Page 32 of One Night Years Ago

Not that Lorraine was able to help much, her hands were tied until somebody higher up admitted they had a serial killer on their hands. But at least she believed Natalie and was trying to help Sharp’s Cove.

Every night, Natalie went to sleep hoping the next day would bring a breakthrough in the case. She longed for a good night’s sleep, but they were few and far between now. Most days, she woke up after a couple hours in bed, drenched in sweat and thinking she was back in the alley. Lanie was there too. In the dream, she and Natalie were the same age. When the tall, broad-shouldered stranger appeared, his face hidden behind a hoodie, Natalie felt paralyzed by fear. She stood by and watched, doing nothing, while the stranger took Lanie away. It’d gotten so bad, Natalie was afraid of going to sleep, which only made her feel less alert during the day.

On Thursday evening Natalie walked into her house after work. She took off her comfortable Oxford shoes and dropped her handbag by the entrance, placing her handgun and belt in the locked drawer she kept for that purpose. She’d only just made it into the kitchen when her phone rang.

“Bowmann,”

“Nat, it’s Emma.”

“Em, is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course. I’m just wondering if we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

“Oh, Em, I’m sorry, I forgot. I’ve had so much on my mind, I—”

“It’s okay, I understand. Why don’t Helen, Barbara, and I bring over some Chinese? We can eat in front of the TV.”

Natalie felt her stomach rumble. She was actually starving, but she was too tired to see people. And perhaps a part of her didn’t think she deserved to sit around watching TV with friends while Lanie’s killer was out there.

“I’m sorry, tonight’s just not a good time. Maybe on Saturday?”

Emma sighed softly on the phone.

“We’re just worried about you, Nat.”

“Saturday for sure,” Natalie promised.

“Okay, we’ll hold you to that.”

Natalie hung up the phone. She wasn’t a very good friend at the moment.

Natalie went back to the living room and took a folder out of her bag. Her hand hesitated on the cover. She poured herself a glass of alcohol-free red wine, filling it much higher than a restaurant would. She wouldn’t be getting six glasses out of this particular bottle. She swirled it around in her hand for a moment, opening the folder with her other hand.

Even though Natalie had been present at Lanie’s crime scene, even though she’d been the one to take the pictures, every time she saw the pictures she discovered some new devastating detail, another little sign of Lanie as a young woman and of the life that had been so cruelly snuffed out.

Natalie placed the glass carefully on the table. The urge to take a sip had passed.

She looked at the off-centered bite on Lanie’s left breast. There was no doubt in her mind that the person who raped her was the same person who raped and killed Lanie.

Something to remember him by.

Where do those words come from? Did he say that to me?

Natalie fished in her handbag for a pen and wrote it down quickly on the back of one of the photographs to make sure she remembered it.

She noticed Lanie’s nails. They were perfectly manicured. She wondered if she’d had it done at the salon for some special occasion or if she and her friends did it for each other. She made a mental note to ask Lanie’s friends. The manicure was perfect. Not a single broken nail. That matched Dr. Ford’s report, there’d been nothing under Lanie’s nails.

It wasn’t enough evidence, but Natalie felt the killer was known to Lanie.

That’s why you didn’t fight him at first. And then it was too late.

She noticed the ligature marks on Lanie’s wrists. She’d been secured somewhere, probably for as long as an hour, Dr. Ford said.

Where did you take her? And why didn’t you keep her there longer? Were you interrupted?

Natalie stopped. If she kept asking these questions now, she’d never get any sleep.

She heard a noise beyond the living room. Someone or something was outside her porch. A shiver ran through her.