PPB’s files. He shouldn’t have taken copies of the files either, but when he retired and the case remained unsolved, he couldn’t let it rest.
She got out colored pens, sticky notes in various sizes, and colored flags to mark report pages. She added two sizes of notepads, a stapler, and paper clips to the table.
Standing back, she assessed the room. Perfect. Just the way she organized her investigations at work. Her next step would be to post everything she knew about today’s Jane Doe to the board.
She printed out a map of the park and surrounding area, then highlighted nearby residential areas. Multi-unit homes in yellow. Single family homes in orange. On the computer, she panned the map out far enough to include the site where the girl had been found in the nineties. She printed it and marked the addresses on both maps. She tacked them up and studied them.
On the surface, no correlation appeared for the two locations. They weren’t even on the same side of town. The first burial site had been a vacant lot in an undeveloped area of town that now held an apartment complex.
So what did the two locations have in common? Had Van Gogh lived near the first site in the nineties and moved nearer the current burial site during that time? Or had he, in both cases, simply searched for an isolated location to dump the bodies?
She needed a more detailed map of the area surrounding today’s discovery to draw any kind of working hypothesis. She headed back to her computer, and her phone rang on the table. The sound startled her and sent her heart rate soaring.
Was it Connor? Had they found another body?
She quickly grabbed her phone and eyed the screen. Elise, her foster mother.
Okay, good. Not another body. Likely a foster kid in trouble.
Becca sighed out a breath.
“Since when has a foster kid in trouble become something to take lightly,” she mumbled as she decided if she would answer.
She wanted to help this kid, whoever it might be—she’d never said no to kids in trouble—but tonight was different. Tonight, she was dealing with Van Gogh, and she didn’t have the emotional strength left to talk about another suffering child.
Before she could make a decision, the call went to voicemail. Fine. Decision made for her. She went back to work, printed out the new map and highlighted it, then hung it on her wall. Her phone rang again.
The same jolt of adrenaline shot through her, abating only when she spotted Elise’s name again. Elise had been the one who had taken Becca in after her name change. She’d been told about Van Gogh and the danger that could follow Becca. Still, she’d said yes, and it was her tender care that had kept Becca sane. Becca couldn’t continue to ignore Elise, no matter what was going on in her own life.
“Elise,” Becca answered but kept her gaze on the map in hopes of finding the clue she was missing.
“I need you.” Elise’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I’m at the ER.”
“Are you hurt? Sick?” Please don’t say you’re dying. Please.
“It’s not me, it’s Frankie.”
Frankie. A sweet teen and one of Elise’s current foster kids.
“She’s dead, murdered, and it’s all my fault.” The words came out on a choked sob.
Van Gogh. Had he found out Becca had lived with Elise? Was he punishing Becca for running from him by going after one of Elise’s girls?
“How?” Becca held her breath for the answer.
“That’s why I need to see you. Please come. Hurry. Before it happens to another one of my precious kids.”
The line went dead, and a grim certainty settled over Becca. Van Gogh had struck and once again, it was close to home.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS ONLY TEN P.M. and Connor was dog-tired. Despite the time, he should be falling into bed instead of pulling up to Becca’s apartment, but there was no point in turning in yet. All he’d see when he closed his eyes would be the faces of murdered girls. Jane Doe number one, her face nearly decimated by
She got out colored pens, sticky notes in various sizes, and colored flags to mark report pages. She added two sizes of notepads, a stapler, and paper clips to the table.
Standing back, she assessed the room. Perfect. Just the way she organized her investigations at work. Her next step would be to post everything she knew about today’s Jane Doe to the board.
She printed out a map of the park and surrounding area, then highlighted nearby residential areas. Multi-unit homes in yellow. Single family homes in orange. On the computer, she panned the map out far enough to include the site where the girl had been found in the nineties. She printed it and marked the addresses on both maps. She tacked them up and studied them.
On the surface, no correlation appeared for the two locations. They weren’t even on the same side of town. The first burial site had been a vacant lot in an undeveloped area of town that now held an apartment complex.
So what did the two locations have in common? Had Van Gogh lived near the first site in the nineties and moved nearer the current burial site during that time? Or had he, in both cases, simply searched for an isolated location to dump the bodies?
She needed a more detailed map of the area surrounding today’s discovery to draw any kind of working hypothesis. She headed back to her computer, and her phone rang on the table. The sound startled her and sent her heart rate soaring.
Was it Connor? Had they found another body?
She quickly grabbed her phone and eyed the screen. Elise, her foster mother.
Okay, good. Not another body. Likely a foster kid in trouble.
Becca sighed out a breath.
“Since when has a foster kid in trouble become something to take lightly,” she mumbled as she decided if she would answer.
She wanted to help this kid, whoever it might be—she’d never said no to kids in trouble—but tonight was different. Tonight, she was dealing with Van Gogh, and she didn’t have the emotional strength left to talk about another suffering child.
Before she could make a decision, the call went to voicemail. Fine. Decision made for her. She went back to work, printed out the new map and highlighted it, then hung it on her wall. Her phone rang again.
The same jolt of adrenaline shot through her, abating only when she spotted Elise’s name again. Elise had been the one who had taken Becca in after her name change. She’d been told about Van Gogh and the danger that could follow Becca. Still, she’d said yes, and it was her tender care that had kept Becca sane. Becca couldn’t continue to ignore Elise, no matter what was going on in her own life.
“Elise,” Becca answered but kept her gaze on the map in hopes of finding the clue she was missing.
“I need you.” Elise’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I’m at the ER.”
“Are you hurt? Sick?” Please don’t say you’re dying. Please.
“It’s not me, it’s Frankie.”
Frankie. A sweet teen and one of Elise’s current foster kids.
“She’s dead, murdered, and it’s all my fault.” The words came out on a choked sob.
Van Gogh. Had he found out Becca had lived with Elise? Was he punishing Becca for running from him by going after one of Elise’s girls?
“How?” Becca held her breath for the answer.
“That’s why I need to see you. Please come. Hurry. Before it happens to another one of my precious kids.”
The line went dead, and a grim certainty settled over Becca. Van Gogh had struck and once again, it was close to home.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS ONLY TEN P.M. and Connor was dog-tired. Despite the time, he should be falling into bed instead of pulling up to Becca’s apartment, but there was no point in turning in yet. All he’d see when he closed his eyes would be the faces of murdered girls. Jane Doe number one, her face nearly decimated by
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