crack shattered the glass, sending shards skittering across the counter.
Dwayne was at her side in an instant, taking her hands in his, checking her fingers for any sign of blood.
He held her hands until Abby felt the urge to squirm. “I’m okay.” She wiggled her fingers free from his grip, swallowing down the memories of the past. “Just careless…and tired.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Let me clean this up and I’ll make that coffee.”
Dwayne shook his head, staring at her with such intent she felt he could see into her thoughts.
“I’ll take care of this.” He spoke without emotion as he reached to moisten a paper towel, then set to work capturing each shard of glass.
As Abby measured the coffee grounds by sight and set up mugs and cream for two, her neighbor diligently worked behind her, carefully erasing every last trace of her clumsiness.
Then he stood and watched her work, his eyes staring into the back of her head.
She fought the urge to tell him to go sit in the living room.
He was harmless, lonely, and she’d had a long day.
Nothing more, she told herself. Nothing more.
But she couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had enveloped her every sense since Detective Grant had left the office.
He’d called her a target for the postcard sender’s holiday cheer.
A target.
Abby couldn’t help but wonder who it was that had put Don’t Say a Word in his crosshairs.
She’d researched the old case thoroughly after Grant walked out of the office. She’d studied every piece of information she could find, including biographical data on Boone Shaw and information on each of the victims—including Grant’s younger sister, Emma.
No wonder the detective wore such a scowl. If Abby understood one thing, it was how the pain of losing a loved one never left you. So much for the adage about how time heals all wounds.
No wonder the detective had made the cross-country trip as soon as he’d seen the blog.
And no wonder he was focused on the question that now haunted Abby’s mind.
Had Boone Shaw chosen Don’t Say a Word to bring attention to his crimes? Why?
And if somehow the sender wasn’t Shaw, who was it?
Abby’s stomach caught and twisted as the next question slid through her mind.
When would the next card arrive?
JACK PAID THE pizza delivery kid, then flipped the dead bolt back across the hotel door.
He opened the cardboard box and pulled one slice free from the pie, sinking his teeth into the dough and cheese.
Cold.
The pizza was cold.
Just like Delaware. Just like this room. Just like this case.
He was kidding himself if he thought one anonymous postcard was going to break the old murder case wide open, let alone an anonymous postcard bearing no postmark.
That particular piece of the mystery had been nagging at Jack all day.
In addition, he’d made some calls on his way back to the hotel. His source in Montana had said Boone Shaw fell off the radar several weeks back.
The man could be anywhere.
Grant muttered a few unkind thoughts aloud, then tossed the pizza box onto the bed.
He’d stopped at the local police department to let them know he was in town and working unofficially. While they’d been more than polite, they’d offered no help, no resources.
He couldn’t blame them. Surely they had more important things to worry about than a postcard featuring the photo of a young woman missing and presumed dead eleven years earlier.
He’d also met with the officer who had checked out the card on Abby’s behalf. Detective Timothy Hayes.
Jack couldn’t blame the man for thinking the card a hoax.
The card itself was nondescript—available at any office supply store. The same could be said for the white label, and the message had been printed on what could be one of a thousand different laser printers.
Simply put, the card offered nothing distinctive. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except the image of Melinda Simmons, a young girl the rest of the world had forgotten years ago.
The photograph itself was the only unique aspect of the card, and without further cause, no crime lab was about to waste precious time on an analysis of paper, age and adhesive.
The thought of tracing fingerprints was a joke. What better way to wipe out any prints than by sending a postcard through the United States mail?
Yet, how had the sender managed to avoid the card receiving a postmark? Luck? Not likely.
Had the card been hand-delivered? If so, whoever was responsible might be close. Too close.
Jack took another bite of cold pizza and groaned before he tossed the rest of the slice back into the box.
He slid the copies of his old case notes from his bag, spreading the contents across the hotel room’s desk.
Five faces stared back at him from the case photos. Five victims, all struck down within a ten-day period years earlier. There had been no known victims since, so why had Boone broken his silence? Why now?
Jack studied the photos taken of young, vital women—Emma included—during happier times. Each shot had been provided by a grieving relative—a relative who had trusted Jack and the investigative team to bring their daughter’s killer to justice.
Jack pulled the mug shots of Boone Shaw free from the file and stared down into the man’s dead eyes. Shaw had been a big man, strong, yet fairly nondescript as far as physical features went.
Even eleven years ago, he’d been all but bald, and his round face had offered no unique features or scars. His manner of dress had blended seamlessly into the New Mexico culture.
For all intents and purposes, Shaw had been exactly what he claimed to be—a photographer out to build a business as he helped young wannabe models get their starts.
Jack knew better. He knew it, felt it, believed it.
Boone Shaw had been as guilty as they came.
Yet, when push came to shove, the lack of DNA evidence and Shaw’s airtight alibi had been enough to let the accused walk.
Jack had waited every year, every month, every day since the trial ended for the chance to go after Shaw again. The Melinda Simmons card might not be much, but Jack planned to work it for everything he could.
Jack flashed back on the image of Abby Conroy.
The woman looked more like a waif than the co-owner of the thriving Internet site. Short and slender, she’d sported a navy knit cap, pulled low on her forehead, the pale blond fringe of her bangs peeking from just below the hat’s ribbed edge.
Her long hair had been tucked behind her ears, and her nose, reddened by the cold, had matched the bright circles of determined color that had fired in her cheeks as she defended her actions.
A real spitfire.
Yet her ice blue eyes had remained as chilly as the temperature outside, faltering only when she realized Jack was telling the truth.
She’d been carrying around the photo of a dead girl, and she’d done exactly what the killer had wanted by publishing his message.
Even so, the woman had made it clear her first priority was the integrity of her site and the anonymity of the site’s supporters, but she’d no doubt change her tune as soon as another card arrived.
And