Page 13 of What She Saw
“Good start. He had a ringside seat at the festival, during the investigation, and at the trial,” Grant said.
“Hoping it shakes loose a different perspective.”
I tried to picture Grant. He’d said he had an office in a historic brick building in downtown Charlottesville. But he’d never quite explained what he did beyond collecting a retirement check.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to get his attention.”
“Attention-getting is my superpower.”
“Be careful,” he warned. “Don’t assume everyone will be thrilled about you digging into a case marked ‘closed.’”
“I’ll tread lightly. How did your meeting with Colton go?”
“As all the others. He’s charming. Loves the attention. Offers no answers.”
“His parole board meeting is still a go?”
“It is.”
“What do you think are his chances of getting out?”
“Better than fifty-fifty. Unless you find those bodies.”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
I ended the call and returned to the front porch. Tree branches rustled. A creature darted through the woods. An owl hooted. The darkness was restless. I thought back to our night at the conference and tried to define how I’d felt. He’d been exciting. I’d enjoyed his company. Yet when we went our separate ways, I didn’t miss a beat.
I felt basic emotions such as sadness, anger, and sometimes happiness. But my feelings hovered near the low end of any emotional scale. I knew more intense feelings existed, but I couldn’t grasp them.
Sometimes my limited emotional bandwidth was a gift. And sometimes it wasn’t. Unprocessed feelings created tension in my body that sooner or later needed an outlet. At times like that, my muscles cramped. Deep, watery breaths tightened my chest, and I felt as if I were drowning.
When I was working on a Susie Malone–type article, negative physical side effects were common. Headaches, stomach pains, pressure in my chest.
I let off steam by driving too fast on the interstate at night, breaking and entering, or having sex.
I reentered the house, locked the front door, and returned to my makeshift desk. A glance at my phone revealed no bars. If I wanted to talk on the phone, it would have to be the landline.
I’d seen many shady places since I’d decided freelance writing suited my unwillingness to hold a regular job. I worked all the time. I could take a day off, but I rarely did. Work was my therapy. My way of dealing with all the crap that had been shadowing me since I was a kid.
I sat in the recliner that must have been Taggart’s. The cracked leather smelled of lemon, and I could imagine Bailey spritzing it with Febreze to mask any musty scent. The wear patterns on the arms told me the old sheriff had pushed his hands back and forth as he ruminated on the past. Was he pleased or haunted when he looked back?
I glanced at the collection of ten VHS tapes on the boxy television. Westerns. Clint Eastwood.
I hoped Taggart’s cabin was haunted. I hoped he understood that, despite an arrest and conviction, the families had no resolution. Four women had vanished on the night of May 20, 1994. Though everyone believed the women were dead, I needed to find them.
Thunder cracked and lightning flashed across the sky outside, pulling me from my thoughts. Drawing in a breath, I rubbed my hands over the worn leather.
I wanted to dig into Taggart’s mind and follow in his steps. But he was dead. So I’d make do with the new sheriff, the victims’ families, and the few remaining witnesses. There were missing pieces to this case. And I would find them. I would fill in the blank spaces and find the victims’ bodies.
Neither the answers nor the bones would transform me into a normal woman able to grieve the loss of her mother, who’d been one of the victims. But it was a step in the right direction.
Chapter Five
CJ Taggart
