“She was Church.” The information wasn’t new, but the way Hicks said it made it seem like he thought it was. “I always get a little more suspicious when one of their kids disappears.”
“Why do you want to know about Molly Thomas?” Zoey spoke before Lucy could comment further on that. Deliberate. Zoey was sharp.
“We checked out her bedroom today.”
“Okay.” Zoey’s body language still hadn’t closed off.
“We’re looking into her connection to Eliza Cook.”
And there. There was the reaction Hicks might have been braced for. It was subtle, a practiced thing, perhaps. But since Lucy had been watching closely for it, she could see the strain of the delicate muscles near the corners of Zoey’s eyes. She was trying to school her expression. She was good at it.
Hicks picked up the conversational ball when Lucy just continued to study Zoey’s face, searching for clues about what the woman was hiding.
“For some reason Molly had your name and phone number as the last entry in her diary,” Hicks said.
Zoey’s eyebrows inched up, her mouth parting slightly. Surprise, seemingly genuine at that. There was movement in her face again now that the mention of Eliza was behind them.
“Your name,” Hicks repeated. “She had your name written down, Zoey.”
“Oh,” Zoey said, seemingly to herself. Her eyes drifted toward the blank wall behind Hicks’s shoulder, and even her mug dropped to her lap in her distraction.
Then she cursed, snapping back into herself, before she slapped the desk with her free hand. “Picture. Show me . . . Show me a picture.”
The urgency of the demand seemed to drag at the three of them, their bodies leaning forward without thought, muscles locking up beneath the stretch of taut skin.
Hicks rifled through files on his desk. “It’s not here. It must be . . .”
He stood up midsentence, eyes dancing around the room, landing on the filing cabinet, the table by the window, Lucy, his desk. He walked out the door into the main lobby area without saying anything further.
Zoey’s fingers were clutching one of the arms of her chair, the lines of her neck rigid, sweat forming along her hairline.
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
At first, Lucy didn’t think Zoey would answer, thought she’d pretend not to have heard. But then she breathed out, shifted.
“If it’s who I think it is . . .” Zoey was watching the doorway where Hicks had disappeared; the words were quiet, more vocalized thought than anything with intention. In fact, it seemed to register too late to Zoey that she’d spoken aloud, her head jerking to look at Lucy, eyes wide. Revealing not the secrets themselves, but the fact that they existed.
“Say it,” Lucy prompted, even though it was a long shot.
Zoey chewed on her bottom lip, her fingers tangling in her lap—a woman at war with herself. Her eyes darted between Lucy’s face and the doorway, and she drew in a deep breath.
Finally, she settled on Lucy. “If Molly is who I think she is,” Zoey repeated, more deliberate this time but still low enough not to be overheard, “then whatever you’re looking into? I think it has to do with Hicks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LUCY THORNE
Saturday, noon
Once Zoey saw the picture of Molly, she got quiet, so quiet, just staring down at the girl, her breathing a little too fast for someone who had been sitting down.
Then she shook herself a bit, looked up, placing the photo on Hicks’s desk as she did. And she filled Lucy and Hicks in on the encounter she’d had with Molly in the back alley of the coffee shop.
Zoey was deliberate with her words, though, and Lucy couldn’t help thinking that the woman was leaving out some details.
Like what the hell Hicks had to do with any of this. Because the loaded glances exchanged between the two of them told a story in and of themselves.
Lucy was left wondering at that as they headed out to the Thomas place once again.
Zoey was driving, tiny behind the wheel of the monster SUV, black-tinted windows blocking out the glare from the sun. Lucy sat in the back, foot tapping against the floorboard, wishing she had her car, wishing she even had the keys to it. But no, she was still at their mercy.
Hicks had folded himself into the passenger seat, all easy nonchalance. If he had something to do with this, he was excellent at hiding any anxiety he might feel about it.
He’d been on the phone most of the way, trying to get a hold of a local judge he knew in case Frank Thomas gave them trouble. Lucy didn’t think it would be a problem, but better safe than sorry. She could appreciate that.
While Zoey and Hicks were occupied, Lucy pulled out her own cell, thumbing into the text thread with Vaughn.
Paranoia crept along the borders of her well-constructed grasp on reality. It was familiar, a friend and foe at once, something to keep around but in a controlled way so that it never took over a case.
Sometimes she would listen to the whispers. The ones that said those looks back at the station had been too loaded to ignore. The ones that said the eyes of everyone they’d interviewed about Eliza had lingered too long on Hicks for it to be coincidence.
Lucy tapped out a quick message.
All info on Sheriff Wyatt Hicks pls. ASAP.
The writing bubbles appeared immediately.
In your email within the hour.
Lucy almost pocketed her phone before thinking to check in on an earlier request for her old cases.
Find anything in the archives?
The phone rang one heartbeat after she hit “Send.” Lucy turned so some of her back was to the front seats, optimizing as much privacy as possible.
“The agent I have on it is still doing a sweep. What are you thinking?” Vaughn asked, keeping her voice pitched low because she was a professional and a mind reader rolled into one. “A serial killer? Someone you’ve seen before?”
“I don’t know.” How to explain what the hell was going on out here? How to explain the questions that kept cropping up that didn’t fit neatly into Eliza Cook killing Noah Dawson for fun.
Vaughn got it. “The info should be your way soon. I’ll go hover over the poor agent and look very menacing.”
Lucy laughed softly. “Appreciate it.”
There was a pause. “What happened with the body?”
“I wasn’t careful enough,” Lucy admitted. Owning up to it was always preferable to excuses. “I didn’t think they’d actually steal Noah back.”
“That was surprising,” Vaughn agreed. “They’re fanatics?”
An easy answer to that didn’t really exist. And Lucy certainly didn’t want to parse through the complexities of this community with both Zoey and Hicks listening in.
Lucy settled on, “They certainly play by their own rules.”
For a few seconds, the only sounds were tires on the road and Vaughn’s steady breathing.
“You okay?” Vaughn finally asked, and there was a lot packed in there: Do you need backup? Do you need me to pull you out? Do you need me to come there?
Lucy wasn’t sure if she was lying when she answered. “Yeah, I’m okay. Has Eliza said anything else?”
“Not a word. Won’t even talk to ask for a lawyer.”
Not surprising. “Okay, thanks. For everything.”