Page 45 of Our Daughter's Bones
The numbers 916 were scribbled at the bottom of the entry. Mackenzie trailed her fingers over the blue ink.916 again, like the locker door.She closed the diary with a thud. She was beginning to believe that a teenager’s mind was more complex than quantum physics. Every time she tried to paint a picture of Abby Correia, she imagined a different girl. Sometimes she was a brat—an ambitious young woman filled with pride over her intelligence and abilities, hardened by her harsh realities—and sometimes she was soft—a girl who craved normalcy, acceptance, even attention.
She was distracted by the sound of Troy repeatedly bouncing a rubber ball against the wall. “Are you doing that to annoy me?”
“No, it helps me focus,” he replied nonchalantly.
“It isn’t helping me focus, though.”
“You should listen to some music then.”
“That doesn’t help either. Increases my dopamine levels,” she muttered, her eyes widening at the messy state of her desk. She had received the Perez case files but was yet to organize everything. Seeing the scattered and overflowing stacks of files, her pulse beat faster.
She was in her old kitchen. Standing by her father’s corpse. Her harsh breathing echoed loudly in her ears. She couldn’t peel her eyes away from him, from the violence. She looked up, and everyone she knew stood before her.
Sterling. Nick. Sully. Troy. Becky. Justin. Jenna. Clint. Peck. Finn. Ned. Dennis. Anthony.
They didn’t look at the body on the floor; they watched her. Like she was a monster. Like she was evil. Like she was their biggest shame and disappointment all at once. It was then she felt the weight in her hand. Confused, she looked down, and her breath hitched.Sheheld the dented pan matted in blood and clumps of hair. Her mother wasn’t there at all. A sickening realization made her throat close.
I did this. Look at me. Look what I am. Look what I did.
“Tough. This is how I prepare for interrogation. Got a lawyered-up black widow coming over in an hour.”
But Mackenzie wasn’t listening. She plummeted into a frenzy and began stacking up the papers and arranging them in the correct folders. She knew Troy’s eyes were trained on her back. But all she could focus on was how the knot in her chest loosened with every bit of progress she made. She pulled out Lysol and wiped her desk and chair clean.
“Mad Mack. Such a perfectionist.” Troy wheeled next to her. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she said with a fake smile, and opened Clint’s email on her laptop. There were no retailers that had the name “ER.” But there were three retailers in the States who used similar logos with the club suit. He had found three branches in Washington. “Club Suits” in Seattle had two club cards overlapping. “Glamor” in Lakemore had an inverted club in the logo. Then there was a boutique called “Picardo’s” in Tacoma with a simple club card as the logo. None featured the letters “ER.”
Mackenzie bit the pad of her thumb. At least the logo was distinctive enough to narrow down the brands. But they still hadn’t gotten the exact match. She went on their respective websites. Glamorin Lakemore had shut down two years ago. Club Suitswas still open; she scoured over their online shop but none of their clothes had the single club card with “ER” etched inside. Picardo’s was a small boutique with a poorly maintained website. They had no samples online. But something caught her eye—they offered to add monograms to the labels to personalize clothes for their customers.
“ER” could be the man’s initials. If those initials were removed, the logo was a perfect match. She quickly jotted down the address and hours of the boutique. It was a thirty-minute drive away.
She sighed in relief. There was a lead. The problem was that there was no way to predictwhenthe jacket was bought. There was also a big fat chance that the jacket had been bought outside of Washington. But her quick search of the website told her that Picardo’swas a family-run, small-scale boutique with only one store.
Nick walked in and caught Troy’s ball. “Playtime’s over.”
“Come on!” Troy whined.
But Nick scoffed and didn’t return the ball. “Need to focus, Clayton.”
“Listen to music!”
“It increases my dopamine.” He dropped onto his chair and loosened his tie. “Also, Murphy’s looking for you. He wants to sit in on your interview.”
“What?!” Troy groaned. “I will die of old age before that guy decides to retire.”
Grumbling profanities, he left them alone in the office.
Mackenzie pointedly showed Nick her back as she read the initial statements recorded by Bruce a year ago. She felt his gaze boring into her. There were faint murmurs of people talking and moving outside the office door—a low hum of activity. But still, the tension could be cut with a knife.
Straightening her shoulders, she spun on her chair to find him facing her. “We need to talk.”
He raised an eyebrow and waited.
“We have to work together, so we have to be able to communicate properly.”
“Agreed.” He narrowed his eyes.
“Nothing has changed between us.” Her voice almost broke. “We aren’t friends anymore. But we can have an efficient working relationship.”
