Page 76 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Like most emergency rooms, the one at Huntsville General is overwhelmed and understaffed.

If you find yourself waiting beneath its glaring fluorescents, chances are you won’t see a room behind the coveted swinging doors for several hours, unless you fall into a crisis category you don’t want to be in.

The man I was there to see had been ushered into one of those rooms upon arrival—not a good sign.

When I arrive at the ER, Mitchell County Deputy Esteban Valesco walks me over to Parry’s family members—his wife, daughter, and father—in the middle of an update from a harried-looking doctor.

“…He’s stable, and we’ve moved him upstairs for surgery.

There’s some internal bleeding of concern in his abdomen…

” The doctor barely looks old enough to be out of college, much less medical school.

Parry’s wife listens stoically, while a sob wracks his teenage daughter.

“You can move to the surgical wing waiting room, if you like. His surgeon, Dr. Tillman, will update you as soon as she has more information.”

When the doctor moves on, I gently slide into their personal space. “Excuse me. I’m Sophie Walsh, an investigator working with the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department.”

They nod silently with vacant stares, echoing the numbness that’s overtaken them. It’s a common reaction in the aftermath of a shocking event, one I’ve seen all too often doing what I do.

One I’ve felt too.

“I’m so sorry for what’s happened to your husband,” I say to his wife. Her bottom lip trembles and his daughter sniffles, her body shaking. “I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment about something you mentioned to the officer.” I tilt my head toward Deputy Valesco.

“We need to move upstairs.” Parry’s father steps behind the women and slips a protective arm around each of them.

“I understand. Mr. Parry, is it?”

He nods.

“I can join you, if that’s easier. I promise I won’t take much of your time.” Doubt darkens Mr. Parry’s gaze. “It’ll help us find the driver who caused the accident.”

Mr. Parry inhales a long drag through his nose. “Do what you have to do to get ’em. Come on,” he says, ushering his family toward the elevators with me and Deputy Valesco in tow.

The surgical waiting room is much more hospitable than the one in the ER.

Rather than the vending machines, a complimentary offering of snack items, water, and soda is set out on a counter.

A couple dozen people are already keeping vigil.

Parry’s family selects an unoccupied row of chairs and sits. I take a chair opposite them.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask first, hoping to put them at ease. When they shake their heads, I press on. “Mrs. Parry, Deputy Valesco said you made a comment to him about how ‘it must take an accident to get you people to pay attention.’”

She nods.

“And when he asked what you meant, you said your husband reached out to the sheriff’s department over the weekend about something he’d seen, but no one got back in touch?”

Mrs. Parry tucks a loose strand of highlighted brown hair behind her ear.

“That’s right. John saw the report on the news identifying the woman found the day before.

He thought he might know something and called up there Sunday morning.

He left a message, but nobody got back with him.

He was planning on going to the sheriff’s department tomorrow—his day off—because he was so sure it was important. ”

The sheriff’s department maintains an informational number—a tip-line—that would have been given in the news segment about Kamden’s identification.

In a larger county, a tip-line might be staffed around the clock, but ours isn’t.

Instead, it’s a messaging system that’s supposed to be regularly checked by rotating deputies who filter out genuine tips from the useless ones and pass them along.

It’s now late Monday afternoon. If John Parry left his message on Sunday morning, I don’t know why it hasn’t been passed up the chain to me by now—even if whoever was on the schedule forgot to check the messages over the weekend.

“I’m not sure what happened with his message. I’ll follow up on it, but in the meantime, do you have any idea what he said in it?”

She sniffs. “John works at a plant in Decatur and comes home by way of I-65 South. Sometimes he stops to get gas at the WilCo right off the exit for Highway 174.”

I’m very familiar with that exit, having taken it hundreds of times.

Just like Kurt Fogerty did.

“I won’t get this exactly right, but when that woman’s photo came up on the news, John said he thought he’d seen her.

That she had been fighting with someone, a man—they weren’t getting gas, they were parked off to the side of the pumps.

She had gotten out and was yelling at him.

He was still in the driver’s seat, yelling for her to get back in the car.

“I think John said when she started to walk away, the man got out and pulled her back to the car. Eventually, they drove off. At the time, he didn’t think much of it—just a couple arguing. But then he saw that photo and thought it could be her. ”

“Did he give you any description of the man?”

“No. But I didn’t ask him, either. I don’t know if he can tell you anything about him or not.”

“What about the date? You said this happened sometime in October. Any chance he was more specific than that?” I was already planning to pull whatever footage the WilCo had for October.

Unfortunately, often places like that don’t keep surveillance video for more than six months, and we were beyond that.

“No. He didn’t mention a date to me.”

“Okay. Thank you for talking to me. I know it’s an extremely difficult time. Are you sure I can’t do anything for you before I go?”

She assures me that I can’t, so I excuse myself, leaving the Parry family to manage their crisis. Once I’m in the hospital’s main lobby, headed for the exit, I dial the sheriff’s department. Deputy Carlisle answers.

“Hey, yeah, Deputy. It’s Sophie Walsh again. Can you tell me who was on the tip-line this weekend?” I push through the glass doors into the parking lot, the clamor of city traffic colliding with my ears. I stride to my Jeep, parked in one of the forward spots reserved for law enforcement.

“Sure. Hold on,” he says, and some awful techno music plays for about thirty seconds until he comes back on. “That was Jamal. Deputy Jamal Carver.”

I know Jamal fairly well. He and Daniel were in the same Bible study back in the day. As far as I know, he’s a conscientious guy, and I can’t see him forgetting something like checking the hotline. “Is he on duty today?” I ask, pressing the unlock button on my Jeep’s key fob and climbing in.

“Yeah.”

“Did any tip-line calls come in over the weekend in the Kamden Avery case? Or today, for that matter?”

“I don’t know about the weekend—I’ll have to check—but, nah, nothing today. I mean, we got one this morning, but nothing legit.”

“You sure?”

He snorted. “The woman said she watched a woman matching Kamden Avery’s description get sucked up into a spaceship. So you tell me.”

“Not the craziest tip we’ve ever gotten.”

“No, but I wasn’t planning on passing it along. Unless you’re really widening your suspect pool.”

“I’m not taking it that wide, no,” I concede.

“If something came in over the weekend, Jamal should have picked it up,” Deputy Carlisle says.

“And if he didn’t?”

“Well, then it would still be in the inbox marked as unheard, but there wasn’t anything waiting for me when I came in this morning.”

I drum my fingertips on the steering wheel. “Can you have Jamal call me when he gets a chance?”

“Ten-four.”

When the call disconnects, one question is left spinning in my brain.

If Parry called the sheriff’s tip-line and left a message, what happened to it? Messages don’t just disappear.

Unless someone makes sure they do.

“That’s crazy,” says James, his fork hovering over the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and baby limas making up the dinner special at the Ink & Ivy tonight. “How does a message just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Deputy Carver finally got in touch and said there wasn’t a single credible tip all weekend. Three in total and none of them panned out, and none from John Parry.” I take another bite of potatoes and gravy, comfort food if I’ve ever tasted it.

After the day I’ve had, I need it. I was thrilled when James said he could meet me here, and so hungry I didn’t even head home first. I try to clean up a little in the bathroom, but after smoothing my hair and reapplying my minimal makeup, I still look a bit like I’ve gone a round with a bargain shopper on Black Friday .

“What about Fogerty?” he asks. “Does Sheriff Vickers have any leads?”

“None he’s shared, and I’m assuming he would if he had any, even though he hasn’t asked for my help on the investigation.”

“That surprises me. Maybe you should offer.” James stabs several limas over the sound of tonight’s playlist—Grace’s curated selection of mellow country songs about love and loss.

“I did. He’s putting Cole on it with Mike Neeley. The sheriff’s prepping Cole to take over when Mike retires soon.”

“Still, you could be really helpful.”

I’ve tried to impress on James how much it means to me that he’s so supportive of my work, but I’m not sure he understands the depth of my gratitude. I do not take him being in my corner for granted.

I smile. “I love that you think that, but he wants me focused on solving the new murder. There’s even more urgency now that it looks like Fogerty’s alibied out.”

“True. So, he’s probably right to not divide your attention. Can I do anything?”

James asks this from time to time—not as often as Edward—and I appreciate him wanting to help.

But there isn’t anything he can do, and even if there were, I wouldn’t want him pulling strings.

That kind of favor can jeopardize a politician’s aspirations if it comes to light, whether it’s legit or not.

It’s no secret that the smallest thing can wipe out a political career if weaponized by the opposition or spun negatively by the media. I won’t let him do that to himself.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’ve got this.”

The sound of pounding footfalls hurtling toward us draws my attention up to Jake, running to our table, a grin splitting his face.

Curiosity bursts inside my chest. “Tell me everything.”

“You should have seen it!” Jake bellows, his bright eyes full of excitement. “Totally got him!” He drops into the empty chair beside me.

“What happened?” I ask.

“This is about the kid stealing your lunch?” James asks.

Jake nods vigorously. “Sophie came up with the best idea!” He turns to me.

“So I put my backpack on the hook like always and then during class, Dale’s all, ‘Can I go to the bathroom?’ Ms. Palmer lets him and then…

” Jake smacks his hand on the table. “Dale is screaming . He’s going crazy because his hands are all purple and he’s rubbing them together and it’s”—Jake’s belly-laughing now—“only getting worse! He’s yelling at me, ‘He did it! He turned my hands purple!’ And I say, ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t be stealing other people’s lunches. ’”

James and I both laugh, and when I cut my eyes to James, his are twinkling. “That’s so awesome,” he says.

Jake’s little legs dance in place. “I know. Dale got a week of recess detention. Best. Day. Ever.”

“What about you?” I ask. “You get in trouble?”

“Ms. Palmer called Gigi. She said she had to, but I could tell Ms. Palmer thought it was great. I didn’t lose one recess.”

“I’ll bet Dale’s parents didn’t think it was great,” James says, the corner of his mouth still hitched up.

“I don’t care. I’m, like, the most popular kid in the class now.

You’re the best, Sophie.” Jake jumps up, wraps me in a tight hug, then quickly releases me.

“I gotta go. Gigi wants me to finish my homework by seven. But she told me I could say thanks.” As he speeds off, I scan the room for Grace.

She’s talking to some diners at their table and when her gaze meets mine, she winks.

James squeezes my hand, drawing my focus back to him. “I guess that settles it,” he says. “You’re the best, Sophie.”

I squint my eyes as the corner of my mouth rises. “About time you figured that out.”