Page 95 of You'll Never Find Me

The room was clean, private, and dark. A small kitchenette with a mini-fridge, two-burner stove, and plate-sized sink along one wall, and a small table with two chairs, a queen bed, dresser, and television filling the rest of the space.

“Were you followed?” she asked, glancing out the door.

Jennifer was nervous, had bitten her fingernails down to the quick, and—based on her overflowing trash can—seemed to be living on chips and energy drinks.

“We flew my plane,” Logan said.

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

“It’s being fueled now. Come back with us. You can stay at my house.”

“He’ll find me.”

“You have to trust us,” I said, moving to close the door. I flipped on the overhead light and blinked as my eyes adjusted from the bright sun outside. I motioned for Jennifer and Logan to sit, then leaned against the counter and said, “You told me about Parsons. I filled Logan in.”

Jennifer looked at him, her face filled with concern. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to say, how to say it.”

“I’ll be okay,” Logan said. “I’m worried about you.”

Jennifer offered soda or water. I waved her down and grabbed three water bottles from the mini-fridge, put two on the table and kept one for myself.

“You have two problems,” I said. “The first is Brad Parsons. The police talked to him like all the staff, but now they have more information.”

“What if I’m wrong?” she asked.

“Then you’re wrong. But we have to look, right? Because someone stole money from Desert West and someone drugged you and Logan on Sunday and someone set fire to the Desert West offices last night. Right now, you’re the only employee the police haven’t spoken with, and that makes you look guilty.”

“I didn’t!”

“I believe you. When did you arrive down here?”

“Tuesday morning. I stayed at my condo Monday night—there’s a back way in—and I took a taxi and paid cash, walked a lot to get there. I needed to think, and my condo is pretty secure. But I didn’t feel safe—so much was going on, and after Sunday... It was just best that I keep you out of it,” she said to Logan.

“We’re going to have to address what’s going on at Desert West,” I said, “and you’ll need to talk to the police at some point, but if you can prove you were here last night, that’s a good alibi.”

“I think I can.” She frowned. “I mean, I checked in here, but I paid cash—no credit cards.”

“Would the manager remember you?”

“Yeah—I paid him five hundred upfront. I have a receipt.”

“How did you get down here?”

“Uber,” she said.

“Uber?” I repeated. That would cost a small fortune for a more than three-hour drive.

“I took an Uber to the airport, then a bus from there to Tucson, then an Uber here. Probably stupid, because someone could find me, but I was feeling lost and didn’t know what to do.”

“There will be a record, a driver, receipts. That’s good. We’ll put everything together, get your alibi in order,” I said, not wanting to distract her from our primary focus. “But first, tell us about your family. Why you faked your death and are hiding from your father.”

She looked at her chewed fingernails, saw one that wasn’t chomped on completely, and went at it.

“Jennifer,” Logan said, “please trust us—we want to help.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve always been the smart kid. Straight A’s, gifted program, the whole nine yards. I didn’t have a lot of friends because of it. And because my dad was very overprotective. When I was little, I didn’t know why.” She frowned. “Anyway, Jenny was my best friend. Her dad worked for my dad, so we knew each other forever, but we also loved each other. Like sisters. We did everything together.” She didn’t look at us, staring at a blank space on the wall over Logan’s shoulder. I didn’t push—she’d probably never talked about what happened eight years ago.

“My mom died when I was seven. A freak accident, they said. But she was murdered.”