Page 83 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Haynes promises to get with me about the video when he can, though I press him for sooner rather than later. He suggests I ought to be grateful, and that I’ll get it when I get it. I can only hope he’s blustering and is as ready to have me out of his hair as I am to get my hands on that footage.
I drive back to the house to collect what I need to move forward with the idea I got at Grace’s place. Then I swing by the sheriff’s department to see Cole, but he’s out. He doesn’t answer when I ring his cell either. I settle for leaving him a package with a note inside.
My office is the next stop. I distract myself while waiting to hear from Cole by answering emails, reviewing client inquiries, and doing some desk research in a couple of cases.
I even reach out to my accountant–slash–office manager, who manages the financial aspects of Walsh Investigations.
As soon as she answers, I realize I haven’t spoken to her in over a week.
In addition to being my accountant, Rachel Grant is also a pretty good friend. As if I couldn’t feel worse…
“Soph! I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m so sorry. I’ve been insanely busy. No excuse, but it’s true.”
“It’s fine. I know you’ve been working those murders. Catch me up. ”
I do, or at least as much as I can without going into details of the investigation, or the disturbing turn of events with Edward. It’s not that we aren’t close enough for me to tell her. I simply don’t want to talk about it.
Instead, I steer the conversation to her.
She tells me about her husband—Nolan, the doctor—and her two children, the cutest little girls you’ve ever seen.
I babysit them when I need a kid-fix I can’t get from Jake.
It satisfies the urge when it rears its head, which isn’t that often.
I can’t imagine adding that wonderful but all-consuming angle to my life any time soon.
After a thorough review of our personal lives, Rachel and I switch into business mode. She’s in the middle of bemoaning the unacceptably high amount of receivables when my phone buzzes.
It’s L.A.’s number.
“…owes you another two grand, which he promises?—”
“Hey, Rachel,” I interrupt, “I’m so sorry, but I have to catch this other call. Can we do dinner soon? Girls’ night out?”
“If we do, will you let me finish my financial report?”
“I will.”
“Then I’ll text you. Of course”—I can almost hear her smirk—“you’ll have to actually respond.”
“I will. Promise.”
I switch calls and L.A.’s voice comes over the speaker. “Walsh?”
“Mr. Haynes?”
“Yeah, so I got what you asked for. They’ll be sending you the video soon.”
I sit up straight in my chair. “That’s fantastic. Thank you.”
“ And , I found somebody at the club who recognized your girl from the photo. She ain’t there yet, but I got her number.” He rattles it off, and I grab a pen and scribble it down.
“This is really great.”
“It ain’t free. I’m expecting you to come down here with an apology.”
At this point, I don’t even care that I have to do it. “If this is the video I’m looking for, I’ll be there. ”
“You better. I know where to find you now, Sophie Walsh. I don’t get my apology, I may have to take a little vacay up to Mitchell County to meet you in person.”
I don’t know if it’s a genuine threat or not, but I don’t have the energy to worry about it. “Won’t be necessary. I’ll be in touch.”
“You do that,” he says, and ends the call.
I twist toward the yard-long, curved screen Goat installed, presently hooked up to my laptop. My eyes are glued to the inbox I was cleaning out earlier, my fingertips tapping on my desk…waiting…waiting…
And then, it appears, a chime simultaneously ringing through the screen’s speakers.
No message accompanies it, just a shared link to a video on a Google drive.
I click on it, and click again when it takes me to a file.
A window containing a video pops up. I can see from the thumbnail that it’s a plain, concrete-block building with an enormous neon sign on the wall that reads “The Backroom.” The footage is a washed-out black-and-white, so I can’t make out the color of the neon, but the light cuts into the night and drips over everything.
My bet is it’s purple.
I pull up the saved image from Kamden’s Instagram. The photo is from a different angle than the video, but the same vehicles are captured in both. After about a minute, Kamden Avery exits the club’s front door, wearing the outfit she was buried in.
My heart gallops and I lean closer to the screen.
Kamden’s expression is impossible to read—the camera is too far away—but she doesn’t seem to be in distress. She goes about ten paces, then motions at someone off-screen, apparently standing under or behind the spot where the CCTV camera is mounted.
Kamden grips her handbag and waits, her eyes following someone or something moving toward her that isn’t visible on the video.
Until he steps close enough to enter the frame.
Then he is there, his back to the camera, taking her phone from her outstretched hand. When he backs up out of the shot again, Kamden strikes the same pose from the Instagram photo. Then she breaks her stance and strides out of the frame too .
That’s it.
No car. No face of the mystery man in the video. It doesn’t matter, though. This is enough.
Because I recognize him anyway.