Awash (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 6) (2 page)

She hated November.

T
he small public housing development was just outside of Apalach’s compact downtown area. It wasn’t the historic district by any means, but neither was it particularly disreputable. The few square blocks of brick duplexes were occupied by the working poor, black and white, and generally well-maintained, albeit rather plain.

Zoe’s house was at the back of the development, on a corner lot. Across the street stood an expanse of woods that remained a dark blotch against the pre-sunrise sky. Maggie parked on the street, as the gravel driveway had been taken up by one cruiser from Apalach PD and one from the Sheriff’s Office. A paramedic unit sat in the sparse grass of the front yard, dark and silent. Maggie could see that the two front seats were occupied by EMT’s, though she couldn’t tell who they were. She knew they were waiting for the go-ahead to go inside and do their thing; this told her that, outside the violence of sexual assault, Zoe probably had no other injuries. Of course, this meant little or nothing, depending on perspective.

Maggie grabbed her cell phone and her keys and stepped out of her black Cherokee. Her hiking boots crunched through the yard and along the jagged gravel, and they and the frayed hems of her jeans were damp from the dew by the time she reached the front door.

She knocked twice, and a moment later the door was opened by Dwight. He looked more uncomfortable than usual. He didn’t speak, just nodded once and stepped back to let her in. He ran his free hand through his closely-cropped blonde hair, and his eyes were sad. Maggie admired that about Dwight. He wore empathy on his sleeve and was neither ashamed of it nor inclined to stifle it.

As Dwight shut the door again, Maggie ran her eyes around the room. Brenda Collins from Apalach PD sat next to Zoe on the tweed couch, while Mark Sommers stood a respectful distance away, next to a cheap entertainment center. The TV was on but muted. At the back of the long room, beyond a round veneer table and six upholstered chairs on wheels, Jake Marino from the crime scene unit was dusting the outside knob of the back door. Through the open door, Maggie could see the crime scene vehicle parked just a few yards behind the house.

Standing in the kitchen doorway watching Jake, smoke from her cigarette drifting toward the open door, was a black woman about Maggie’s age. There were bags under her blank eyes, and her green capris and striped top looked like they’d been slept in. Maggie had known Zoe’s mom, though very casually and many years ago. But Zoe’s mother had been white. She didn’t recognize this woman.

Zoe’s father had been Mack Boatwright, a slim, handsome black man who had been a shrimper like Maggie’s late husband. He’d been killed five years back or so, when a truck hit his car as he was driving home from Panama City. In fact, the last time Maggie had seen Zoe was at her father’s funeral. Shortly after her husband’s death, Zoe’s mother, a quiet, pretty redhead, had moved to Port St. Joe for work and a new start.

After their rapid scan of the room’s occupants, Maggie’s eyes settled on Zoe.

She wasn’t a small girl, though she was very slim. She looked like she might be taller than Maggie, and her legs looked incredibly long beneath her shorts and baggy tee shirt. She sat perfectly still, her spine straight as a board and her hands folded neatly in her lap. The purposeful dignity made something clench inside Maggie’s chest.

Zoe had been a cute little girl, but she was an exceptionally pretty teenager. Her skin was perfectly clear, and the color of coffee with just the right amount of milk. Her long, straightened hair was up in a loose bun, but much of it had fallen or been pulled loose, and several strands hung down around her face and below her shoulders.

Zoe’s large, almond-shaped eyes were focused on Maggie unblinkingly.

“Hello, Zoe,” Maggie said quietly.

Zoe’s voice was so low that Maggie almost couldn’t hear her. “Hi, Coach,” she said, and Maggie felt something inside her crumple in a heap. She kept it off her face.

“Why don’t I get a rundown from Sgt. Collins before I start asking you questions?” Maggie asked. “So you don’t have to repeat yourself too much.”

“Okay.”

Maggie looked at Brenda Collins.

“Zoe was up late, watching TV. Ms. Boatwright, her aunt, was asleep in bed. Zoe’d just let the cats out to go to the bathroom,” Brenda looked down at her notepad, “at about 3:20, when a white male entered the unlocked back door. He was wearing a blue ski mask. White with brown eyes, roughly five-seven to five-ten, slim build, jeans and a dark blue tee shirt.”

Maggie had been watching Zoe as Zoe stared at the coffee table, but she looked back over at Brenda when she stopped speaking. “Weapon?”

“He stopped by the kitchen and grabbed a butter knife,” Brenda answered.

Maggie looked back over at Zoe. “Do you think you know him, Zoe?”

Zoe raised her eyes to Maggie’s and shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so,” she answered flatly, her voice and face both free of emotion or expression. “Do you think I know him? Is that why he had a mask?”

“Maybe,” Maggie answered. “Either he didn’t want you to recognize him then or he doesn’t want you to recognize him later.”

Maggie turned back to Brenda. “We have a description out?”

Brenda nodded. “All available cars are looking for him. Zoe thinks he was on foot.”

“He might have parked somewhere,” Maggie said.

“Well, this is all we’ve got so far,” Brenda said. “She asked for you and we decided to let you handle the rest of the questions.”

Maggie nodded and pointed at the couch, wanting Brenda to make room. Instead, the other officer stood.

“I’ll get us started with canvassing the neighborhood, see if any of the neighbors were up,” she said. “If that works for you.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Maggie said as she sat.

Mark Sommers followed Brenda out the front door. Dwight held it open and looked over at Maggie. She nodded an unspoken answer to his unasked question, and he shut the door and stood back against the wall once more, staring down at the floor as though by not looking at Zoe he could be less of an eavesdropper.

“Dwight, could you take the notes, please?” Maggie asked him. He looked like he was going to say something, but then he just pulled a department tablet out of the Sheriff’s Office attaché on the floor beside him. Maggie watched him for a moment as he pulled up the right screen. He glanced at Zoe almost apologetically, as though it was unkind of him to listen, then he nodded at Maggie.

Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the back of the room. Jake from the crime scene unit had moved into the kitchen. The aunt was sitting at the kitchen table now, a fresh cigarette in her hand, staring out the back window at the almost-dawn.

Maggie sat down in the vacancy that Brenda had created, and Zoe watched her impassively as she took a breath before speaking quietly.

“Okay, Zoe,” Maggie started. “You were up watching TV?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there some reason you were still up?”

Zoe hesitated a moment before answering. “I have insomnia sometimes,” she said.

“Doesn’t that interfere with school?”

“Not really. I homeschool,” Zoe answered.

“Okay. You live here with your aunt?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You and your mom?”

Maggie saw the girl’s eyelids flutter almost imperceptibly. “She died last year. She had breast cancer.”

Maggie felt like someone should slap her for having asked the question. “I’m sorry, Zoe,” she said quietly. Maggie hadn’t really known Zoe’s mother except to say hello to, but she remembered a wide and ready smile.

“So you were up watching TV and you let the cats out to use the bathroom?”

Zoe nodded.

“How long after that did the man come in?”

“Maybe a couple minutes. I was trying to find something to watch for a little bit, then I was gonna try to go to bed. Then I heard him coming up the walkway.”

“Where were you?”

The girl pointed at the loveseat across from them. “I was on the loveseat,” she said.

Maggie looked. Pale yellow lace curtains rippled in the slight breeze coming through the jalousie windows. On one of the cushions was a small pile of spiral notebooks and books from the public library. Maggie could see that the book on top was a book of British poetry. She looked back at Zoe.

“So you heard someone coming up the back walk,” Maggie said. “What did that sound like?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he wasn’t wearing sneakers if you heard him from here.”

“No. No, I heard him. It was loud, hard. Like he was wearing dress shoes or something.”

“Was he?”

She watched Zoe think.

“I don’t think I looked at his shoes,” Zoe finally said. “But he was wearing kind of scruffy jeans. And a tee shirt.”

“So maybe not dress shoes, but hard soled shoes,” Maggie said.

“Yeah.”

“He just opened the door, or did he knock?”

“He just opened it. I didn’t mean to leave it unlocked,” she said almost defensively.

Maggie covered one of the girl’s hands with her own. It was cold. “Zoe. Everybody forgets sometimes. No one thinks that’s your fault.”

Zoe swallowed, and Maggie took her hand away, afraid of imposing physical contact that might not be welcome.

“So he opened the door and walked in,” Maggie continued. “Did he say anything?”

“He told me not to move. Not to get up,” Zoe answered. She wasn’t looking at Maggie anymore, but at the window over the loveseat.

“Did he use your name? Say your name?”

Zoe thought for a moment, blinking rapidly. “No,” she said to the window.

“Okay. He told you not to move,” Maggie said. “Then what did he do?”

“He went in the kitchen. I could hear him rattling around. In the drawer.” Zoe took in a breath. It shook and stuttered when she released it. “Then he came out with the butter knife.”

“He came into the living room?”

“Yeah.” Zoe glanced over to an empty space over Maggie’s shoulder and pointed. “There.”

“Did he say anything else?” Maggie asked.

“He asked me if anybody else was in the house,” Zoe answered. Maggie saw her chest begin to rise and fall more rapidly, saw her breathing become shallower. “I said no.”

She looked over at Maggie, her eyes going wider.

“I was afraid he’d go look, but I said no.” Zoe let out a breath, then spoke more quietly. “I thought—I was scared that maybe he’d do something to her if he went in there.”

Maggie looked over her shoulder at the aunt again. The aunt had been watching, but looked like she wanted to look away from Maggie’s gaze. Maggie didn’t know if that was guilt or something else, but she didn’t have time to analyze it at the moment.

“You didn’t have to do nothin’ to look out for me,” the aunt said, then took a long, nervous drag on her cigarette, the end of it flaring red. She looked away then, staring at the wall between the dining area and the kitchen. Maggie turned back around.

“He didn’t see your aunt’s car?” Maggie asked her.

Zoe opened her mouth to answer, but Maggie heard the aunt’s husky voice behind her.

“Don’t have no car,” the aunt said. Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the aunt.

“What time did you go to bed, ma’am?”

“About one, I guess,” the woman answered. “I was at some friends’. Got home ‘bout one.”

The aunt spoke to Maggie, but stared at the wall in front of her, dragging hard on her cigarette. Maggie was trying not to dislike her, but something told her she would anyway.

“Did you see anyone around when you came home?’ she asked her.

The woman shook her head slowly. “No. Didn’t see anyone around.”

Maggie turned back to Zoe. “What about you, Zoe? Did you see anyone hanging around last night, even early in the night?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Any neighbors paying attention to you, or strangers in the neighborhood that you’ve noticed?”

Zoe shook her head.

“Okay, so you told him no one else was in the house. Then what happened?”

“He said to come here, and I got up. I thought I was gonna fall down. My legs were shaking.”

Maggie nodded at her, and waited for her to continue. Zoe stared at the space where someone had reordered her world just a couple of hours earlier.

“I went over there, and he told me to lie down on the floor. He said to get down,” Zoe said.

Maggie saw the girl’s hands begin to tremble, though they were still folded neatly in her lap. She resisted the strong pull to take those hands.

“So you did what he said,” Maggie prompted.

“No!” The word was quiet, though it seemed to leap from her mouth, almost as though the answer surprised even her. She looked at Maggie. “I was—I thought we might make noise, that I would scream or something, and I was scared she’d wake up and come out and he’d do something.”

Zoe cut her eyes nervously toward her aunt, and Maggie leaned just a hair, forced her to focus on Maggie’s face.

“So what did you do?” she asked softly.

“I said I didn’t want it to happen here, that I didn’t want something bad to happen in my house, and I asked him if we could go outside.”

“Okay.”