Cold Case at Camden Crossing. Rita Herron

hadn’t overcome that pain.

      “Did you ever remember anything else?” he asked, then immediately regretted pushing her when she dropped the suitcase and grabbed the handle.

      “No. If I did, don’t you think I would have told someone?”

      That was the question that plagued him. Some speculated that she’d helped Ruth and Peyton run away, while others believed she’d seen the kidnapper and kept quiet out of fear.

      Of course, Dr. Riggins said she had amnesia caused from the accident.

      So if she had seen the kidnapper, the memory was locked in her head.

      * * *

      HE PULLED THE file with the photos from the bus crash from his locked desk and flipped through the pictures from the newspaper. The bus driver, fifty-nine-year-old Trevor Jergins, had died instantly when he’d crashed through the front window as the bus had careened over the ridge.

      The pictures of the team were there, too. Seventeen-year-old Joan Marx, fifteen-year-old Cassie Truman and sixteen-year-old Aubrey Pullman. All players on the high school softball team.

      All girls who died in that crash.

      Then there was Ruth and Peyton...

      And Tawny-Lynn.

      She’d had a concussion and hadn’t remembered anything about the accident seven years ago. Had she remembered something since?

      Now that she was back in town, would she expose him for what he’d done?

      No...he couldn’t let that happen. If she started to cause trouble, he’d have to get rid of her.

      He’d made it this long without anyone knowing. He didn’t intend to go to jail now.

      Chapter Two

      Tawny-Lynn bounced her suitcase up the rickety porch steps, her pulse clamoring. Good heavens. She’d had a crush on Chaz Camden when she was sixteen, but she thought she’d buried those feelings long ago.

      He was even more good-looking now. Those teenage muscles had developed into a powerful masculine body that had thrown her completely off guard.

      He looked good in a uniform, too.

      Don’t go there. You have to clean this wreck of a place up and get the hell out of town.

      The door screeched when she jammed the metal key in the lock and pushed it open. Dust motes rose and swirled in the hazy light streaming in through the windows, which looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a decade.

      But the clutter inside was even worse. Newspapers, magazines, mail and bills overflowed the scarred oak coffee table and kitchen table. Her father had always been messy and had liked to collect junk, even to the point of buying grab bags at the salvage store, but his habit had turned into hoarding. Every conceivable space on the counter was loaded down with canned goods, boxes of assorted junk, beer cans, liquor bottles and, of all things, oversize spice containers.

      Odd for a man who never cooked.

      Junk boxes of nuts and bolts and screws were piled in one corner, dirty clothes had been dumped on the faded-plaid sofa, several pairs of tattered shoes were strewn about and discarded take-out containers lay haphazardly around the kitchen and den.

      The sound of mice skittering somewhere in the kitchen sent a shudder through her. If the main area looked like this, she dreaded seeing the other rooms.

      The stench of stale beer and liquor mingled with moldy towels and smoke.

      Tawny-Lynn heaved a frustrated breath, half tempted to light a match, toss it into the pile and burn the whole place down.

      But knowing her luck, she’d end up in prison for arson and the town would throw a party to celebrate her incarceration.

      She refused to give them the pleasure.

      But she was going to need cleaning supplies. A lot of them. Then she’d handle what repairs she could on her own, but she’d have to hire someone to take care of the major problems.

      She left her suitcase in the den while she walked to the master bedroom on the main floor, glanced inside and shook her head. Her father’s room was as messy as the other two rooms. More liquor bottles, papers, clothes, towels that had soured and would need to be thrown away.

      Had he lived like this?

      He was probably so inebriated that he didn’t care.

      Deciding she’d check out the upstairs before she headed into town to pick up supplies, she stepped over a muddy pair of work boots and made it to the stairwell. Cool air drifted through the eaves of the old house as she clenched the bannister. At one time her mother had kept a runner on the wooden steps, but apparently her father had ripped it out so the floors were bare now, scarred and crusted with dirt.

      Bracing herself for a blast from the past, she paused at the first bedroom on the right. Peyton’s room. The frilly, once bright pink, ruffled curtains still hung on the windows although they’d faded to a dull shade. But everything else in the room remained untouched. Posters from rock bands, a team banner and photographs of the team and Peyton and Ruth were still thumbtacked on the bulletin board above the white, four-poster bed. The stuffed animals and dolls she’d played with as a child stood like a shrine on the corner bookcase.

      Memories of her sister pummeled her, making it difficult to breathe. She could still see the two of them playing dolls on the floor. Peyton braiding her hair in front of the antique mirror, using one of their mother’s fancy pearl combs at the crown to dress up the look.

      Peyton slamming the door and shutting her out, when she and Ruth wanted to be alone.

      Cleaning this room would be the hardest, but it would have to be done. Although she’d feared the worst had happened to her sister over the years, that she was dead or being held hostage by some crazed maniac rapist, it still seemed wrong to discard her things, almost as if she were erasing Peyton from her life.

      Or accepting that she was gone and never coming back.

      Dragging herself back to the task at hand, she walked next door to her room. Her breath caught when she looked inside.

      Her room had not been preserved, as Peyton’s had.

      In fact, someone had tossed the drawers and dresser. And on the mirror, hate words had been written in red.

      Blood or lipstick, she wasn’t sure.

      But the message was clear just the same.

      

      

      The girls’ blood is on your head.

      * * *

      CHAZ COULDN’T ERASE the image of Tawny-Lynn from his mind as he made rounds in the small town. He hadn’t paid much attention to her when she’d tagged after his sister years ago. Had thought she had a crush on him and hadn’t wanted to encourage it.

      He’d been in love with Sonya Wilkerson and, that last year when Ruth had been a senior, he’d played baseball for the junior college on a scholarship that he’d planned to use to earn a forestry degree.

      Then Ruth and Peyton went missing and he’d decided to pursue law enforcement and get the answers his family wanted.

      Only so far he’d failed.

      Maybe Tawny-Lynn would remember something now that she was back.

      His phone beeped as he parked at Donna’s Diner on the corner of Main Street, and he noticed the high school softball coach, Jim Wake, chatting with Mrs. Calvin. He’d kept up with the local games enough to know her daughter played for the team. The woman looked annoyed, but the coach patted her arm, using the charm he’d always used to soothe meddling, pushy parents. Everyone wanted their kid to get more play time, to be the star of the team.

      If he remembered