Without a Trace Read online

  But she must have seen the confused look on my face as I thanked her and set the card on Lily’s dresser, because she said, “You should check it out. It’s not at all what you think. It could be therapeutic for you. Promise me you’ll at least look at the website?”

  I wanted to say, yes, of course, but I couldn’t lie. “Rachel, our internet here is w-wonky. I’ve g-given up on trying to get it to w-work for a w-while now. But if it ever g-gets straightened out, I will d-definitely look it up.”

  “Your husband’s internet seems to work just fine. I see him posting pics about his realty accomplishments on Facebook and Instagram all the time,” she snapped. She looked red and flustered all of a sudden.

  “He d-does?” This was news to me, but it didn’t really surprise me.

  Rachel grabbed my hand and squeezed it just as I heard Martin’s key turning in the lock. My body instantly tensed up, the way it always did when Martin came through the door. I never knew what to expect as my body jarred in anticipation.

  “It’s not just for knitting,” Rachel breathed, her words quiet as wind whistling through a seashell. Then she said, louder now, “Well, good luck with everything, Nova. If you guys need me in the future, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I nodded, still shaken and nervous for some reason, then I walked over to where Lily was sitting on the floor. She was gnawing on one of her rubber duckies and when I tried to dislodge it from her tiny grasp, she screamed. Scooping her up, I held her to my chest and rocked her forward and back in my arms. Anything to make her stop crying before Martin came in the room. Lily was usually a quiet baby, but now that she was walking and starting to talk some, it was getting harder to control her bursts of emotion. But still, I had better luck managing her emotions than I did managing Martin’s, a full-grown man.

  I could hear him talking to Rachel in the kitchen. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I thought I heard Rachel ask, “Will you help her download this knitting app?” and something about wanting to teach me how to make baby booties and scarves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Neighbor

  CLARA

  Two nights in a row, I visited my dead husband. Insects buzzed in the field surrounding the barn, their chirps and cries either a warning or an accusation.

  Online, I’d read about the four stages of decomposition. Andy was in stage three—active decay. Besides his hair, bones, and some cartilage, most of what used to be my bastard husband was rotting away. The unusually hot weather was speeding up the process, too.

  I couldn’t help thinking about my baby girl, too, lying in the hard, cold ground by the barn, consumed by darkness and bugs. Oh, how she hated the dark … by now, Annie’s body had probably skeletonized. The soft baby fat on her cheeks…and the lips I used to kiss every night were gone.

  “What am I going to do?” I asked, looking at my husband’s corpse. In life, he rarely knew the answers or did anything to make my life easier, so I don’t know why I was asking now.

  I’d been down here a dozen times since the incident. It still didn’t seem real—again and again, I saw myself, as though I were floating outside my own body, as I hit him over the head with the shovel.

  I needed to move his body or find a way to destroy it. But now that he was down here in this hidden cellar, I couldn’t see a way of getting him back up the hole. I’d used the wheel barrow to lift his body and dump it down through the hole, but now…now…I was in quite a predicament.

  The smell was atrocious. My stomach heaved, and I couldn’t shake the thought that he could hear me somehow. Or was his spirit somewhere in here with me, in the barn, waiting to haunt me forever …

  When I was little, one of my sisters had died. It wasn’t considered a violent death, but it had felt pretty violent to me. A fever had taken over, so high and consuming, that it broiled her tiny body from the inside out. For years, I waited for her ghost to crawl in bed beside me at night, the way she used to when she was alive. Our spindly legs intertwined, secrets shared between the sheets…But she never came, and as I grew older, I realized I was silly for hoping she would, and for believing in ghosts in the first place. I had another sister who lived, but I could never fill that hole in my heart. It’s strange how when you’re little, you want to believe in everything. As you grow older, all those beliefs scatter away and disperse, only to return again after you’ve lived long enough to know that anything is possible.

  The farm was full of ghosts now … my grandparents, mama, daddy, sis, and now my own husband and child. Even Krissy, who was still alive, haunted me sometimes. I imagined the younger version of her, racing through tall rows of corn, shouting for me to catch her if I could…

  “Goodbye,” I said to Andy, stiffly. Then I climbed the crooked rungs of the ladder and closed the barn up tight behind me.

  Today, I’d been lucky. I’d been so sure the cops would find Andy. If it wasn’t for Officer DelGrande being so respectful of my daughter’s death, they most certainly would have.

  Maybe there was a small part of me that wished they had. At least then they’d know how to deal with his body. And at least I’d finally be punished for what I did. Because as monstrous as my actions were, that wasn’t who I really was…I’m not a killer, but I have killed…

  I’d considered chopping up his body and carrying it up in pieces. But just the thought alone made me want to vomit…I can’t…

  According to my google search, luminol faded in thirty minutes or so. But as I approached the smoky smudge of the cabin, I was wracked by images of black lights and blood-splattered rooms, like something straight out of a horror movie.

  It was barely dark, the tight little knots of police personnel finally crumbling apart and leaving my property, one vehicle at a time. The moon kissed the clouds as I slipped through the shadowy trees past the cabin. A few yards away inside the farmhouse, tucked away in my drawer, were my smokes. I yearned for a cigarette. I tasted smoke in my lungs.

  I cut through a gap between two trees and emerged on the main road that ran in front of the farm. Even though darkness had fallen, Northfolk still had that seven o’clock dinner hush hanging in the air. I followed the twisted, newly-paved road up a steep incline and then around two sharp curves, watching carefully for blind-curve speedsters, or anyone who might wonder what I was up to.

  I didn’t expect the truck to still be there. After Sam told me about it, I’d assumed they’d already had it towed to the station to be searched. But there it sat in the dirt roundabout that truckers and cars used if they couldn’t slow themselves down fast enough while winding around Widow’s Curve.

  The story behind how it got its name went something like this: a man and a woman fell in love and planned to be married. Nobody remembers their actual names. On the day of the ceremony, she was with her family getting ready and he was doing the same with his own. They were both so worried about impressing the other, that they were both running late for the ceremony. He got to the chapel first and when he didn’t see her, he panicked and turned around, driving to her sister’s house. She was rushing to get to the church and he was rushing to get to her, and as they both met at the sharp curl of the curve, they slammed into each other head on. His car toppled over the side of the mountain. When she got out of her own car, she dragged herself to the edge of the drop-off. Distraught over her lost love, she climbed back into her car and drove straight off the mountain to join him.

  I never really believed that story. Or that the curve was cursed. But suddenly, I was having my doubts. Looking around, I slowly approached the driver’s side of the truck. Both doors were locked tight. I cupped my hands around my face. Peeked in through the driver’s side window.

  This didn’t seem right. This truck had no business being in this spot.

  Hands quivering, my urge to smoke overwhelming, I took my cell phone out of my back pocket. I didn’t want to call, but now there was no other choice. Nothing about this made sense.

  The phone rang once,
then went to voicemail. Damn.

  My voice was shaking as I left a short message: “What the hell is your truck doing here?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Cop

  ELLIE

  “Your message said you know how the bunny got there?” my voice cracked. I was sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot with the windows rolled down in my cruiser, rubbing my stiff jaw and rotating my neck in pointless circles.

  “It was Clara Appleton. I talked to her today,” Sergeant DelGrande explained. It sounded like he was driving, wind blowing and low music whistling in the background. I thought I heard the raspy lyrics of Bonnie Raitt.

  “What?!” I cranked my driver’s window back up and leaned forward in my seat.

  “Clara’s husband used to make stuffed toys. I showed it to her and she confirmed that it was one of his. I guess she put it there before they moved in. She knew a little girl was coming and thought she might like the toy.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t know how anyone could like that creepy little thing. So, what else did ya find? What’d the luminol show?”

  “Well, that’s what’s bothering me. There’s no spatter or areas that appear to have been cleaned up. The only thing we can tell is that someone smeared that blood around on the floor. Those empty containers with the rusted-out bottoms, the ones we found in the bag? The only blood we can get off them is bovine, too. It looks like someone dumped containers of cow blood on the floor, then smeared it around. The only trace of a human there is those teeth.”

  “So, you think she, or someone else, staged the scene then?” I sighed.

  “That’s how it looks to me. She was running from her husband. Maybe she wanted him, and everyone else, to think she was dead,” Sergeant DelGrande suggested.

  “But, then why call us in the day before and tell us her daughter went missing? What would be her motivation there?”

  “No idea. The whole situation is strange,” Sergeant DelGrande agreed. “Maybe she wanted to distract us while she ran out of town.”

  “Kind of hard to get the hell out of dodge without your car,” I said, picturing the Celica parked in the driveway.

  “That’s true. But, maybe she had a boyfriend, or a friend, who picked her up.”

  “Clara Appleton described a truck that matches Martin’s, so I definitely think he was involved. Unless she’s changed her story about what she saw?”

  “No, she hasn’t. But we did find an abandoned truck less than a quarter mile away. No license plates on it. I’m trying to get the Vin number off it now, but it looks like someone tried to rub it off. Got some guys working on it now, though, so we should know pretty soon who it’s registered to,” he said.

  “Does it meet the description Clara gave?”

  “Black, two-door, pick-up. I showed her a picture. She didn’t recognize it but said it could be the one. It doesn’t belong to anyone in Northfolk, at least it doesn’t appear to. So, Mr. Nesbitt’s truck might never have left Granton, far as we know now,” Sam explained.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the seat. Nothing about this case made sense. One minute, Martin Nesbitt seemed guilty as sin and the next minute there was some other random vehicle to throw in the mix.

  “What about Clara Appleton’s house and outbuildings? Anything suspect there?” I asked, massaging my temples.

  “No, of course not. Clara’s a good woman and she’s being as helpful as possible,” Sam said, a slight edge to his voice.

  “I know you guys are friends, but we have to dig deeper, sarge. What about her husband? She said he left her for another woman. I’d like to talk to him, just to verify his current whereabouts.” I expected Sam to put up a fight on that, too, but he gave me his name: Andy Appleton.

  “She said he was in Florida with his mistress. I don’t know the address or phone number there, or her name,” sarge said slowly, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Well, I’ll ask Clara, okay? That way you don’t have to. We need to double check that her husband wasn’t involved in Nova’s disappearance. Can’t rule anything out,” I pondered.

  There was a soft knock on my window and I jerked up in my seat. “Let me call you back, sarge,” I said, clicking off my cell phone.

  There was a man bent down, staring in at me. He had caramel-colored hair and eyes, and his face looked grim and worrisome.

  “What do you want?” I asked through the window.

  For as long as I’d been old enough to understand the dangers of being a woman alone in a parked car, I’d refused to roll my windows down for strangers.

  But now I was a cop, so I sort of had to. This man could be in trouble, I realized.

  Reluctantly, I cracked my window. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m Brad Cummings. Would you like to have lunch?”

  Un-fucking-believable. Even in uniform, I couldn’t get a man to respect me.

  “Sir, I’m a police officer. I’m working, so I’ll be dining alone. But thanks.” I started to roll my window back up, when he snorted with laughter.

  “Sorry. I’m Detective Brad Cummings. I’m so used to everyone knowing me around here. I wasn’t hitting on you just now, I swear. I saw you parked here and thought maybe we could talk about something during lunch hour.”

  My cheeks flushed with shame. “Oh, alright. What did ya want to talk about? I was going to hit the drive thru. I’m in town getting information for a case back in Northfolk, West Virginia. I’m leaving town soon.”

  Cummings’s cheerful expression morphed back into its steely mask. “Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I work for the Granton police force and I heard that an officer was down at my precinct today, picking up a police report on one Nova Nesbitt.”

  “Yep, that’s correct.” For some reason, I felt like I was about to get scolded. But as he opened his mouth and started talking, I realized that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “I need your help. I’m conducting a missing persons investigation that might be linked to yours,” he said, his tone deadly serious.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  1 year earlier

  The Mother

  NOVA

  It wasn’t until months later that I checked out the knitting site Rachel had recommended. I probably never would have, either, if Martin hadn’t come home one day carrying another one of those stupid cards.

  “I ran into Rachel Coffey at the supermarket today. She said you haven’t returned her calls.”

  I was sitting on the living room couch, bouncing Lily on my lap. I didn’t like watching TV whenever Martin was home, or else he called me lazy. But now that Lily was almost four, she’d taken a hankering to cartoons, especially Doc McStuffins.

  “She was my m-midwife once, M-Martin. An oc-ccasional babysitter…We weren’t fr-friends. I’m so b-busy around h-here that I r-really don’t have time to ch-chat, and that woman likes to t-talk.” I was saying what he wanted to hear. The real reason I cut off contact with Rachel was the same reason I lost contact with everyone else. You couldn’t maintain friendships when your controlling husband was always around and watching, and Lily really did keep me busy most days. Since Martin was opposed to preschool, I was teaching her things myself. ABCs and 123s, who knew it would be so hard to explain these things to a child? I was a terrible teacher, impatient at times and Lily hated sitting still. She hadn’t displayed any signs of a stutter yet, but I wondered if it was only a matter of time…

  Martin set his briefcase down in the kitchen and came over to the couch beside us.

  “What’s that in y-your hand?” I asked, scooting over so he had room to sit down.

  “Rachel gave it to me. She really wants you to join her knitting group.” He handed a small white card to me.

  “I don’t knit, Martin. I’m n-not g-good at sewing, you know that.”

  “But it couldn’t hurt to try, could it?” His face softened, and for a moment, I caught a glimpse of the pseudo-Martin, the one he’d
murdered years ago when the real one emerged.

  “I s-suppose not. But the internet is down again a-and…why do y-you w-want me to learn how to knit?”

  “Rachel said it would be good for you, babe. And she said that sometimes knitting little booties and stuff can help put women in a motherly mood.” Martin glanced down at my newly flattened tummy then wiggled his brows. I’d worked my ass off getting back in shape and letting my body heal from the traumatic delivery. I’d watched outdated exercise tapes with Lily during the day, slowly repairing my body. The truth was, he probably wanted me to get pregnant again, so I wouldn’t feel attractive anymore. He had brought up the idea of having another child last year and had been bugging me about it ever since. Since I didn’t have a gynecologist anymore, I’d been unable to refill my birth control pills. Not getting pregnant yet was just me getting lucky.

  “Here. I’ll download the app on your phone tonight and I’ll make sure the internet is working properly. Tomorrow, you can join this little knitting club. It would be good for you to chat with some other mothers and learn a thing or two about knitting, don’t you think? That would really please me.”

  I nodded, staring straight ahead at the screen. Doc was trying to help a pretty Flamenco dancer named Flora overcome a fear of leaving her box; I’d seen the episode six or seven times now. I know the feeling, Flora, I thought. I was scared to live in my little box with Martin, and scared to live out of it, too.

  That night, Martin downloaded the app on my phone, as promised. He entered a code for the Apple store—a code he refused to give me—and handed the phone back to me. When Lily went to bed, and Martin fell asleep on the couch, I clicked on the app. What did Rachel say that day? It had been so long since we’d had that conversation. She said that it wasn’t really for knitting. I suspected it was something silly, like an erotic book club or a lingerie site. I swear if I catch a beating because of this site, I’ll kill her myself.