Page 133 of What She Saw
There’d been chaos at his other events, but no missing girls had been reported.
“I can see how a guy would be attracted to Patty. She’s a looker,” Taggart said. “If I were a younger man, I’d go after someone like her.”
Colton’s voice was gravel. “Like I said, I didn’t have time for her.”
“Because of the band dramas and the festival.”
“Yeah. That kind of event isn’t easy to pull off.”
“And you think you did a good job with the festival?”
“Not my finest work. It got out of hand. I admit that. But I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I talked to Patty’s mother today.” Sometimes painting a victim as a real person worked in interviews like this. “Patty’s baby won’t stop crying. She wants her mother.”
His face remained stoic. “Man, what do you want from me? I don’t know what happened to Patty. And I sure wanted nothing to do with that kid.”
“Where are they?” Taggart asked. “Where are the girls?”
“You don’t know?” Confusion turned to amusement. “You keep acting like you got all the cards.”
“I have a lot of cards.”
Colton sat back, his grin returning. “But you don’t have the bodies. Which means you don’t have shit.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sloane
Thursday, August 21, 2025, 1:00 p.m.
As Grant confirmed final details of my appointment with Colton, I drove out to Brian Fletcher’s house. I wasn’t sure if Susan had called to warn him that their thirty-one years of lies were unraveling. But I was hoping to catch him off guard and willing to talk.
I rang the bell, and when he didn’t answer, I went straight for the privacy fence gate. The dog trotted across the backyard toward me, wagging his tail. I pulled a dog treat from my pocket and fed it to him. I rubbed him between the ears, and he followed me, barking as we made our way to the back door. I knocked on the sliding door. As tempting as it was to break into the house, I decided to wait. Brian Fletcher wouldn’t be thrilled with me, and I didn’t need to find myself at the wrong end of a gun.
I knocked again.
The dog nuzzled my hand. I gave him another treat. When Fletcher didn’t appear, I slid the door open a few inches. “Mr. Fletcher? It’s Sloane Grayson.”
The air conditioner hummed, but the house had an unsettling stillness. “Mr. Fletcher?”
I tossed a couple of treats on the deck, and when the dog turned to eat them, I slipped inside and closed the door behind me. The kitchen was cleaned, the counters wiped, a coffee mug in the dish drainer. An open bottle of Jack Daniel’s rested in the center of the counter. No glass. He’d been drinking straight from the bottle.
“Mr. Fletcher.”
I glanced at the pictures on the wall. The pictures with Susan were gone. Left behind were the faint impressions of the frames.
The dog barked. He was at the sliding door, pawing at the glass. I turned from the door and walked down the center hallway. As I moved toward what looked like an office, I caught a sick, sweet scent.
When I’d found my grandmother’s body, she’d been dead a couple of hours. She’d died in her recliner. The television was still blaring cable news. Later, I learned she’d died of a heart attack. The smell had been the same, and after she’d been taken away, I remembered getting a lungful of it when I dragged the recliner outside to the curb.
I wasn’t repelled or nervous but curious as I edged open the office door. The lights were off, and Mr. Fletcher’s office chair was swiveled away from the door. His right hand draped over the side, and on the floor was a handgun. I looked around the room and saw no sign of the missing pictures.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
Silence mingled with the hum of the air conditioner.
I moved toward the desk with some caution. The less I disturbed, the better. The wall facing him was splattered with blood.
