Page 77 of Our Daughter's Bones
She took the headphones and connected her phone. The pop rhythm never registered in her brain. As expected, Troy went on an animated rant. It was an occasional ritual. He complained that therapy was too expensive.
Mackenzie felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She was known to go straight for the jugular. But every day for the last two months, she’d let her husband treat her like a doormat.
Flinching, she focused on the journal instead. She flipped through the pages, curious about Abby’s handwriting. It was sloppy and hurried, like she couldn’t wait to articulate what was spilling out of her. All the entries were in blue ballpoint pen and pushed into the paper hard enough to leave ridges on the backside.
She was emotional when she wrote this.
A hand tapped on her shoulder. “Detective Mackenzie Price?”
A tall, lanky man stood with a shoulder bag hanging next to his narrow hips. He was easily in his sixties, but he dressed like a college student—a ratty old sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, and a pen tucked between his ear and temple.
Mackenzie recognized him instantly. His was one of the most notorious faces around town.
“Mr. Vincent Hawkins.”
“Ah, you know me?” He smiled, and lines dug into the sides of his face. The baritone of his voice reverberated in her bones.
“No one is going to talk to you here, Mr. Hawkins.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, please. Call me Vincent.”
Troy shook Vincent’s hand, giddy. “Bigfan. The only journalist with balls.”
“Troy!” she warned.
But Vincent let out a grating laugh. “Thank you! Don’t worry about it, Detective Price. I’m a friendly guy.”
“As I said,Mr.Hawkins, the only thing I can offer you is a tour.”
“I think your computer getting hacked and making your sources public was part of a huge conspiracy!” Troy said. “There’s a whole community on Reddit still supporting you.”
“Didn’t you have to go to the washroom, Troy?”
“What? No.”
“I think you do.”
Troy rolled his eyes before leaving them alone in the office.
“Nice guy.” Hawkins jutted out his thumb behind him. “You don’t seem too happy to see me.”
“I have no information to offer you. I do respect you for calling out the media bias. But I do not appreciate the police slandering.”
“I’ll never apologize for being honest. I’m here because I want to give you some information.”
“What’s that?”
“Every September for the last four years, a young woman has gone missing in Lakemore. No one cared until the third victim, Erica Perez. There is something much bigger happening, Detective Price.”
Forty
Mackenzie’s brain stuttered. It coughed like the grinding engine of an old train. A hen-pecked look crossed her face.
Footsteps scuffled.
A phone vibrated.
Keys clanged.
