The Girl Who Couldn't Forget. Cassie Miles

she could have directed him to a shortcut that would have avoided the usual slowdown on Sixth.

      Sloan ended his call and looked toward her. “I’ve asked Agent Gimbel to meet us at the cabin.”

      “Smart move.” Not only had Agent Gimbel studied their case, but she’d be glad to see him. The older man was a reassuring presence.

      “I have one more call.”

      “Take your time.”

      Brooke would have preferred being in charge. She never enjoyed riding in the passenger seat, but she forced herself to lean back and let the air-conditioning wash over her while she kept her mouth shut. When Sloan took a sharp left turn, she pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out her criticism of his momentarily inattentive driving. She closed her eyes.

      Relaxation was impossible. The inside of her head filled with the image of Layla from the computer. Brooke popped her eyes open and blinked hard, hating that high-definition memory. Why can’t I just forget?

      Being too smart was a curse. She’d rather be blissfully dumb. But not really. She appreciated her intelligence. The secret was how to use it. Recalling what Sloan had said about details that might be clues, Brooke purposely brought back the vision.

      Except for the garish pink lipstick, Layla hadn’t seemed to be wearing much makeup, which was her preference. She seldom bothered with mascara and foundation, preferring a clean face and frequently washed hands. Her personal hygiene habits were even more compulsive than Brooke’s. Had the person who murdered Layla known about that trait? Had he made sure that her hair was freshly washed? Her hands clean? Was he someone who knew her well? Or was he a stalker who had watched her for a long time?

      She needed a profile of the killer. Supposedly, that branch of psychology was within the realm of Sloan’s expertise. “We need to get started,” she said, interrupting his phone call.

      He excused himself to the person on the phone and looked at her. “Started with what?”

      “The profile,” she said. “I want a basis to work from.”

      Finally, the SUV hit a path of smooth, unobstructed highway as they approached the foothills. At the end of an arid summer, the vegetation was dull as dirt. He ended his phone call and said, “A profile isn’t guaranteed to be accurate. It provides broad parameters of personality type and behavior.”

      “A parameter is just fine. Like I said, I want the profile as a basis—a starting point for the investigation.”

      “You can help me.” He shot her a quick glance. “I can’t pull a detailed profile out of my back pocket. I can start with gathering more information about Layla.”

      “Like what?” She gestured for him to speed it up. “Ask me questions.”

      “From reading Gimbel’s files, I know that she was an orphan with no family ties.”

      “Like me.” The demographic was the same. They were both orphans, but Layla’s life was far more complicated. Her parents were both addicts who died together in a car accident when Layla was five or six years old. Brooke had been abandoned at birth—wrapped in a cheap blanket and left outside a fire station. “We both had lousy upbringings but were doing okay until we got kidnapped by a psycho. Move along.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said.

      The gentleness of his voice surprised her. She hadn’t expected sympathy or empathy or whatever this was. Her shields went up. “We’re going to be at the cabin in twenty-five minutes or less. What else do you need to know?”

      “Tell me about Layla’s social life. Was she a party girl? Did she have a lot of boyfriends or only one special guy?”

      “Parties and clubs weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink or do drugs. Two years ago, there was a guy in law school that she got serious about, but nobody recently.”

      “Online dating?”

      “Never.” Like her, Layla was protective of her privacy. “I don’t understand all these questions about her. Shouldn’t your profile focus on the murderer?”

      “The victim comes first. Understanding why the killer attacked her can help in building a profile.” Following the GPS directions, he made a right turn onto a secondary road that went deeper into the pine forests. “It might seem obvious to you that Layla’s murder is tied to the abductions twelve years ago, but the scope of an investigation is widespread. She might have been targeted by someone she knew at school.”

      “Then why would they put on that lipstick or the wedding ring?”

      “The quick answer is that they were interested in her history and looked up the details on the computer, but there are many other possibilities.”

      “You’re being thorough.”

      “That’s right.”

      She nodded in approval. “I’ll make a list of the men Layla dated in the past couple of years. And another list of professional contacts—people she’s worked for, schoolmates, professors and mentors.”

      “Also doctors, therapists and your attorney,” he said. “It’d help if you put it on a thumb drive so we can build a database.”

      “All those guys are suspects?”

      “Most will be quickly eliminated, but it helps to cover all bases.”

      “You can turn off the GPS,” she said. “We’re here.”

      The cabin that she and Layla had purchased for their private hideaway perched among the trees on the side of a steep hill. The main road ascended the incline, and her driveway peeled off, cutting straight across the hill, forty-seven yards to her cabin. Several official-looking vehicles, including an ambulance, had gathered at the start of the asphalt driveway but hadn’t driven up to the house.

      She looked toward the house, where she counted two men in sheriff’s uniforms and one in a suit like Sloan. “Why didn’t they drive closer?”

      “They didn’t want to disturb possible tire tracks or footprints.”

      The driveway was mostly asphalt, but there was dirt on either side. Again, she was impressed by the methodical approach used by law enforcement. She unfastened her seat belt and inhaled what she hoped would be a calming breath. In moments, the image on the computer screen would become real. She would see Layla’s motionless form. The only other dead bodies she’d seen had been neatly tucked away in coffins at funerals or displayed scientifically as cadavers when she took an anatomy course.

      “You need to stay in the car,” Sloan said.

      She felt a glimmer of relief. She wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but she would rather picture her friend laughing or picking flowers or reading a book. It had taken a long time to partially bury her memories of Layla after her nights as Hardy’s “bride.” The thought of her death was worse.

      Still, Brooke couldn’t back down. “If you didn’t want my help in your investigation, why did you bring me along?”

      “I didn’t want you to race up here, half-cocked and looking for trouble.”

      An unfair characterization if she’d ever heard one. “I’m never half-cocked.”

      From her fanny pack, she heard the buzz of her cell phone indicating a text message. While engaged in conversation with another person, she usually ignored texts. But she was worried about Franny.

      She checked the message and read it twice: Settle down, Brooke, or you’ll be next.