Page 125 of Our Daughter's Bones

“Why?”

When he didn’t say anything, she jerked her head to look at him.

He stared at her with empty eyes. Like his soul had left him. “Come on, Micky.”

Her vision cracked. She knew she was waking up. But before darkness could engulf her dream, she heard her father’s whisper weave its way through to her.

“I’m always watching, Micky.”

Mackenzie swallowed the ibuprofen dry. She’d barely slept the night before. Her father’s whisper lingered in her ears long after she awoke. She spent hours trying to calm her sizzling nerves. It had been two days since the conversation with Arthur Bishop.

She was hopeful that there was at least one private collector. The cocktail napkins couldn’t be traced to any establishment. They were designed for private use. But why would someone take a personalized napkin to a strip club, or any other place?

A club must have a lair. A location where the members got together. Where they held their September girl captive. That’s where they had their drinks and used that napkin.

Mackenzie had kept tabs on Eddy. Bishop had kept his word; Eddy no longer had a hand over him. She had informed Isaac DeLuca that if he had cause to prosecute Eddy again, there would be no expensive suits in the courtroom defending him. She also called in a favor with Ned, asking him to check in on Clara. There was no one more brutal than Ned when it came to dealing with domestic abusers.

Why didn’t anyone try to save them? Why hadn’t anyone seen what her father did to her mother every night? She wondered if the world was that blind or if Melody was that good at lying.

“Mack?” Nick waved his hand in her face.

She jerked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Bishop just sent a list of the private collectors. Check your email.”

“Plural?” she snorted, opening her email. “Maybe that beer isn’t that bad.”

“Ten bucks says you can’t finish an entire bottle without pulling a face.”

“Make it twenty, and I’ll consider.”

She opened the Excel file. There were ten collectors in the state of Washington. The second column listed the delivery address. The next columns contained the dates of delivery for the last three years.

“I didn’t expect him to be this organized.”

“Illegal business requires skills, Mack.” He wheeled into her cubicle. “He really doesn’t want to go to prison. Too bad we didn’t quite manage to call off the Feds.”

He winked. The FBI had already started their own investigation into Atleum Holdings before they’d visited Bishop at home.

She turned back to the list, smirking. “Look, only three are in Lakemore.” She deleted the other entries. “Phil Segal. John Hang. Otto Graham.”

“Otto Graham?”

“Yeah. Rare name. Haven’t met an Otto in a while.”

“Mack! Otto Graham!” He egged her on to make the connection. When she drew a blank, he continued. “Quarterback for the Browns. Led them to three NFL championships. Guy’s a legend.”

“He lives in Lakemore?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. He’s been dead over a decade and was from Illinois. Do you know where I’m going with this?”

“Someone gave a fake name.” She moved quickly and looked up the delivery address.

“And they used a football player’s name.”

“It’s a cabin in the woods on the other side of Fresco River.”

Her heart kept its steady rhythm. But her mind sprinted. The profile matched. The address was deep in the woods—away from meddling neighbors and possible witnesses. Deep in the woods where screams for help would be swallowed. The fake name provided was that of a famous football player—a fan. A fan who started Club 916 again.