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Chapter One
NATCHITOCHES, LOUISIANA
May 2014
Tamara’s constant anxiety never allowed her any rest, so she stalled outside Gabriella’s bedroom, listening for any unfamiliar echo, thud, or scratch. She indulged in one more glimpse of her baby wrapped in a Winnie the Pooh comforter, her tiny foot dangling over the edge of the mattress. So angelic. Still untouched by the horror that threatened them only months ago. After she tucked Gabby’s foot under the covers, she glanced once more toward the baby monitor’s transmitter on the table by the bed to make double sure the indicator light glowed green.
She left Gabby’s door open and trudged down the back stairs, the wood treads creaking beneath her feet. When she reached the bottom step, she tilted her head toward the second floor. Nothing. All quiet. Once she entered the kitchen, she turned on the baby monitor’s receiver, shoved the light switch up, and punched on the coffee maker.
Day poked the first probing streaks of light through the window, so she stopped for a moment and allowed the sunshine to warm her face. A chill assaulted her even though the heater ran full blast. Nothing warmed the old place in the wee hours of the morning, not even the intermittent belching of the antique furnace. She leaned her backside on the counter, her cold fingers resting on one cheek, and considered the house she lived in that wasn’t really a home. Not yet. The kitchen was the only modernized room in the place. Its gleaming steel appliances and granite countertops seemed out of place amidst the shabby appearance of the rest of the already furnished residence.
She had signed a lease for six months. If she stayed in Natchitoches that long, she’d redecorate. Buy her own furniture. One day when she wasn’t scrimping and saving every penny she made from freelancing just to pay the rent and put food on the table. When she was on staff with a magazine or newspaper. When she wasn’t scared of every shadow or unfamiliar noise. One day when she wasn’t afraid for strangers to know her real name. The few people she had met in Natchitoches knew her as Tara Shaw, an identity she wasn’t quite used to yet. She still stumbled over saying it whenever someone asked her name.
The brew emitted a pleasant aroma, so she filled her mug with the reviving brown liquid and wrapped her hands around the warmth. When the phone shattered the quiet, she jerked and spilled her coffee. She had given very few people her telephone number. An unexpected call always increased the nervous tension in the pit of her stomach. She grabbed a handful of paper towels, snatched the receiver from the base, and answered with a sharp hello.
May I speak to Scott Slay?
She tensed at the strong, masculine timbre of the man’s voice and wished she had let the stupid phone ring, but then the jangling might have woke Gabby.
It was too early in the morning to sell siding, home improvement loans, or those odious car warranties. Who is this?
She wanted to kick herself. Why didn’t she just tell the man he had the wrong number and rudely hang up?
Lieutenant Martin Beck. I’m an investigator with the Santa Rosa County Sheriff’s Office.
The authority in his deep bass voice made her want to slam the receiver onto the base, but she knew that would only cause the man to follow with another phone call. Better to get rid of him now than deal with him later. What could he possibly want from her?
She’d met many cops in the last few years. She didn’t recall the name, and she wasn’t sure where Santa Rosa County was. Where’s Santa Rose County?
Florida. The Gulf coast
She cringed. Why do you want to talk to Scott Slay?
I’m investigating a murder, and it appears Scott stayed in the same resort as the victim on the night the woman died.
She grabbed a pencil. Tell me your name again.
Lieutenant Martin Beck. Could you ask your husband to come to the phone? I want to ask Scott a few questions.
She scratched the name on a coffee drenched notepad. How do I know you’re really a cop?
He remained silent for a long moment. Tell Scott to call the Santa Rosa County Sheriff’s Office.
He rattled off his phone number. Before she had written the first three digits, he hung up.
I’m not telling Scott anything,
she grumbled as she stared at the phone in her hand.
Light footsteps shuffled behind her. She turned to find Gabby at the bottom of the stairs with a thumb stuck in her mouth and dragging her comforter behind her. Gabby stared up at Tamara. So much trust radiated from her little girl’s eyes, she couldn’t help smiling.
Hey, precious. Come sit on my lap.
She dropped the phone onto its base and patted her knees before sliding onto the nearest barstool. Gabby turned and stood with her back to her, and Tamara lifted her with ease.
Gabby was so slight, Tamara feared the child wasn’t getting enough nourishment, but she didn’t dare take her to a doctor unless it was a dire emergency—a life or death emergency—so Gabby hadn’t had a routine check up in months. Maybe she should have left the child with her mother. The thought of leaving Gabby behind in Texas stabbed her hard in the heart. She had never even considered the option. Keeping Gabby with her was the only way Tamara could rest knowing Gabby was all right. Tamara’s lawyer had advised her to run away with Gabby and never go back to Texas due to the legal ramifications of a messy custody fight, so she had taken his advice, acquired a new identity, and moved to Louisiana.
What do you want for breakfast?
She hoped Gabby didn’t hear the wobble in her voice.
Her baby lowered her thumb. Donuhs.
Hope filled Gabby’s eyes as she dropped the comforter and wrapped her thin arms around Tamara’s neck, then leaned her dark head on Tamara’s shoulder.
Tamara blinked back a tear. Gabby’s eyes were shaped so much like her father’s that it sent a fresh surge of pain through Tamara’s heart. There was no doubt Scott had fathered the child even though he had questioned his paternity often enough.
She shook Scott’s memory out of her head and sighed. Eating out, even at McDonalds, eroded her limited funds. She had spent most of her savings when she leased the house. Less than a thousand dollars in cash was left—hidden in a coffee can in the kitchen cabinet. Sure,
she agreed anyhow. She couldn’t stand to disappoint her baby girl.
THE BREAKFAST TRIP to McDonalds was behind them. Gabby had taken a nap once they arrived back at the house and Tamara had used the opportunity to get some housework done. Now Gabby was awake and in a somewhat cheerful mood. Always a good thing. While Gabby played in her room, Tamara sat at the kitchen table, opened her laptop, and pulled up AOL. The computer was the one thing she’d dared to purchase on Scott’s credit card. Without it, she would have no way to make a living that wouldn’t expose her real identity.
Had Scott cut her credit off? She’d never know for sure. She wasn’t going to press her luck by using the card again. She had cut it up and tossed the tiny bits into a dumpster miles away from Natchitoches.
She flipped open the top, entered her password, and clicked on her Internet browser. Her hand trembled as she typed Santa Rosa County Sheriff into the search engine. The site took a long time to load. She located a picture of Martin Beck, a high-ranking deputy in his office. Even captured in a poor quality snapshot, the glint in his eyes told her he was a no-nonsense sort of man. Strong chin. Clean-shaven. No smile.
There was a phone number listed on the site. The need to know how he had found her was so strong that she dared to contact him. She printed off his picture and wrote his information on the page, just in case Gabby awoke and interrupted her. Then, she punched the number into her disposable, pay-as-you-go cell phone with trembling fingers. When he answered on the fifth ring, she almost disconnected the call.
Beck,
he repeated his greeting a second time. Who is this?
Tamara Slay.
It was hard uttering her real name. She’d been afraid to say it aloud for months.
I didn’t think you’d call me back.
His tone suggested otherwise.
I wasn’t going to,
she countered while she stared at his face on the website, trying to picture the man in animation.
I have a few questions for your husband—
Scott’s not here.
Well, then, maybe you could—
Before I answer any questions, I want to know how you found me.
He hesitated. Long enough her knee started bouncing in nervous apprehension. AOL gave me his telephone number and address. Scott Slay. Natchitoches, Louisiana.
The computer screen shimmied in front of her eyes. When she communicated with someone she used Gmail. She hadn’t used her AOL e-mail address in months, and she cleared her browsing history every time she logged off. Even so, she had been wondering when Scott would cut her off. His name was on the account. As far as she knew, AOL still billed his credit card. How did they have her address in Natchitoches when Scott lived in Texas? At least... She thought he still lived in Texas. They gave you his name and address? Just like that?
I had a warrant.
A warrant? Why?
We have reason to believe the killer has visited our website, and your husband rented a room at the same resort as the victim.
His tone revealed that he didn’t like divulging the information. I don’t believe in coincidence.
He paused a moment. Are you the woman I spoke with earlier?
There was no sense denying it. Yes.
Why didn’t you tell me you were Tamara Slay?
I don’t use that name any longer.
Why do you use an alias?
His breathing was heavy while he waited for her answer.
She bit her lip to keep from telling him to mind his own business.
You won’t tell me?
I have my reasons.
Papers rattled on his side of the call. Did you or your husband visit our website and look at Brandy Fuller’s profile?
I may have.
"You may have?"
She gripped the phone tighter. "I’m a freelance writer. I was doing a story on cold cases for American Detective Digest. I probably pulled up the site doing research."
He grunted in apparent derision. No surprise. American Detective Digest was an on-line magazine that often digressed into sensationalism. Research?
She refused to defend her reasons for writing for them. She needed the money. Yes. Research.
She clicked on Santa Rosa’s cold case page. Under Brandy’s picture read the caption Unsolved Since 2006. The year she and Scott married. So you think we stayed at the same resort hotel the night she died?
Do you remember meeting her?
You’re going to have to remind me which trip. We went to Florida six or seven times.
She laid the paper in front of her where she’d tried to recall the dates and places of each trip she and Scott had taken to Florida, because she had been certain Lt. Beck would ask. Cops were predictable, if nothing else.
September 2006.
She ran her finger down the list. Okay. We stayed in Navarre.
At the Palm Towers.
She closed my eyes, recalling the place. Yeah. I remember. Eight years. That’s a long time ago. I don’t remember who I met there.
She didn’t want to remember the trip. Or any of their trips to Florida.
Maybe your husband remembers.
I wouldn’t know.
The man’s tone shifted from cordial to pushy. I need to talk to him.
The cop kept insisting as if she could make Scott suddenly appear in her kitchen ready and willing to answer all of his questions. She hoped she never saw Scott in her house...ever. He doesn’t live here.
The inevitable personal questions were sure to follow. Legally, Scott might still be her husband, but physically, emotionally, and mentally, he was her ex.
Do you have a phone number for him?
No, I don’t. He used to live in Wichita Falls, Texas. Look for him if you want. Just—
Don’t mention that I spoke to you. Or tell him where you live.
His tone had softened, laced with sympathy and apparent understanding.
She bit her lower lip before answering. I don’t want to move again.
She groaned at the thought of packing and uprooting Gabby. She wanted to be settled somewhere safe before Gabby started school. She wanted a stable life for her daughter. Perhaps, she wanted too much.
Her head popped up as a jolt of fear raced through her. If AOL listed Scott’s address as in Natchitoches, then maybe he already knew where she lived. Maybe she’d have to move anyway.
Lt. Beck broke into her anxious thoughts. Is your husband a violent man, Mrs. Slay?
She sucked in a deep breath. She hated being called Mrs. Slay, and she didn’t want to talk about her relationship with her ex-husband—not to Lt. Beck, not to anyone. Do you have reason to believe one of us met that woman...the one that was murdered?
You were in the same resort at the same time.
That didn’t mean anything. The Palm Towers had many rooms. I don’t remember meeting her. If Scott met her, he won’t tell you the truth. He’s a liar. If he has something to hide, he’ll tell you a lie so stupid it’ll make you cringe.
She hadn’t intended to sound so vindictive.
Do you think he met her?
The cop’s tone remained even and businesslike, as if he was interviewing her for a job or a magazine article, as if he hadn’t just heard the depth of her disgust toward Scott.
He was gone a lot, and I was stuck in the room. He wouldn’t tell me why we were there or what he did when he was gone.
The resentment in her answer was surely hard to miss.
Maybe he had a girlfriend.
Lt. Beck suggested the idea as if it wasn’t a horrible possibility. As if a husband having a fling on the road while his wife waited for him in their motel room wasn’t repulsive.
She groaned. What? No.
How can you be sure there wasn’t another woman?
When he got back from wherever he went...he was always...insatiable.
She hated admitting her degradation. Scott had not been a loving man or a tender lover. When he was done taking what he wanted from her, she always needed a cleansing shower, as if she’d been sexually assaulted. Maybe she had been.
How could she explain her horrible marriage to this pushy cop? After he... He...
She choked on what she was about to say.
The ensuing silence was deafening. When he spoke again, his tone was much less demanding. If you remember anything about Brandy Fuller, please contact me at the Santa Rosa Sheriff’s Office.
He stopped, but she knew he was still there. His breathing was heavy and disturbed. Listen... If you need help, I know people in Louisiana. Call me. Any time. Day or night.
He gave her what she assumed was his personal cell phone number. She didn’t bother to write it down and hung up.
Chapter Two
WHEN TAMARA ESCAPED Texas in the broad daylight, she backed a U-Haul up to the front door of the rundown, two-bedroom, one-bath house she shared with Scott on the outskirts of Wichita Falls and loaded the truck with everything she could. Her mother cried. They both knew they would probably never see each other again. Her mother had understood. She had left Tamara’s father for the same reason Tamara had left Scott.
Scott found Tamara four months later in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and announced his intention to drag them back to Texas whether she wanted to go or not. He thought he had scared her into submission and stormed out of the house, leaving her with a black eye and a bruised rib. Before he returned, she had begged her lawyer for help, left everything behind, and disappeared from Arkansas in the middle of the night.
She didn’t want Scott to find her. More precisely, she didn’t want him to take Gabby away from her again.
The evening after she spoke with Lt. Beck the second time, she sat at her desk in the small attic garret of the house she was about to leave. Her heart jumped every time an unidentified creak came across the baby monitor she’d set up in the room. She had just gotten used to leaving Gabby alone long enough to work. She froze and waited until she was satisfied the noise was the child’s stirring and nothing more.
She had one more thing she needed to do before she left Natchitoches. Papers lay scattered across the worn desktop. She’d made a list of all the trips she and Scott had taken to Florida. Dates. Places. The task recalled awful memories—humiliating memories. The scars still burned and itched from wounds that remain unhealed.
Ever since Lt. Beck called, dread had tortured her. The man who killed Brandy Fuller was perverse. She had gathered as much from the description of Brandy’s case on the Santa Rosa website. Was Scott a horrific killer? He had dragged her with him to Florida many times. Were there others besides Brandy? She hated the thought, pushing it aside and reconsidering it, over and over again.
She bit her nails while she dithered. Shifting papers around. Rising from her chair. Dropping back into the seat she had just vacated. She wanted to know, and she didn’t want to know. If her suspicions were correct, someone needed to know. She sucked in a deep breath and finally dared to study the unsolved cases in Florida. It was a long, long list.
After hours of scrolling through names and dates and places, she completed her research in the dark hours of early morning. For every trip Scott took to Florida, there was an unsolved murder. Nausea surged up from her gut as she put her hand over her mouth to keep from hurling.
Her conclusions astounded her. The coincidences were too great. Could her baby’s father possibly be a serial killer?
BECK HADN’T BEEN ABLE to sleep. His conversation with Tamara Slay had zoomed through his mind until his restlessness got the best of him. He dressed, went in to the office, yanked open his file cabinet, and took out the volume of case notes on the Fuller murder, spreading eight black and white pictures across his desk. He studied the collection of photographs. What did all these victims have in common? Brandy Fuller’s case had gone unsolved since 2006. He was the only one who had bothered to crack open the heavy case binder for years. If his hunch was correct, the same man who murdered Brandy Fuller potentially committed at least eight unsolved homicides in Florida. Now, Beck had a lead. A thin lead, but one he was determined to pursue.
He flung his pencil on his desk in frustration. Tamara Slay hadn’t told him everything she knew. He was sure of it.
The High Sheriff of Santa Rosa County entered the room and passed him on his way toward his office. Pratt stalled in his tracks, glanced at his watch, and turned to Beck. What are you doing here so early?
He could have asked Pratt the same question. The Sheriff was not known to be an early riser. Pratt cleared the space between them in two long strides. He peered down at the pictures spread across Beck’s desk and then glanced at him, an unspoken question dancing in his gray eyes.
Beck decided he might as well pitch right into his request. I think I’m going to have to go to Louisiana.
Louisiana? Whatever for?
Pratt was notoriously tight fisted when it came to road trips.
Beck removed some documents from the binder and spread them over the photographs. He tapped a printout from the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles database. This is Tamara Slay.
Then he did likewise with a printout from Tennessee. And this is Tamara Slay.
Pratt smiled. So? There are two women with the same name. That’s not unusual.
That was stating the obvious, but the Sheriff’s tone was more amusement than condescension.
This is Scott Slay.
He stopped for emphasis. And this is Scott Slay.
Pratt leaned with one hand on the desk and stared at the pictures. Well? What’s so special about two Scotts and two Tamaras?
This Scott is married to this Tamara and this Scott is married to this Tamara.
He turned toward his boss. That’s some coincidence, don’t you think?
Pratt rubbed the side of his face with the flat of his hand. Maybe. Maybe not.
Beck pointed to the second set of pictures. This couple, Scott and Tamara from Tennessee... Missing for ten years.
The Sheriff rose to his full height. Texas and Tennessee. What does Louisiana have to do with this?
Beck smiled to himself. Pratt was asking all the right questions. Beck would get permission to go to Louisiana. I located a woman named Tamara Slay living in Natchitoches, Louisiana, using the alias Tara Shaw.
Pratt blinked, but didn’t move. A sure sign Beck had his undivided attention.
You’ve been working the cold case files again, haven’t you?
Beck nodded.
Brandy Fuller?
He nodded again.
How is Tamara Slay connected to Brandy Fuller?
Ah yeah, that was the question.
He pointed to the Texas pair. Texas Tamara and Scott stayed in the same resort as Brandy Fuller on the night she died.
Why should I send you to Louisiana to pursue such a thin lead?
I spoke with Tamara Slay last night. She didn’t tell me everything she knows.
Lots of women refuse to tell you anything, Beck. What’s so strange about that?
Pratt’s sarcastic jest made him cringe. Beck was well aware the boss hadn’t been in a playful mood when he teased him about women. His jab was sharp and pointed. Tennessee Scott and Texas Scott used the same social security number.
He shoved the pictures side by side. You tell me? Do these two men look anything alike?
Get Muriel to give you a travel voucher.
Pratt turned and headed toward the door. Have a good trip, Beck.
TAMARA’S HEAD SLID off her forearm and banged on the desk. She jerked and tried to focus, pressing her fingertips against her forehead. A thump evaporated the grogginess. She bolted upright. She’d never heard that particular noise in the house before tonight. She berated herself for falling asleep in the garret—so far away from Gabby on the second floor. She’d finished her research and laid her head down—just for a moment. She glanced at the clock. How had her short nap turned into hours?
When a thud and a creak followed closely on the first noise, she was convinced an intruder was in her house. She studied the clutter on her desk. The importance of what she had discovered pushed through her panic. She couldn’t leave the list behind. Its existence alone was perhaps enough to put her life in jeopardy, enough to put Gabby in danger. She had to protect her daughter.
Scooping up her research, she crammed the paperwork into a large tote she kept under the desk. She glanced at her computer and then quickly saved the open document to a travel drive. She yanked the drive from the USB port and slipped it into her jeans pocket before logging off. Reaching for the switch on the wall, she stopped and then left the light on. She had to leave everything just as if she intended to return.
She peeked around the door
