you call them for me, please?” Laura asked. Harry’s parents had always been a safe place for her, for both of them. Not only accepting their love, but rejoicing in it. Welcoming her, a white woman, into their family. “Let them know I can’t answer any questions yet, if that’s okay, but I’d like to hear their voices.”
Harry had the phone to his ear before she’d finished the last sentence.
Daniel Boyd had worked easier cases than the Kendall rape. And harder ones. He was going over the scant information he had as he pulled up in front of their home late Saturday afternoon, then started up the walk to their door. He straightened his shoulders. Experience had taught him that there was no way to be prepared for whatever scene would take place inside that house. He was familiar with the range of emotions that might be released—anger, pain, grief, guilt—and could never predict which ones he’d face. Experience had also taught him that the sooner he uncovered more evidence, the higher his chances of finding the perpetrators of this particular nightmare.
Robert Miller was home with his wife and kids—certainly his right, since they were off duty. But Daniel couldn’t sit at home when a crime scene was getting colder by the second. And he didn’t have a wife or kids.
Cops relied on crime scenes for evidence. And in this case, Laura Kendall’s body—and to a lesser degree, her husband’s—was the crime scene. Her memory—and her husband’s—were about the only way he had to uncover any missing pieces….
He hated this part of the job. Nailing the bastards gave him a high unparalleled by anything else in his life. But looking a raped woman in the eye, having to imagine what she was feeling, figuring out how to get into her brain and find the information he needed, gnawed at his gut every time.
Forcing her to relive the worst night of her life was even worse.
He knocked on the door with two quick raps, praying to the god of cops that something he had to say, or ask, would trigger the inconspicuous clue that would let him do his job. If it came, he’d recognize it. Of that he was sure.
Harry could tell that Laura was doing better since speaking to his parents. She’d not only accepted his offer to make chicken parmesan for dinner, but she’d wanted to help. She was rolling boneless chicken breasts in his secret mixture on the counter while he broke spaghetti in half and dropped it in boiling water when they heard the knock on the door.
Her sudden tension seemed to bounce off the walls around them.
“Who could that be?” Her tone seemed to blame him, as though he’d invited guests without informing her. Something he’d never done. And never would.
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to hide his own concern.
Harry’s spirits sank back to that morning’s depths as he saw the detective on his doorstep. They’d been about to have the first normal moments since their ordeal had begun.
“Dr. Kendall, may I come in? I have a few things I need to discuss with you and your wife.”
“Of course. And please call me Mr. Or Harry. The title is just to impress my students.” Harry held open the door, motioned Daniel Boyd inside and invited him to have a seat on the couch while he waited to see if Laura would come in of her own accord.
He was relieved when she did.
Harry resented the reminder Boyd’s presence brought into their home, resented the intrusion on what might’ve been a return to ordinary life for him and Laura—a nice meal prepared and eaten together. But even more than he wanted that normalcy, he wanted the bastards who’d invaded his home to be caught.
And punished.
He needed them to pay for what they’d done.
And to know they wouldn’t be back. Not to his home—and not to the homes of any other innocent, unsuspecting couple.
5
“W e found a size eleven shoe print in the dust at the back of your yard.”
The detective had taken a seat on her favorite couch. Laura faced him, sitting in the relatively isolated armchair across from it.
“What kind of shoe?” Harry’s question bothered her, although she appreciated his physical nearness. He’d settled on the arm of her chair, his arm lying on the back, just above her head.
Why did he have to care what kind of shoe one of those jerks wore? Laura wanted as little information as possible about the men who’d broken into their home—into their lives. The less she had, the less she’d have to picture…
“There wasn’t enough of an imprint to be sure, but the tread was thick. Probably a work shoe or boot.” His eyes narrowed, Detective Boyd looked at Harry. “You’re sure you didn’t see what they had on their feet?”
Laura was getting used to the way her mind blocked out incoming stimuli at will. Harry would’ve seen their feet. Because they’d have been attached to the legs that were on their bed in front of him…
“I didn’t.” Harry’s frustration was evident in his reply. “They were black, I’m positive of that. Soles and all. But whether they were shoes or boots, I couldn’t tell you.”
“What about the toes? Were they rounded? Did they seem steel-encased?”
“I don’t remember seeing them.”
They would’ve been upside down, making the toes nearly impossible to see. Laura chose to let the two of them figure that out on their own.
The detective’s gaze was kind as he directed his next questions to her. “Did you feel any footwear?”
“No.”
“You don’t remember any sensation of rubber or hard leather against your skin, maybe brushing against your ankle?”
“No.”
A lot of questions about shoes. Until this moment, she hadn’t given them a thought. Shoes didn’t seem to have much to do with the crime that had been committed here.
“Did they learn anything from the samples they took at the hospital?” That was what she wanted to know. Did they have the guys’ identities yet? Not what shoes they were wearing.
“Nothing conclusive. The fibers we got from under Harry’s nails were standard denim—used by most clothing manufacturers in the United States and beyond. There was no semen on the bedding. We did pull off several hair follicles and will check every one of them.”
“Probably mine and Harry’s,” she said, closing her mind to the thought of the attackers’ hairs mingling with hers and Harry’s in their bed.
There was much to run from here. And yet, since speaking with Kaleb and Alicia, she felt more there. More like herself. Or at least like someone she recognized. They’d treated her as they always did—like a beloved daughter—assuring her that they were a family and would get through this together. Would go on together. And laugh together again.
As impossible as that was to grasp, she believed them. Harry’s parents had a way of finding the best smelling roses in the middle
