Page 72 of Paranoid

“Meaning?”

“Odd things have been happening. I keep hearing things, seeing things, and it’s not just me. Reno does, too,” she said, amping up a bit. “And ... I received a weird text.... I mean, it was as if Luke had sent it. I know that’s impossible—crazy—but . . . here, let me show you.” She patted the back pocket of her jeans and then frowned. “I guess I left it . . .” She walked quickly down the hallway and into the kitchen and he followed. “Here . . .” After retrieving her cell from the counter, she studied the screen, punched out some commands, found what she was looking for, and handed the phone to him.

“I forgive you,” he read the text aloud, his insides chilling. He glanced up at her. “Who sent it?”

“Don’t know. I tried to text and call back—no one responded.”

“Could be a mistake. Sent to the wrong number.” But he didn’t believe it for a second, not with the message—the vile accusation—sprayed across the door.

“I don’t think so.” She glanced out the window. “I should tell you I saw something last night.”

“What?” Real? Or imagined?

The doorbell sounded, and the dog started barking.

Patricia Voss had arrived.

Good. He wanted to hear it all, but thought it would be best if someone else heard the story. Someone with a little distance, someone who hadn’t spent nights beside her in bed as Rachel woke with night terrors, someone who hadn’t had to calm their children when their mother was half crazed with fear, someone objective and professional.

“Reno, hush!” Rachel opened the door, quick introductions were made, and Voss set up a recorder to take Rachel’s statement. They were in the living room, where the clock ticked over the fireplace, nearly buried in the framed pictures of Harper and Dylan crowded upon the mantel. Cade felt an uncomfortable pull remembering when some of the photographs had been taken. Christmas when the kids were just starting elementary school, Harper missing teeth, Dylan sporting a buzz cut that Rachel had hated.

He stood near the couch where Rachel sat, Voss in a winged-back chair at one end of the coffee table, the dog finding a spot on the corner of the rug.

“You have any idea who would have done this?” Voss asked, her pen poised to take notes to back up the recording.

Rachel shook her head. “No. But I think maybe I saw him.”

“Him. A man?” Voss asked and Cade felt his jaw tense.

“It was last night, well, around three in the morning.” She explained about having a bad dream, being awakened by the dog’s barking. Downstairs, she’d looked through the windows in the door to see a man and a dog getting into a car at the end of the street.

“A dog?” Cade repeated, feeling a jolt.

“Can you describe the man?” Voss asked.

“No, it was too dark; he looked . . . average, I guess, and he was carrying something. And, like I said, he was walking his dog.”

“What kind of car?” Cade asked, already guessing.

“Don’t know. Just what looked like a white, or maybe silver, sedan.”

He pressed her. “You get the plate number or notice if it was from Oregon?”

“No.”

Of course not, but his mind was spinning ahead. “And the dog? What kind was it? What breed?”

“I couldn’t say. Small or medium sized, I guess, and light colored.”

“Could it have been a beagle?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Again, it was dark, but maybe. About that size.”

“You know anyone named Frank Quinn?” Cade asked.

“What?” She looked up at him, her lips turned into a frown as she slowly shook her head. “No.”

“He lives on Toulouse Street,” Cade said.