Page 39 of The Vanishing Wife
Elyse climbed the back stairs to the wraparound deck. Tested the double doors leading into the living room. Locked. That was okay. Pulling a spare key she’d swiped from her last visit, she slid it into the deadbolt and turned. The door gave that familiar swish of weatherstripping as she shoved inside.
Now, with her and this big house, alone together, Elyse was starting to remember more of the days leading up to ending up in the emergency room. Could’ve been the adrenaline or time or any number of things that jumpstarted her brain. Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore the truth anymore.
This wasn’t the first time she’d stalked Samuel Thornton.
The night Ava had come home drunk, sobbing, repeating the same phrase over and over—She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t moving—had been the catalyst, but there was a different drive urging her deeper into the house now. Elyse scanned the living room, exactly as she’d left it. No dirty dishes in the sink. Not a single piece of paper in view. Chips perfectly stored away in the walk-in pantry in the kitchen.
Real people didn’t live like this. Real people left marks. On their environment and the people they interacted with. So why was it so important for Samuel Thornton to pretend he’d never set foot in this house?
She moved through the first floor, tucking the spare key into the pocket of her leggings, and gripped her duffle tighter. Cutting to the tiny room off the stairway, she opened the closet where he’d hidden so many dirty little secrets.
And found it empty of everything but a single coat.
Good. He must’ve realized he wasn’t the only one who knew about Ruby Davis. The pressure was on. Potentially forcing him to make a fatal mistake. One that exposed him as the predator he really was. She would operate as if she didn’t have much time left before the pickup would be back in the driveway.
Elyse unzipped the duffle bag, slipped into a pair of lavender-colored latex gloves, and removed a bottle of homemade cleaner. Vinegar and essential oils. Practically untraceable.
“You don’t want anyone to know you exist?” She grabbed for a rag from the bottom of the bag. “I think I can help with that.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Gulf Shores, Alabama
Sunday, September 22
5:29 p.m.
Leigh wedged the hotel room door open with her foot. “Make yourself at home.”
It was all too easy to imagine the distress of a fourteen-year-old forced to stay with a stranger—a woman investigating her mother’s disappearance—and Ava Portman crossed the threshold without looking up. She scanned the room, took in the two queen-sized beds and a single bathroom lacking for space.
“It’s not much, but it’ll do its job until we can find someone more suitable for you to stay with.” Leigh unpocketed her phone and the hotel key card, setting them on the desk. Embarrassment seized her as she realized she’d left the container for her pork nachos from last night out. At the same time, her stomach growled for her to finish off the stale chips and meat. She’d been going from one place to the next all day. With nothing to show for it.
“You’re not suitable?” Ava tossed the clothing Leigh had collected from the vacation house onto the bed farthest from the door then took up position on the edge.
“There are more qualified people out there to care for you than me.” Leigh bit back the urge to list all the reasons.
“My mom told me about you.” Ava studied her with unwavering determination. Though a darkness had set up residence under her eyes, in the hollows of her tear-stained cheekbones. The girl had been through so much in such a short amount of time. Losing friends. Losing her mother. Now hearing the news of her father. It was any wonder she was still talking, but Leigh wouldn’t push. She wouldn’t ask about the lie Ava had told Gulf Shores PD about being in the house when her mother was attacked. Not yet. “You found a killer after like twenty years and stopped another guy from murdering a bunch more people. I’d say you’re overqualified.”
Leigh tried not to laugh, but in the face of so much pain and loss and grief, it felt good to taste the other side of things. “Well, when you put it that way.” She tossed the menu onto Ava’s bed and detached the hotel phone from its cradle. “I’m ordering room service. Pick anything you want.”
Except the line didn’t connect to the front desk. She checked the connection.
“Agent Brody?” a voice asked.
“Who is this?” Her attention cut to Ava as the girl surveyed her options from the edge of the bed, and Leigh turned her back.
“Officer Parks, Gulf Shores IT,” he said. “You submitted a burned phone as evidence to the Elyse Portman investigation.”
Hope brightened at the center of her chest. “Were you able to get anything off of it?”
“The damage was pretty substantial,” the officer said. “The only thing we were able to recover was a couple photos of a text message exchange. Screenshots as far as we can tell. Even then, it’s hard to make out specific details. There are no names or numbers, but we do have time stamps and read receipts. It may be possible to request more information from the cell phone company with a warrant.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for, but the exchange could prove important. Why else had Elyse kept it on her phone? “Please let Detective Moore know. She’ll be the one submitting the warrant request.”
“Will do.” The line disconnected, and Leigh hung the phone back on the cradle.
Had the exchange been between Elyse and another party? Or a conversation she’d come across? Why keep it screenshots of it either way?