Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

standing together in any of the photos. There was nothing screaming that they knew each other. It could have just been a coincidence that they were both at the two scenes? But what about the morning of Fox’s murder? Had they been in the crowd that day?

“Quick,” she directed Trent, “look for them in the crowd across from Fox’s house.”

Trent rushed back to his desk, and shortly later, his printer came to life.

“Both the man and woman were there too.” Trent bolted to his feet, snatched the paper off the tray, and handed it to her. He pointed out their faces. “Him, right there in the back, and her near the front.”

What the hell is going on? Her heart raced, and her stomach tightened. “Okay, we pull all the crowd interviews—from the first fire and across from Fox’s house. His name has to be there somewhere.” As she heard herself rattling off directions, she realized she was getting ahead of herself. And if the man was the killer, would he have stuck around to be interviewed? By extension, if he was questioned, she couldn’t imagine that he’d provide his real information. There was something they could try right now, though.

Amanda took out her notebook and confirmed the address was the same as the one Cindy’s boyfriend had given her at the first fire. She got up from her chair and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To visit Cindy Page, assuming we have her right address. I’d like to know why she was at all three crime scenes, and if she knows who he is.” She pressed a fingertip to the man’s face and felt a tug of recognition, but she couldn’t really place from where. Maybe she had seen him in the crowds, but he hadn’t really stood out to her. Though he did look a lot like that actor Tom Cruise.

Forty-Four

Two in the morning was an advantageous time to show up at someone’s door. It would probably throw Cindy Page and her boyfriend off guard and give Amanda and Trent the advantage.

Amanda knocked hard with one hand and rang the doorbell with the other. And she kept pounding until she felt a vibration reach the porch floorboards. Someone was coming. The outside light flicked on, and the door whooshed open.

The guy with the teal hair—Simon West—was standing there with a gun pointed at them.

Amanda and Trent drew their weapons.

“Prince William County PD. Put your gun down and your hands up,” she barked.

“Hey, I didn’t know who I’d be opening the door to at this hour.” The guy held up his free hand and put his gun on the floor.

Trent collected it and proceeded to clear the magazine and chamber.

“We’re not off to a very good start here, Simon,” she said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Simon?” It was a female’s voice, leery, small. She came up behind Simon. It was Cindy.

“You may not remember me, but I spoke to you on Thursday across from the house fire at five thirty-two Bill Drive. I’m Detective Steele, and this is Detective Stenson.” She dropped their first names to stress this was anything but a social visit—as if the hour alone didn’t say that much. “We need to ask you some questions.” She gestured toward the inside of the house, implying that she was looking for the invitation to enter.

The couple backed into the house, allowing Amanda and Trent room to get in.

Trent closed the door behind them once they were all standing in the entry.

“Do you have someplace we could sit?” Amanda had intended to approach this visit calmly and rationally, but starting off with a gun in her face had her very guarded and vigilant.

Cindy covered a yawn with her hand while Simon’s body sagged, and he led them down a short hall to a living room. The place could have used a good tidying. Dirty plates and a couple of empty beer bottles sat on a coffee table.

Simon dropped onto the couch, Cindy next to him, their hips touching.

Both of them looked like death warmed over, and Amanda would guess that she and Trent had woken them up. There were a few other chairs in the room. Trent sat in one, but Amanda remained standing.

“Cindy, why were you at the scene of the fire on Bill Drive the other day?” Amanda started.

“We told you,” Simon jumped in. “We just heard the fire trucks and were curious.”

Amanda gave him a corrective glare and said firmly, “I asked Cindy.”

“What he said.”

“Okay.” Amanda had the photo of Cindy in the crowd across from Fox’s house ready to pull up on her cell phone, and she did so now. “And we see that you were here the next day.”

Cindy’s cheeks flushed. “So?”

“Do you know where this picture was taken?” Amanda asked.

Cindy wet her lips and stared across the room for several seconds but said nothing. Then, “Also on Bill Drive.”

“That’s right. What were you doing there?”

“Just watching everything going on. That’s all.”

Amanda would play diplomat to start. “Did you know Shannon Fox?”

She shook her head and blinked slowly.

“What about him?” Amanda pointed to their mystery man’s face.

Cindy looked closely at the picture. “He looks familiar. But I don’t know him. I probably just saw him when I was there that day.”

Amanda had a feeling that might have been the case but had to ask and see her reaction. It would seem she was telling the truth—she didn’t know the guy. She pulled up the computer-rendered photo of Ashley Lynch and showed it to Cindy. Before she could ask, Cindy started trembling, and her chin quivered. Tears fell down her cheeks, and she gripped the fabric of her shirt over her heart.

Amanda had hit a bullseye. “You knew her.”

Cindy sniffled. “She was… my best friend.”

Amanda felt tingles run over her shoulders and down her arms. She hadn’t expected that response, and it had her looking at Cindy in a different light. When she’d first met Cindy on Bill Drive, she pegged her in her twenties, but she had been