look back and relish her first kill. Did you know?

Cheers,

Your First Mistake

Rage ripped through her. Yes, apparently the Messenger case was her first big mistake. His pointing this out was only to remind her that the crash and burn of the team she’d helped build was not her first career failure ... it was her second.

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