Find Me (Inland Empire #1)

by Anne Frasier

Benjamin Wayne Fisher,

Most detectives knew Reni Fisher’s story. She’d joined the FBI and had lived out east for a while. She was so good at profiling she’d guest lectured at Quantico. But two or three years back, there had been rumors of a breakdown.

“Does she know about your mother?” “No.” “What about Ben Fisher? Did he know?” “I didn’t think so at first, but now I wonder.” Some of the questions Fisher had asked at their meeting now seemed either a little too relevant or deliberately misleading.

“There was a time when he looked like somebody else. And I’m not talking about similar features. One night when things got intense, guns drawn, extreme danger, his face morphed into my dad’s and I almost fired at him.” He went still. “Wow.”

Again no audio, but this one appeared to be an amicable visit. There was nodding and smiling, Maurice looking sympathetic. Seeing the two of them together was surreal. They’d been such good friends for so many years. Her throat tightened at the memories that surged forward of the good days, the days she’d thought were good until they weren’t. It had almost been like having two fathers. And once Ben was gone, Maurice had stepped in, quickly replacing him.

Someone handed him a pair of gloves and a paper bag. He slipped on the gloves, tore the bag’s label open, and pulled out a dress. Red with a small floral print. Faded and dirty, darker stains that were most likely blood. Daniel held it high and the dress fluttered against the setting sun, the fabric itself almost seeming a part of the landscape.

“How does this dress look on me?” her mother asked as Reni and her father sat at the breakfast table, Reni so small her legs dangled and her feet didn’t touch the floor. “Pretty,” Reni said, cereal spoon in her hand.

Gabby Sutton. The only person to survive one of Ben Fisher’s attacks. And she not only survived, she escaped and identified him. Reni sat there a moment, took a deep breath, and opened the file. There were a lot of handwritten notes on the transcripts, many pointing to a theory that had been tossed around before. A theory that now, with the discovery of Carmel Cortez’s body, seemed worth considering. The possibility of a second killer.

Maurice had been loved and admired by many, and his presence would be missed. Some refused to believe he’d had anything to do with the murders. Even after the gun he’d used to kill himself had been found to be the same weapon used on Carmel Cortez.

“It’s always interesting how hard it is to cut through a ponytail,” Rosalind said as she made the final slice and passed the hair, held together in a band, to Reni. Reni stared at the hair in her hand, an echo of the trophies that had been laid out so carefully on Maurice’s desk. How does this dress look on me? Reni’s heart pounded and her mouth went dry. “How many ponytails have you cut in your life?” she asked, managing to keep her voice neutral, glad her mother was standing behind her and couldn’t see her expression. “Too many to count.” How does this dress look on me? Ponytails too numerous to count.