Page 122 of You'll Never Find Me

“Brad had a temper tantrum then left with Brittney. Stay put.”

“Come in here with me,” he said through the door. “They could return.”

“I’m fine. Just hold tight until the police get here.”

I heard sirens. Because the house was set back from the road, they were probably closer than they sounded. Brittney and Parsons didn’t have enough time to get out of the garage, let alone out of the neighborhood. They could easily return and create a hostage situation. I hoped they didn’t do something stupid.

I ran to the front of the theater and retrieved my phone, then posted myself in the doorway, my back against the broken door frame, where I could see the hall to the left that led to the laundry room and garage, and the wider hall to the right where parts of the kitchen and family room were visible.

“Dispatch, you still there?” I asked.

“Police have arrived at the residence. Are there any injuries? Can you give me a status?”

She sounded a bit stressed, and I supposed when I didn’t immediately come on the line after multiple gunshots, she may have thought I was dead.

“My name is Margo Angelhart. I’m a licensed private investigator. I’m partly secure in a downstairs room on the north side of the house with the homeowner, Logan Monroe. A man named Brad Parsons fired multiple rounds into the room, then left with Brittney Monroe. He has at least one weapon. I do not know if they are still in the house.”

“Is Mrs. Monroe a hostage?”

“She left with him willingly.” I didn’t know what Parsons was thinking and I hoped Brittney knew what she was doing. “I am armed and protecting Mr. Monroe. Mr. Parsons threatened to kill him.”

“I’ve let the responding officers know your status. Please stay on the line.”

I put the phone down on the bar but left dispatch on speaker. The entire call would be recorded, including the gunshots and Parsons’s rants about Monroe. Evidence for the prosecution.

How did it come down to this? How had Parsons gone from a nonviolent crime of embezzlement to assault to arson, and now to attempted murder? He spiraled quickly. Pressure from the police investigation into the arson? Pressure from Desert West and the exposure? That Jennifer had disappeared with evidence of his crime?

Whatever the reason, the man was unstable, and Brittney, somehow, had contributed to it.

What a waste.

The dispatcher said, “Ms. Angelhart?”

“Right here,” I answered.

“I’m patching you through to Sergeant Ryan Daza who is outside the residence. One moment.”

A second later, a male voice said, “Ms. Angelhart?”

“Yep.”

“An officer has been outside for the last four minutes and no one has exited. How long since you last saw the suspects?”

I glanced at my watch. “Six minutes. There were two vehicles in the garage when I entered the house—a white Tesla registered to Logan Monroe, and a gray-blue Range Rover registered to Brittney Monroe. When they left the theater—the room I’m in with Mr. Monroe—they turned down the hall toward the garage. The garage code is pound 4512.”

“The garage is open and there is only a Tesla inside. Do you have the plates for the Range Rover?”

I rattled them off from memory.

“Hold tight.”

Two minutes later, Daza got back on the line. “We’re coming in through the garage and the front door. Are you armed?”

“Yes.”

“Please holster your weapon.”

“Roger that.”