Page 106 of What She Saw
“When you go to the prison, I’ll be with you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll need the backup.”
“I won’t.”
His smile broadened. “I’ll be in touch with the exact time.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sloane
Tuesday, August 19, 2025, 11:00 p.m.
I couldn’t sleep. I’d lain down about an hour ago and done nothing but toss and turn as the wind rustled through the trees. An owl hooted.
My tolerance for staring at ceilings was low. The more I willed sleep, the more elusive it became. I tossed back the covers and tugged on my T-shirt and jeans. I moved into the kitchen. Instead of putting a coffeepot on, I grabbed a ginger ale from the refrigerator.
Images of Fletcher’s family picture wall kept returning to me. It resembled a shrine more than a memory wall. But snapshots didn’t always tell the truth. Anyone could smile for a second or two and create the impression of happiness. I’d smiled for Sara whenever she pulled out her camera, which wasn’t often. The muscles in my face had strained as I said “Cheese” and counted the seconds until I heard the camera’s click.
Brian Fletcher had waited until after the press conference to report his daughter’s disappearance. I popped the top on the soda and sipped as I moved to the window. I stared into the darkness. “Why did you wait?”
Cradling the can, I snatched a packet of luncheon meats from the refrigerator and my keys. At the Jeep, I dumped my backpack in the front seat. I grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and searched underthe wheel wells and bumpers. I found a tracker under the right rear bumper. “Grant, don’t you trust me?”
I pocketed the tracker. Engine started, I drove down the mountain as my headlights cut through the inky darkness. Gravel kicked under the tires as I skirted curves too fast. When I reached the bottom of the hill, I slowed at the stop sign but didn’t stop rolling.
The drive to the Fletcher house took thirty minutes. When I pulled into the quiet suburban neighborhood, I cut my headlights. I wasn’t the only night owl in this world, and I’d found in suburbia that when someone saw my headlights, they often called the cops. The Fletcher house was dark when I drove past it and around the corner. I parked across from a small park and retraced my steps back to the Fletcher house on foot.
I slipped through the gate and up to the sliding glass door. There were no signs indicating a security system, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. I tried the back door and discovered it was open. No security system beeped a warning. Why didn’t everyone have an alarm and lock their doors?
Inside, I pushed past gauzy curtains and into the cool air-conditioned den. Using the light from the moon, I crossed to the wall of family photos. There were plenty of images of Tristan as a young teenager. And a few looked as if they’d been taken right before she’d vanished. She had a brilliant smile and an almost angelic face.
The years after her disappearance were stark. Dad, Mom, and little sister were all more sober and stiff. And then it was Dad and little sister. No more family vacations, no big smiles that touched the eyes. This progression was normal. The loss of a child and parent gutted families.
And then about twenty years ago, images of the sister appeared with another woman. She was blond, petite, and fit. I thought perhaps it was a life partner but discarded the thought. Both women had long, thin noses, high cheekbones, and square jaws. A cousin maybe?
I snapped several pictures of the sister and the other woman. I removed the picture from the wall and studied the second woman’sface. She and Tristan had to be closely related. I flipped it over. It read “Lannie and Susan, 2010.”
Paws padded down the hallway. Worried the dog would bark, I quickly removed the luncheon meat from my pocket and walked toward him.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered.
He wagged his tail. Most people thought a dog was protection, but domestic dogs had accepted humans since the caveman days. This fellow was no different. I tore up the meat and laid it out in a line on the kitchen floor. It would buy me enough time to leave the house.
I slipped out the back door as the dog gobbled. I closed the door and crossed the backyard. The back fence squeaked, and as I closed the latch, a light in the upstairs bedroom clicked on. I wasn’t the only light sleeper.
I moved down the driveway and street as if I had every right to be there. I wasn’t sneaking around or up to trouble. I belonged here. Most people accepted almost anything I did, as long as I projected authority.
In my Jeep near the park, I didn’t study the images, because the longer I lingered, the greater my chance of being noticed. Headlights clicked on behind me. A glance in the rearview mirror told me it was a truck, but I couldn’t see the driver.
I didn’t panic but drove back toward Dawson, maintaining the speed limit. The second driver remained within fifty feet of me the entire time. It was almost 2:00 a.m. when I pulled into the Depot’s parking lot.
I waited in my car scrolling on my phone until Callie turned on the restaurant lights and began setting up for breakfast customers. Minutes before 5:00, she flipped the sign from closed to open.
I shut off my engine and retrieved my gun from my glove box. Instead of hurrying inside, I walked back toward the truck behind me. I was more curious than worried.
Grant sat behind the wheel as if all this were normal. He almost looked amused.
