Page 10 of Lost and Found

His eyebrows arched at “us,” but he leaned back. Lines creased his forehead. It had been years, but she recognized his concern from the way he concentrated. “What’s wrong?”

He closed the folder and stared at it thoughtfully. “This is different from anything you’ve dealt with before.”

“Different because it’s my sister? Or because the threats have crossed into real life?”

“Both.” He studied the wall of misery over her shoulder. “Do you have a suspect list?”

“Not even a broad list of names to whittle down.”

“Did the police have one when she was killed?”

Yes and no. Bailey shook her head. “I want to look at it with fresh eyes.”

“Tell me more about Caitie. What’s her full name?”

She liked how he said her name like she mattered, not like a victim to learn about. “Caitie Veronica Flanagan.” Saying her name ached more than it hurt. The pain had changed over the years from sharp and soul-destroying to heavy and a part of life. Bailey had to believe, even after all these years, that the all-consuming weight would lessen once she and her parents had closure.

Wes stayed quiet. He might hate what she’d done to his life, but he was still the compassionate man who could handle a victim’s family with care. Finally, he lifted his chin toward the wall behind Bailey. “That’s her?”

She didn’t have to turn around. The wall of memories, reports, and evidence was burned into her mind.

Wes slowly pushed away from the conference table as if waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t. This was why he was there. He wandered to the bulletin board and studied a picture from Christmas morning.

Bailey joined him at the wall. “Yup. That’s my sister.”

If she’d had any idea that would be their last time at home together, Bailey would have done nothing but sit in jammies with Caitie and watch movies all day, gossiping and munching on homemade sugar cookies. She didn’t do nearly enough of that the last time they were together. “We were both at home for about a week before she was killed.”

He perused the printed newspaper articles. “She was found on New Year’s Day.”

Most came from student papers, as New York City didn’t mourn a single college girl for long, especially without leads or evidence that offered hope. Caitie was just a statistic that reporters wouldn’t spend much time on. He stepped away from the bulletin board. “What happened?”

Bailey returned to the table and shuffled through the pile of folders until she found the one she wanted. “Sorry, I didn’t really organize this to share. I didn’t know you were coming over today.” She found the correct folders. One was filled with pictures, the other with the police report. She opened the easier one first.

“That’s her the night she was killed?” Wes asked.

“Yes.” Bailey flipped through the photos, wanting to choose the best one to introduce him to her younger sister. “Here she is. This is probably the last picture taken of Caitie.” She wore a Happy New Year hat, held a half-full cosmo, and drunkenly grinned into the camera tucked under Ryan’s arm.

Wes narrowed his focus. “That looks like…”

“It is.” Bailey’s dead husband.

His eyebrows knitted as he scrutinized her sister pressed close to Ryan.

Bailey should have explained this before now. “I guess I never told you how Ryan and I met.”

“It never came up.”

She and Wes had spent hours together as coworkers and never shared personal details. How could she explain that this tragedy had also given her something beautiful years later? That was, until another tragedy stole Ryan away.

“He was Caitie’s boyfriend in college.” She met Wes’s emerald eyes and saw no judgment. “We got to know each other in a bereavement group and were friends for years…until it changed.” A platonic friendship that became something more. They hadn’t had fire and passion. They’d had trauma and helped each other learn to get by. That had turned into a solid, stable relationship.

“Is it strange to see them together like this?”

Bailey faltered. That was never what anyone asked. “No, not at all.”

His eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. Her heartbeat thumped in her chest.

“Good,” Wes finally said.