Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

Rideout glanced once more at the girl. “I’d say it’s quite likely given the circumstances, but before I rule manner and cause of death, I want her on an autopsy table.”

Trent tapped his pen against his notepad, and everyone looked at him.

Rideout arched his brows. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Often fire is used to destroy the body and evidence…” Trent was starting to get a good rhythm going, mapping out his own musical beat. She put her hand over his to still his movements.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be, but what else? I have a feeling you have more to say…”

“Well, if that was the point here, why pour accelerant on her and then start the fire elsewhere? Why not ensure that her body was destroyed?”

“Setting the fire where they had would have allowed the person time to get out.” It was Sullivan who suggested this; he must have overheard Trent’s question. “Remember I said it’s looking like a trail was leading straight to the stairs, likely to the room she was in, though I have yet to confirm that latter bit. But the person who set this fire might not have expected that we would arrive so quickly. Probably figured the fire had time to reach her. They might not have known that old houses burn slower. Also gasoline doesn’t burn as fast as people believe.”

Amanda turned her attention back to the medic and Rideout. “Is there any ID on her?”

Jimmy shook his head and responded. “No, I checked all her pockets after I pronounced. Sad, too, because the poor girl can’t be much more than sixteen.”

Amanda’s gaze fell upon the adolescent Jane Doe, her heart aching. Who are you, sweetheart?

Three

Amanda and Trent left Rideout and Jimmy. She took some deep breaths as she stepped out of the van. The outdoor air was still tainted with the smell of smoke, but it was a welcome relief from the gas fumes she’d been inhaling inside the vehicle for the last while.

She headed down the driveway and stepped through the gate into the backyard. A six-foot-tall privacy fence lined the property. The seclusion would make it easy for trespassers to go unnoticed.

“Sixteen,” Sullivan mumbled from behind her. She turned, and he appeared like he’d spent time in a boxing ring and had the wind knocked out of him.

“It’s always worse when it’s a kid.” Amanda’s own statement drilled an ache in her chest as her thoughts first went to her sweet, beautiful Lindsey, then to the young girls she’d rescued recently from a sex-trafficking ring.

“You’ve had cases like this before?” Sullivan asked.

Amanda glanced at Trent, back at Sullivan. Three months ago, she and her family’s tragedy had been regurgitated publicly—as well as the fact she’d saved those girls. It had made front-page news in the Prince William Times. She was surprised he hadn’t heard. Usually word got around in a small town.

“I have,” she eventually said, her throat tight and her mouth suddenly dry. The flashbacks were attempting to align into focus with color and clarity, but she refused to allow them to take hold. She squeezed the memories from mind; it was best they remain fuzzy. “Well, not exactly like this, but…”

“With young people?”

“Yeah.”

Trent cleared his throat and prompted Sullivan, “You said you had the info on the person who called nine-one-one.”

“Yeah, let me get that for you. It’s in my truck.”

They followed Sullivan to an SUV. He ducked in the passenger door and pulled a notebook out of the glove box. He flipped pages and said, “Shannon Fox.”

“Address?” Amanda asked.

“Six-oh-two.” He nudged his head, drawing their attention across the street and down a few houses.

They’d pay Fox a visit, but Amanda would prefer to hear the call first. “Thanks,” she told Sullivan and pulled out her business card and handed it to him. “Everything’s on there. Phone, email…”

Sullivan smiled and gave her his card from the front of his notebook. “I’ll get everything over once I get it compiled, Detective.”

“Thank you.” She started toward the sidewalk, turned, and shrugged. “Actually, if you wanted to send it in chunks that would work for me.”

He held up her card as if to show he’d heard her but didn’t make any promises.

She proceeded to take out her phone and, with it, captured pictures of the crowd across the street as discreetly as possible. She knew Sullivan had taken photos, too, but there could never be enough. “Sullivan mentioned there were a few mattresses upstairs. Sounds like more than Doe was squatting there—and that’s assuming she was.”

“You don’t think she was?”

“Too early to say yet. What I do want to know is where the other squatters are now.” She flicked a finger toward the gawkers. “Maybe one of them will know.”

“There has to be thirty people or so.”

“You have something better to do?” she deadpanned. His complexion was pale, and his mouth opened, shut, opened, shut. She smiled. “I’ll call in for backup to help, but we need to get started.”

“Sure.”

She motioned for him to get moving while she called Malone. “Hey, we need unis down here for canvassing and to question onlookers.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Thanks, Sarge. Oh, could you also get me the recording of the nine-one-one call?”

“Consider it done.”

She thanked him again, hung up, pocketed her phone, and set off across the street. Trent was talking to an older man, but it was a man in his twenties who caught her eye. He was wearing a navy-blue hoodie and avoiding eye contact. She held up her badge. “Prince William County PD, Detective Steele.”

He was twitchy and kept looking at the ground. He was either high or nervous—maybe both.

“What’s your name?” She pulled her notepad from a back pocket. She often went back and forth between using an app on her phone to the old-school method of pen and paper.

“Simon.”

“Well, Simon, how long have you been standing here?” She pulled the pen out of the book’s coils.

“Dunno.”

“Since the fire started?”

He met her eyes