What Janie Saw. Pamela Tracy

her since she was born.”

      Janie couldn’t imagine that kind of stability. Rafe had lived in Scorpion Ridge his whole life. She’d bounced from her father’s place to apartment after apartment, neighborhood after neighborhood with an alcoholic aunt. In some ways she was still bouncing. Maybe she always would be, as her goal was to paint exotic animals in their natural habitat, and this meant lots of travel. Right now, she was saving every dime and putting together her portfolio and résumé, hoping she would be chosen as a visiting artist in Johannesburg, South Africa.

      She could hardly wait.

      Rafe, on the other hand, was a third-generation law officer with roots so deeply grounded in Scorpion Ridge that even during his few vacations, he’d rather have been home.

      Janie’s idea of home didn’t match his.

      She’d figured that out during their one date.

      He’d been all about Scorpion Ridge, its people, the way of life. She loved it here, too, but there were people to meet and places to go.

      And pictures to paint of so many different things far away.

      * * *

      RAFE OPENED HIS top desk drawer and withdrew two flyers. These were just the newest. From the day his father entered the Scorpion Hills Police Station to serve and protect, missing persons had received special consideration.

      But his father had never solved the one missing-persons case that was the most important to him—his own son, Rafe’s brother. Ramon could have been dead all these years...or he could be alive, waiting to be found.

      Not knowing he had a family that loved him and that had never stopped searching for him.

      Rafe stared at both flyers for a moment before casually placing one in front of Janie.

      Three words could describe the photo: young, pretty, happy.

      In comparison, Ramon’s missing-persons photo had been of a baby not even forty-eight hours old.

      Compassion warred with fatigue across Janie’s face.

      Brittney’s white-blond hair streamed past her shoulders. A gray, sleeveless blouse hugged curves that hadn’t had time to mature. In her right arm, she clutched a brown-and-white spotted dog, maybe just a puppy, that stared happily at the camera.

      Janie leaned forward and began re-creating.

      While she worked, Rafe logged onto CopLink and learned more about the late Derek Chaney.

      The kid’s rap sheet was long enough to make Rafe grind his teeth. However, nothing but petty crimes were listed. And yet, judging by the names of those alongside Derek during his criminal activities, the boy was capable of finding himself in the middle of a murder.

      Rafe would love to give Brittney’s parents some good news. But Derek’s involvement only pointed to bad news. For everyone.

      He’d just noted the absence of sound, the lack of pencil scratching against paper, when Janie asked, “Do you think Derek died because of the art book?”

      “Anything I say would be speculation, and this early in the case, I’d rather not speculate.”

      She gave him an indignant glare that spoke louder than words. “But if—”

      “If is a pretty powerful word,” Rafe returned.

      She gripped the pencil tightly, scratching out words on the paper as if she had to get them out, away from her. Finally, she finished, but not before whispering, “I’m afraid.”

      “I understand,” Rafe said. “I’ve not slept a full night since Brittney disappeared. Neither have her parents.”

      She let out a deep breath and turned the last paper so he could see it. “I’ve re-created everything I remember.” She finished by tapping on the last paper. “When I got to her name and then the blood in the dirt, I stopped and headed for my division chair.”

      Blood in the dirt...

      He’d have to, in some form or another, repeat this information to Brittney’s parents, so they didn’t hear it on the news. Reporters were like cockroaches, they showed up where they didn’t belong and were hard to get rid of.

      No matter how much Rafe wanted to handle Brittney’s case without sensationalism, the media would get involved, would push the envelope, wouldn’t care whose emotions got trampled as long as their ratings soared.

      “And you’re sure you’re done?” He nodded toward the paper on his desk.

      She glanced again at Brittney’s photograph on the flyer and then picked up the pages she’d created. Four in all. Slowly, carefully, she examined each one. After about fifteen minutes, only erasing a few things or adding a detail here and there, Janie scooted the paper across the desk and settled back in her chair. “I’m done.”

      It took him just two minutes to scan the haunting sketches.

      “This is it, all you remember?”

      “There wasn’t that much more, but after I got to this, I stopped and went to see Patricia.”

      It had been the right move. The moment she realized what she had in her hand, she should have turned it over to the authorities—too bad it hadn’t been the local police. Rafe could only imagine the grief Nathan was giving the campus cops over the art book’s disappearance.

      Still, he wished she’d read the whole thing, memorized every picture.

      “What I’m most sorry about,” Janie admitted, “was not paying attention to the numbers on the license plate. He’d included them, but I did no more than glance at the numbers because they were so tiny.”

      “Could you distinguish the sex of the occupants?”

      “They were tiny stick figures but with details.”

      Still, they could label the occupants—Derek and Brittney were in the back, Chad was driving and Chris was the front-seat passenger.

      “I know you’ve said that nothing happened in class, but I still want to hear about the last week. All the events leading up to you reading the art book. Don’t leave anything out.”

      Her sister returned.

      Janie glanced at Brittney’s photo again, then showed it to Katie. To Rafe, she said, “I’m assisting with two classes this semester. Both art. In the late afternoons, if I get an appointment, I work in the Writing Tutoring center. I’m pretty good with English, and it’s extra money.”

      “And she’s taking classes at the University of Arizona as well as being employed at Bridget’s,” Katie threw in.

      “My Monday/Wednesday class starts at six. I didn’t have a student appointment yesterday,” Janie continued. “So last night, I got there right on time.”

      Rafe noticed a sudden blink of her eyes, a quickening, slightly out of sync. She’d either just told a lie or she’d left something out.

      Janie regained her composure, smoothed back her unruly strawberry-blond hair, and went on, “I’d earlier set up the stations and put handouts on the back table. So, when I got there, the students were signing in and already starting to work on their major projects.”

      “What was Derek working on?”

      “It’s a medieval battle scene. Very detailed. He’s done two others so far. All pretty much the same focus. Lots of blood, battle, destruction.”

      “You say you got there right on time. Is being on time important?”

      She hesitated before answering, “Yes, for both me and the students. I take points from students who are late. If they’re more than twenty minutes late, I count them absent.”

      Rafe nodded. So, Miss Janie Vincent was a free spirit who also liked rules. “Seems to me that someone as concerned