One Last Breath by Sarah Sutton (speld decodable readers txt) 📗

“We are not here to question you about the encounter with your daughter,” Tara tried to reassure him, but his face only tightened more in anger at the mention. “But we do have some questions about that night,” she added. “We just want to know if you saw any of these girls.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out the images of the three victims. He looked at each one carefully, but his eyes fell hard on Reese.

“What does it matter?” he asked as heat rose up his neck.

Tara wasn’t sure if he was playing dumb or if he truly didn’t watch the news. Almost everyone would recognize their faces by now, since they’d been plastered on every local news station. Tara explained the case and that one of them was missing, but his face didn’t change.

“We’re just trying to find a connection between the three. We think they might’ve all been there that night, at the party.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on Reese, until they moved to the others, with the same burning look.

“Do you remember seeing them?” Tara asked again.

“Who the hell knows,” he finally blurted as he looked up at Tara with utter disgust. “But you know what, those little sluts probably deserved it if they’re going to house parties at sixteen.” He went to slam the door, but Warren placed his hand hard against it, holding it slightly ajar.

He was clearly not only controlling, but a misogynist too, and Tara felt a fire flare within her.

“Sir, please, we just want to talk,” Warren assured him, but Terry only gave him a fiery glare.

His teeth gritted, he pulled open the door abruptly. “Don’t you dare put your hand on my door,” he growled. He was about to shut it again, but then a burst of anger flowed through him. “Don’t you think I’ve been through enough!” he screamed. “I lost my damn daughter! My wife! And then you’re going to come here and bother me with this shit! Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”

Tara’s hand casually moved to her hip, closer to her gun. She wasn’t quite sure what he was implying. It was either that he was afraid they would bring him up on assault charges for pushing Reese that night and verbally abusing her, or he was referring to something else entirely.

He took one look at Warren and began to laugh awkwardly. “You think you intimidate me?” He moved into the hallway, still holding his beer as it sloshed around, spilling in his clumsy grip. He was clearly drunk.

“We can come back another time,” Warren replied.

But Terry’s face only contorted with more anger. His lip curled in disgust. “No, you won’t. You’re both going to leave me alone! Now get the hell out of here.” He pushed Warren in the shoulder, an attempt to make him leave, but Warren swatted his hand away.

“Sir, don’t put your hands on me.” Warren’s voice was threatening and stern.

But Warren’s words only fueled him further, and his fist flung through the air, heading right to Warren’s jaw. Warren ducked and ran into Terry’s stomach, causing him to lose balance. He fell flat on his back in the doorway. His beer flew from his hand. Glass shattered across his living room, liquid leaking all over the floor.

He groaned in anguish as he tried to force Warren off him, but he was too drunk. Warren forced him up as Tara came behind and cuffed him.

“You all right?” she asked.

Warren nodded as he pushed Terry forward. But at about halfway down the hall, Mr. Brennan suddenly keeled over. Vomit spilled out of his mouth. Warren shook his head as he waited for Terry to gain his composure and then continued to push him forward. Tara curled her lip in disgust as she followed Warren out to the car. Once he was in the back seat, Tara and Warren agreed to take a look inside the apartment, and they made their way back in.

“What are you thinking so far?” Tara asked as they opened the apartment door. Warren had been mostly quiet, deep in thought.

Warren shrugged. “He clearly has an anger issue,” he replied. “Let’s see what else we can find,” he added as he stepped into the apartment.

The shattered beer bottle still lay in pieces across the living room, soaking into a rug underneath the coffee table, between the TV and pleather couch. Empty beer bottles sat on every space of every surface. It was a small apartment. The kitchen was to the right of the living room, and then there was the bedroom and bathroom at the end of a short hallway.

Tara and Warren looked in every corner for traces of anything that would link him to the crime scene—shovels, tarps, anything to tie someone up—but they were unable to find a single such object. They moved throughout the living room, and then the kitchen, until they moved down the hallway. Tara opened a coat closet. She searched behind jackets. She looked at the bottoms of shoes for traces of sand. But nothing had a touch of suspicion.

They both entered the bedroom. It was dark, with thick curtains covering the windows, shutting out any flicker of the sun. They turned on an overhead light, revealing the mess. The extent of beer bottles had flowed into the bedroom as well. They sat atop the nightstands and dresser and atop a computer desk and filing cabinet in the corner.

Tara moved to the filing cabinet while Warren searched the closet. She flipped through each folder inside. Each were labeled correctly with what they held inside—tax information, birth certificate, social security. Tara sighed as she continued to dig through each one.

One labeled Family Pictures struck her amongst the others, and she pulled it out of the bunch. Inside were pictures of him, his daughter, and his wife. Some were Christmas cards, while others looked like photos taken on vacation. Some were them skiing, others were in the tropics with palm