“Are you with the police?” he asked. “Or lookin’ for a story?”
“I just want to locate her. We’re friends,” she added, even though that was a bit of a stretch.
“She never mentioned you.” He was dismissing her, ready to leave.
“There’s a killer in Savannah,” Nikki said.
That caught his attention.
“You think that …” He glanced to the front of the truck, through the bug-spattered windshield. “Oh, hell.” His voice trailed off, and his expression grew grim, and his eyes thinned suspiciously. “Look, lady, I don’t know what your game is, and I don’t really give a rat’s ass, okay? But it has nothing to do with me!”
“I’m not with the police, but they’ll uncover whatever your relationship is.”
“We know each other, okay? That’s it. That’s all there is. Leave it alone!” Before she could say anything else, Knox reversed out of the parking slot, jammed his truck into drive, and roared off. She watched as the black truck sped down the long lane, sunlight bouncing brightly off the pickup’s chrome and glass. He was somehow involved with Naomi Kittle, and he was part of the Friday night group Kyle had mentioned and had a rap sheet. Huh.
But as she watched the truck disappear, she couldn’t quite see Knox Quinlan having anything to do with Naomi’s disappearance. Maybe he was capable of petty crimes; however, homicide seemed far-fetched.
But then, you never knew, she thought, returning to the stables to collect Phee and Chloe. Murderers came in various shapes and sizes.
But still she was bothered. Her skin prickled. As if someone were watching. She cast a glance to the thickets of pine, live oak, and mulberry, studying the shadows, telling herself that too many thoughts about serial killers were affecting her. Returning to the stables to collect the girls, she attempted to push her fears aside. Yet, as she strapped her daughter into her car seat, she sensed again that someone was watching.
Hiding in the umbra.
Stealthily observing.
Sweeping her gaze around the surrounding acres, she found no one silently staring, no one harboring malicious intent.
But she was unnerved.
Glancing back at Chloe—so innocent and trusting, so full of vim and vigor, laughter and chaos, shy charm and brash defiance—Nikki felt a fear worse than death to think that anything bad could happen to her child. From the second Chloe had entered the world, she’d bored a spot deep inside her mother’s heart.
Castigating herself for her fears, Nikki started the engine and squinted as she drove past the edge of the forest. Was that movement?
No, a shadow.
Possibly a hunter.
Or a bird-watcher.
Nothing … evil.
Nevertheless, she hit the gas.It’s nothing, she told herself.
But she didn’t believe it for a second.
Her mind racing faster than the wheels on her rental car, she drove home, ignoring the pleas from both girls to stop for ice cream or some other treat again. “Not today.”
“Please,” Phee begged from the passenger seat. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll let your mom know.” But her mind was elsewhere. On Naomi Kittle. On Knox Quinlan. On the murders. On the shadowy figure she was certain she’d seen.
Phee rolled her eyes and pouted, while Chloe fell asleep just before they pulled into the drive. “Perfect,” Nikki murmured cynically as she saw Chloe’s relaxed features in the rearview and the garage door rolled up. She parked, still trying to convince herself she’d overreacted as Phee, still sulking, put away her gear.
“Good boys,” Nikki shushed the dogs, who had converged on her as she hauled “rag doll” Chloe into the house.
Lily was standing transfixed in front of the television, the remote in her hand. She turned at the commotion and asked, “Did you know about this?”
Nikki took in the screen where Vivian Johnson, the public information officer, was standing in front of the brick facade of the police station, flanked by several officers. She was a tall, thin woman witheven features, near-black eyes, a short Afro, and a no-nonsense demeanor. She was staring straight into the camera and was wrapping up her official statement. “If anyone has seen this woman or has any information about her, please call the department.” A phone number appeared on the screen below a recent picture of Naomi Kittle, a professional photograph of Naomi in the same dress she’d been wearing on the night of her daughter’s sweet-sixteen party. It seemed the picture had been taken on that same April night just a few weeks earlier.