Page 22 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
“Ahh,” I said. “We’re back to the long-lost ancestors. I’m guessing she’s connected to Rachel Mills?” I searched my memory, trying to remember what had been significant about her grave. “Didn’t she have the stone circle placed around her grave?
“That’s the one,” Jack said.
“If Thomas’s cardiac arrest was medically induced then Dr. Mills would certainly have access.”
“Why don’t we pay her a visit and ask her why her car was seen near the crime scene at the time of the murder?”
“It’s a workday,” I said. “Let’s check her office first. She might have a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“We need to ask,” Jack said, starting the engine with more force than necessary.
The drive through King George County should have been peaceful—rolling hills painted in every shade of spring green, dogwood blossoms scattered like confetti against the darker backdrop of ancient oaks.
But today the countryside felt watchful, as if the very trees were holding secrets behind their budding branches.
“Jack,” I said, watching storm clouds gather on the horizon, “What if this isn’t about historical justice at all? What if someone’s using the witch trial story as camouflage for something happening right now?”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. But three hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge. Modern money, modern secrets, modern revenge—those feel more immediate.”
“Current wealth built on old blood,” Jack said, his voice carrying the grim recognition of someone who’d seen how far people would go to protect their fortunes.
The King George Family Medicine office sat in the shadow of towering magnolias, their waxy leaves dripping from the morning’s rain.
The converted Victorian should have looked welcoming with its pale yellow clapboard siding and wraparound porch, but something felt wrong.
The building seemed to hunker down against the approaching storm, windows dark and lifeless.
“Office hours say they should be open,” Jack said, checking his watch as we climbed the front steps. The boards creaked under our weight, a sound that seemed too loud in the unnatural quiet.
I pressed my face to the front window, cupping my hands against the glass. The waiting room looked frozen in time—magazines fanned neatly on side tables, chairs positioned in perfect rows—but empty of any human presence.
Jack tried the door handle. It turned, but the door was locked from the inside.
“That’s not normal for a Wednesday afternoon,” I murmured, that familiar itch between my shoulder blades that meant danger was close.
“Let’s see what the neighbors know.”
Mason & Associates Insurance occupied the adjacent building, and the moment we walked through the door, a woman behind the reception desk looked up with the eager expression of someone starved for conversation.
She was probably in her mid-sixties, with steel-gray hair teased into a style that hadn’t changed since 1985 and reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck.
“Well, hello there,” she said, her voice carrying the melodic cadence of Virginia born and bred. “Y’all aren’t here about insurance, are you? You’ve got that official look about you.”
Jack showed his badge. “Sheriff Lawson. We’re looking for Dr. Mills next door. Her office appears to be closed.”
The woman—her nameplate read Dolores Hutchins —leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes bright with the thrill of being part of something important. “Oh honey, she’s been gone since day before yesterday. Just up and left like the devil himself was chasing her.”
“Can you tell us what you saw?” I asked, settling into the chair across from her desk. Sometimes the best way to get information was to make people comfortable, let them tell their story.
“Well now,” Dolores said, adjusting her glasses and settling in for what was clearly going to be a detailed recounting.
“I was just finishing up the Jones policy renewal—Myra Jones lives out on Tobacco Road with all those cats.” She said it all in one breath and I thought the woman must have incredible lung capacity.
“That’s when I heard Dr. Mills’s car start up.
Must’ve been around five thirty, maybe quarter to six. ”
She paused for effect, making sure she had our full attention.
“Now, I wouldn’t normally pay it much mind, but she was loading a suitcase into her trunk. A big one, the kind you take on vacation. And Dr. Mills, bless her heart, hasn’t taken a vacation in the three years I’ve been working here. Woman’s married to that practice.”
Jack leaned forward slightly. “Did she seem upset? In a hurry?”
“Oh, she was rattled all right. Kept looking over her shoulder like she expected someone to jump out of the bushes. Her hands were shaking so bad she dropped her keys twice before she got the car started.” Dolores’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“And she had her medical bag with her, which struck me as odd if she was going on a trip.”
My pulse quickened. A doctor’s bag could contain all sorts of interesting things—including drugs that could stop a heart.
“Has anyone else been asking about Dr. Mills?” I asked.
Dolores’s eyes lit up. “Well, now that you mention it, I did see someone poking around her office earlier this morning. Tried the door, looked in the windows. When they saw me watching, they waved and walked off toward the parking lot.”
“Can you describe them?” Jack asked.
“Not really, honey. I wasn’t paying that much attention until they started acting suspicious. Average build, I’d say. Could’ve been a man or woman—they were wearing one of those baseball caps pulled down low.”
“What kind of vehicle were they driving?”
“Didn’t see one. They must’ve parked somewhere else and walked over. By the time I got curious enough to get a better look, they were already gone.”
We thanked Dolores and stepped back outside, where the air had grown heavy with the promise of rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first fat drops began to splatter against the pavement.
“She ran,” Jack said, his voice carrying the grim certainty of a man who’d seen too many suspects flee. “Packed a bag, took her medical supplies, and disappeared right after we found her car on our surveillance footage. That’s not the behavior of an innocent witness.”
“Could be she’s scared of whoever killed Thomas,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter as the wind picked up. “Or could be she killed him herself and realized we were closing in.”
Jack was already pulling out his phone. “Either way, I’m putting out a BOLO on Mills and her vehicle. And I want a deputy to check her home address immediately.”
The storm was moving in fast now, turning the afternoon prematurely dark. Lightning flickered in the distance as Jack finished his calls, coordinating the search for a woman who might be a killer or might be the next victim.
As we drove away from the empty medical office, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were already too late. Somewhere in King George County, the truth was waiting—and so was death.