Alarm bells sounded in Danielle’s head. Had Danielle been taking some sort of stimulant to stay awake? To keep up her busy schedule? She dismissed the thought. What would that have to do with her accident anyway?
Danielle slipped into the kitchen seat across from her grandmother and grabbed her hand. “Can you think of anyone Jenny might have gone out to see the night of her accident?”
Gram shook her head. “She’s always home by nine to help me upstairs to my bedroom. That night was no different.”
“You never heard her go out?”
“No.” Gram pulled her hand free and fidgeted with the collar of her white blouse. “She tells me if she’s going somewhere. She leaves me her cell phone number on my night stand. I’ve never had to use it. But I suppose I could have fallen asleep and she didn’t want to wake me up to tell me she was leaving.”
Gram flattened her hands on the table and pushed to stand up. “Once Jimmy gets home, he can tell us. He certainly kept track of Jenny’s friends.”
“Does she hang out with anyone besides Jimmy?”
“The poor child barely has time.” Gram twisted her mouth. “I know she has a few new college friends. A study group or something. That’s how she met Henry. He’s such a nice boy. We probably scared him half to death tonight. Don’t know what the boy was thinking coming here after dark.” Gram patted Danielle’s hand.
Patrick stepped into the kitchen and wiped his feet on the rug “Henry is who he says he is. Lives on the outskirts of town with his mom and dad. No priors. Father is a piece of work. The chief told me he’s been out to the house once or twice for domestic issues.”
Gram shook her head. “I told you the boy was harmless.”
Henry’s story had panned out. But something about the kid showing up at the house at night still bothered Patrick. Had Henry been trying to get into the basement? It wouldn’t be outrageous to learn Billy, the neighborhood drug dealer, had recruited Henry, a kid desperate for a few bucks to pay for college. But the police had nothing to support that theory. Yet.
Patrick decided to do a little more digging before he called it a night. Billy wasn’t at his bar, so Patrick had no choice but to drive to the farmhouse Billy rented in the sticks. Chief Parker would have nixed the idea of confronting Billy, but Patrick figured the only way to get any answers from this guy was directly.
Patrick parked his vehicle halfway down the long drive and walked the rest of the distance. The weak planks on the rotting porch groaned under Patrick’s weight, jeopardizing his sneak approach. Staying close to the wall, he peeked into the house. A television flickered, illuminating the profile of Billy’s girlfriend, Debbie Jones. He recognized her from the grocery store where she was a cashier. A playpen was shoved into the corner. Toys littered the floor. But there was no sign of Billy.
Since the young woman seemed completely absorbed in her television program, Patrick strolled the perimeter of the property, his boots sinking in the mud. The light from the house bled into the dark night, giving his sight limited distance. A boat on a trailer sat in the yard. How could Billy afford toys, yet live in a run-down house? He supposed drug dealers didn’t always make the best life choices.
The deep rumble of an engine grew closer. He strode to the front walkway and waited, his hand hovering over his gun.
The bright headlights cut across his face, blinding him. Blinking, he made out the license plate of the early model Camaro. Billy’s. The engine idled, perhaps as Billy decided his next move. Patrick knew Billy had seen the police cruiser parked in the driveway. Patrick’s heart rate spiked, much as it had when he’d made his rounds over in Iraq. His mouth grew dry as his instincts kicked in.
Billy cut the engine and emerged from the vehicle. When he got close to the house, the artificial light caught his pinched features.
Danielle slipped into the kitchen seat across from her grandmother and grabbed her hand. “Can you think of anyone Jenny might have gone out to see the night of her accident?”
Gram shook her head. “She’s always home by nine to help me upstairs to my bedroom. That night was no different.”
“You never heard her go out?”
“No.” Gram pulled her hand free and fidgeted with the collar of her white blouse. “She tells me if she’s going somewhere. She leaves me her cell phone number on my night stand. I’ve never had to use it. But I suppose I could have fallen asleep and she didn’t want to wake me up to tell me she was leaving.”
Gram flattened her hands on the table and pushed to stand up. “Once Jimmy gets home, he can tell us. He certainly kept track of Jenny’s friends.”
“Does she hang out with anyone besides Jimmy?”
“The poor child barely has time.” Gram twisted her mouth. “I know she has a few new college friends. A study group or something. That’s how she met Henry. He’s such a nice boy. We probably scared him half to death tonight. Don’t know what the boy was thinking coming here after dark.” Gram patted Danielle’s hand.
Patrick stepped into the kitchen and wiped his feet on the rug “Henry is who he says he is. Lives on the outskirts of town with his mom and dad. No priors. Father is a piece of work. The chief told me he’s been out to the house once or twice for domestic issues.”
Gram shook her head. “I told you the boy was harmless.”
Henry’s story had panned out. But something about the kid showing up at the house at night still bothered Patrick. Had Henry been trying to get into the basement? It wouldn’t be outrageous to learn Billy, the neighborhood drug dealer, had recruited Henry, a kid desperate for a few bucks to pay for college. But the police had nothing to support that theory. Yet.
Patrick decided to do a little more digging before he called it a night. Billy wasn’t at his bar, so Patrick had no choice but to drive to the farmhouse Billy rented in the sticks. Chief Parker would have nixed the idea of confronting Billy, but Patrick figured the only way to get any answers from this guy was directly.
Patrick parked his vehicle halfway down the long drive and walked the rest of the distance. The weak planks on the rotting porch groaned under Patrick’s weight, jeopardizing his sneak approach. Staying close to the wall, he peeked into the house. A television flickered, illuminating the profile of Billy’s girlfriend, Debbie Jones. He recognized her from the grocery store where she was a cashier. A playpen was shoved into the corner. Toys littered the floor. But there was no sign of Billy.
Since the young woman seemed completely absorbed in her television program, Patrick strolled the perimeter of the property, his boots sinking in the mud. The light from the house bled into the dark night, giving his sight limited distance. A boat on a trailer sat in the yard. How could Billy afford toys, yet live in a run-down house? He supposed drug dealers didn’t always make the best life choices.
The deep rumble of an engine grew closer. He strode to the front walkway and waited, his hand hovering over his gun.
The bright headlights cut across his face, blinding him. Blinking, he made out the license plate of the early model Camaro. Billy’s. The engine idled, perhaps as Billy decided his next move. Patrick knew Billy had seen the police cruiser parked in the driveway. Patrick’s heart rate spiked, much as it had when he’d made his rounds over in Iraq. His mouth grew dry as his instincts kicked in.
Billy cut the engine and emerged from the vehicle. When he got close to the house, the artificial light caught his pinched features.
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