Page 145 of What She Saw
And the town of Dawson got its justice. Eleven months after the music festival, Colton was convicted on four counts of murder.
Despite all the congratulations, Taggart didn’t feel the full weight of the win. He’d never found the women, and for that he felt as if he’d failed.
Taggart had thought Colton would eventually break and tell him—or someone—where he’d buried the women. But as hard as Taggart had pressed Colton in the interrogations, the man had never wavered. He insisted he was innocent, and that Taggart was framing him.
Five years after the trial, Taggart had taken the case file records and made copies of them all. He’d swapped the copies for the real files and hidden the originals in his cabin. He’d hoped time and a new perspective would help him see the case in a new light. But the facts refused to lead to the bodies. In his gut, he knew he had the right man behind bars. But the specter of missing remains taunted him more as he got older.
He’d kept tabs on Sloane Grayson, Patty’s kid. Sara had moved her to Charlottesville and raised her there. He’d never seen her as an infant, and the first time he’d laid eyes on her, she was six. He’d spent an all-nighter reading the Mountain Music Festival files and the profile on Patty Reed. On a whim, he’d gone looking for her kid.
He’d found her on the playground of her elementary school. Her mother’s black hair and angled face made her easy to spot. The kid had been watching a couple of boys teasing another girl. She’d held back, and he’d thought for a moment she was just afraid to confront the older boys. Then she’d picked up a rock, marched toward the boys, and smacked the biggest one. He’d fallen forward. Blood stained the rock, Sloane, and the kid’s shirt when the teachers came running. Sloane, who showed no signs of remorse, had been pulled away. Teachers gathered around the crying boy.
Taggart followed Sloane through her time in school. She was arrested several times for breaking and entering as a minor, and she would’ve ended up in juvenile detention if he’d not spoken privately to the judge. Social workers determined she had sociopathic tendencies. But she wasn’t like her father. Though she didn’t take pleasure from violence, she wasn’t afraid to bend rules to the point of snapping. In his mind, she was a perfect blend of her parents.
It made sense to give her his files. He wasn’t sure if she’d tackle the story, but if he’d had to bet, he’d have put his money on her.
In thick black ink, he scrawled the only note to her: “I couldn’t find the missing women.” Maybe Sloane could.
Chapter Forty-Two
Sloane
Friday, August 22, 2025, 9:30 p.m.
By the time Grant parked in front of the cabin, it was pitch-black on the mountain. The air had cooled, and the wind blew in quick gusts, twisting the leaves and straining branches. A storm was coming. I hoisted my backpack on my shoulder and then slipped on Cody’s leash before we got out of the car. Grant followed.
“I’ll go to the convenience store and grab a couple of pizzas,” he said.
“That would be great. Thank you.” I’d spent the drive processing Colton’s visit and a possible pregnancy. The two thoughts competed for brain space. The pressure in my head was building, and it was hard to concentrate.
Cody peed, sniffed the wind. His tail wagged.
“You okay?” Grant asked.
“I’m fine. Just processing the day.” I met his gaze, feeling I owed him an explanation. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“I get that.” He came toward me and wrapped his arms around me.
I wasn’t sure how to react, but some of the stress tightening my body eased. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know. You’re tough.” He kissed me on top of the head. “See you in an hour.”
“Right.”
“Cody, hop in the car, buddy,” Grant said. The old dog was happy to follow Grant, with whom he seemed to have already bonded. Me he liked, but Grant he adored.
When Grant pulled down the driveway, I was glad no one was at the cabin. I needed a little quiet to decompress. Lightning streaked across a dark, starless sky.
I pushed through the front door, locked it. My body ached and my head pounded. My stomach grumbled. I lowered my backpack on the kitchen table.
Outside, thunder rumbled.
I stripped and turned on the hot spray of the shower. Stepping under the water, I imagined Colton’s grin, the sounds of prison doors slamming shut, memories of Patty, and worries of a baby. They all washed off my body and down the drain. The hot water petered out, so I shut off the tap and grabbed a towel. I dried off and combed out my damp hair. I padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a carton of eggs, a few apples, and bread. I grabbed the bread and fished a couple of slices out of the sleeve. I took a bite.
I glanced at my phone. No Wi-Fi. And data was stretched too thin for a signal.
There was no way of knowing if Susan was still in Northern Virginia. She’d spent thirty-one years hiding and building a lifetime of habits to protect her identity. And now she was on the move? Would she come to Dawson, or vanish into the wind?
I pushed my thumb into the softened bread. Using the landline, I called Grant, knowing he had service at the bottom of the mountain. “Did the medical examiner inspect Brian Fletcher’s body?”
