Page 43 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)
The room itself was small, with a double bed, a narrow dresser, a small wooden desk with a pull-out stool, and a mounted TV.
There wasn’t much room for anything else, but Megan had made the most of it.
A fan hung from the ceiling in the ten-by-eight-foot space, and a small window let in some natural light.
The cement floor was covered by an indoor/outdoor rug, and the bed, with a purple comforter and colorful pillows, was set up to comfortably watch TV.
Two shelves above the desk displayed neatly arranged books and knickknacks, while tropical beach posters and pale lavender walls added a personal touch.
What struck me though was the absence of personal photos.
And there were no mirrors in the bedroom or bath.
Megan reminded me that addicts came from all families, all races, all socioeconomic ranges. Addiction didn’t discriminate.
I carefully searched the room, though there weren’t many places to hide anything.
Her clothes were made up of shorts, jeans, and T-shirts; shoes were tucked under her dresser.
No jewelry or makeup. Her books were the sort you read for school, with a lot of fantasy mixed in.
I flipped through them, nothing fell out, but based on the condition of the spines, they had all been read multiple times.
Maybe there really was nothing here that pointed to who Megan associated with during the last months of her life. Nothing to point to who might have been involved in the drug ring three years ago—and now.
But I hadn’t looked everywhere .
I had shared a bedroom with my sister Tess my entire life, until Tess went to college the year I was a high school senior.
Tess had a diary that I loved to read—mostly to annoy her.
She would hide it; I always found it. I was a brat as a kid, I can admit it now, and I eventually grew out of invading her privacy.
Sometimes, Tess found ingenious places to hide her diary—like in the tank of the toilet. She did that until the bag leaked and ruined her book. And I’ll admit, that was the one place I had never thought to look because all five of us kids shared one bathroom.
So I checked the tank; nothing. I looked between the mattress and the platform it rested on; nothing. Nothing under or behind the dresser, desk, or drawers. I even looked behind the television—only a little dust.
Maybe Megan didn’t have a diary. Maybe she kept a diary on her phone, or her computer, which wasn’t here, if she’d even had one. I should ask Mrs. Osterman about Megan’s phone—she might have contacts in it, if I could get through the passcode.
Then I started opening DVD boxes, not expecting to find anything except DVDs.
I was wrong.
Megan had the entire collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which was one of my favorite series.
Nico and I had binge-watched it as teenagers one summer when he was going through a bunch of tests in the hospital that left him tired and grumpy, before he was diagnosed with a rare but curable bone cancer.
The series took his mind off not knowing what was wrong with him and immersed him into a new world.
The collection came in a box with a hinged lid, each of the seven seasons in a separate case. When I opened the lid, I noticed that one of the DVD cases protruded a half inch above the others. I took all the cases out and at the bottom was a flash drive.
After searching every other DVD, this was the only oddity I found.
I carefully put everything back, contemplating whether or not to ask Mrs. Osterman’s permission to take the flash drive.
If she said no, I was screwed. But if there was evidence of a crime on the drive, I would need to turn it over to police and tell them how and where I found it.
And at that point, I would have to admit I stole it, which could jeopardize my license.
I was all about bending rules. Hell, I’d broken a few when I had a good reason. But the truth was I didn’t know if this was important to my investigation, so I didn’t have a solid reason to pocket it.
I made sure the room was in the same condition I found it, and went back inside the house. “Mrs. Osterman?” I called, then saw her in the living room. She was sitting on the couch looking through a book. As I came closer, I saw it was a scrapbook from Megan’s childhood.
“Megan made this for my fiftieth birthday. She was thirteen. It’s all the things we did together. I try to remember the fun years.”
She was silently crying, and I really hated that I had reminded this woman of what she’d lost.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Osterman.”
“Did you find anything to help?”
“I might have.” I held out the flash drive. “This was hidden in one of the DVD sets. Do you recognize it?”
Mrs. Osterman frowned and shook her head.
“Would you mind if I borrowed it? If it’s personal pictures or anything like that, I’ll immediately return it. But I think there was a reason she hid this.”
She bit her lip, then nodded.
“Did Megan have a cell phone?”
“Of course. The police returned it with her personal effects. I haven’t gone through it—I don’t know if I want to.”
“Would you mind if I looked at it? I only want to look at her contacts to see who else I can talk to.”
“It wouldn’t be charged.”
I also wanted to check her text messages, but didn’t say that. Mrs. Osterman hadn’t hired me. But I felt strongly that something about Megan’s death had prompted Elijah to investigate on his own, which led to his death.
“If you charge it and want to send me her contacts, I would appreciate it. Or, I can do it myself.”
She seemed torn, then she nodded. “Give me a minute.”
She left the room and I felt like crap. Megan had been dead for less than three months and Mrs. Osterman was still grieving. I’d brought it all back to the surface.
A few minutes later she returned with a small cloth bag. “Her phone and charger. The passcode is 1117.”
“Thank you. I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Osterman opened the front door. “It’s been eleven weeks since Megan died. Sometimes, it feels like yesterday. But I really lost her three years ago.”
When I left the Osterman house, I was depressed.
Megan had had a good life, a mother who loved her, and seemed to have been a happy kid.
Until someone introduced her to drugs and she became addicted.
Addiction was complicated—some people were more susceptible than others.
Some people needed more help to quit. And some people fueled addictions.
Those people made me angry.
I headed downtown toward the office when Harry finally called me back. I was irritated that it had taken him so long. Yes, he was doing me a favor, but it would take him, like, two seconds to look up the plate.
Still, I answered in my sweetest voice. “And how is my favorite veteran today?”
“The idiot I spent two days training? Quit. Didn’t come in today and sent a fucking email that the job was too much pressure. I’ll show him pressure!”
“Sounds like you’re having a worse day than me.”
“John Brighton.”
“The Tesla?”
Harry rattled off an address and I barely had time to swing to the side of the road and scribble it down on the only piece of paper I could find, the back of a receipt.
“Thanks, Harry.”
“I hate people,” he said and hung up.
Since I was already pulled over, I looked up Brighton’s address. The address was Phoenix, but the zip code was the area bordering Paradise Valley.
I stopped, thumb hovering above my screen. What was familiar about this address?
Then it clicked. Elijah had searched this address on Google Maps the day before he died.
I typed it into Maps to see exactly where it was. The road John Brighton lived on led to Piestewa Peak. Older homes, but very pricey because of the view. I itched to drive over there and check it out, but it was midafternoon, and no guarantee he’d be home.
I texted Tess the name and address.
Can you find info about him? Work, play, whatever. I’m on my way to the office—fifteen minutes tops.
She sent me an angry face emoji, so I followed it up with a kissy face emoji before I pulled into traffic.
Elijah had looked up this address the day before he died. He’d taken photos of the vehicle registered to this address.
What did you find, Elijah?
What did you find that got you killed?