style="font-size:15px;"> “My husband and I went to dinner that night. Rhia said she had homework and stayed behind. We got home around eleven and went straight to bed.” Suddenly, her eyes started to brim. “We didn’t think to check if she was in her room. Maybe if we’d checked...”
But Silas shook his head. “Don’t go there. I’ve seen too many parents blame themselves for something that was completely out of their control and it eats them up inside. Please don’t do that to yourself.”
Quinn was silently in awe of Silas’s gentle handling. What happened to Mr. Frosty?
Mrs. Daniels nodded, fresh tears tracking down her face. “That’s very kind of you. I can’t get it out of my head how she must have suffered. I...I can’t sleep or eat. All I think about is that my daughter is gone.”
“What happened next, Mrs. Daniels?” Silas asked.
“We got a call from the sheriff saying that Rhia’s body had been found by a fisherman the next morning.”
Silas nodded, jotting down notes. “Is there anyone you can think of who might want to hurt Rhia?”
“No one,” she answered, shaking her head almost desperately. “Everyone loved Rhia. She was kind and considerate to everyone she met. I can’t imagine anyone having a problem with her.”
Quinn would normally chalk Mrs. Daniels’s statement up to a parent’s bias but to be honest, Quinn knew that Rhia was well liked.
“How about friends? Who are Rhia’s closest friends? Sometimes kids censor themselves around their parents but they’re more open with peers.”
Mrs. Daniels seemed troubled by that possibility but gave up a few names. “Well, she’s very close with Britain Almasey. She’s another cheerleader on the squad. They’ve been best friends since grade school. But Rhia didn’t keep secrets from us. We were very close.”
“I appreciate that, but I like to cross all the Ts and dot the Is.”
Mrs. Daniels nodded, relief coming from understanding. “Of course. I appreciate your diligence, Mr. Kelly.”
Silas offered a business card to Mrs. Daniels. “Please feel free to call me anytime. Even if you just need to talk.”
Quinn felt foolish trying to follow in Silas’s footsteps. Instead, she said, “Rhia was a lovely girl and she will be missed. Your family will be in my prayers.”
“Bless you, child.”
Silas pocketed his notebook and they rose to leave. Quinn didn’t like the way her mind was churning.
Whatever she’d hoped to get by talking with Mrs. Daniels, she’d discarded out of guilt.
It was one thing to chase a story when you weren’t staring at the grieving parents of a murdered child, quite another when you could practically feel the grief covering you like a blanket.
Once outside, Silas scrutinized Quinn openly. “Do you pray?”
Quinn scowled. Of course he would ask her that question. “No.”
“Then why’d you say that?”
“Because it seemed the right thing to do.”
Silas chuckled at her logic. “If you were so concerned with the right thing, you never would’ve walked inside that poor woman’s house.”
Quinn stared as Silas drove away.
I kinda hate that man.
Because he was right? A voice questioned.
Her scowl deepened.
Shut up, Inner Voice of Latent Conscience—you’re not helping.
* * *
Silas returned to his hotel room with takeout Chinese and a plan to reacquaint himself with Spencer’s case file, when a knock at his door interrupted his process.
He peered through the peephole and saw Quinn Jackson, of all people, standing outside his door.
What did she want?
For a heartbeat, he was tempted to pretend that he wasn’t there.
But clearly she must’ve tracked him down and she knew he was on the other side of the door so ignoring the woman would just be childish.
Silas exhaled and opened the door. “What can I do for you, Miss Jackson?”
“First, you can call me Quinn. Second, you can admit that if it weren’t for me, Mrs. Daniels wouldn’t have let you in the front door. And third, you can definitely serve me up a plate of that Chinese food that I can smell because I’m starving.”
The girl had balls, he’d give her that. “And why would I want to do any of those things?”
“Because we need to work together, not against one another.”
At that he laughed. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” she disagreed, darting past him and into the room. Quinn did a quick survey and said, “Couldn’t the FBI spring for a better room? This place looks like the kind of hotel Dean and Sam Winchester would hole up in because they’re trying to catch a wendigo or something.”
“Dean and Sam?” Silas asked, confused.
“Do you live under a rock? Supernatural, of course. Best show ever. I mean, every season you think they can’t outdo themselves and bam! They come up with something even more amazing than the last season. That’s talent.”
“I don’t watch a lot of television.”
“Your loss. If you want to borrow a few seasons, I have them all on DVD. Or you could stream it from iTunes. Whatever your poison.”
“Back to the point. I don’t work with reporters.”
“You know, you keep saying that but you haven’t given me a good reason why. So, what gives? Why don’t you work with reporters?”
Her bald question threw him off guard. The woman was as in-your-face as a stereotypical redhead. Or a cartoon character.
“Because I don’t,” he answered.
“What happened to Mr. Nice Guy? Are you like a Mr. Jekyll and Dr. Hyde kind of person?”
“You have that twisted. It’s Dr. Jekyll—”
“Whatever.” She waved away his correction. “You get my point. You were, actually, pretty amazing with Mrs. Daniels. I thought maybe you had been possessed by the spirit of someone with an actual heartbeat but now I see that was an act for her benefit.”
“It wasn’t an act,” he growled. “And if we’re calling people out, what about you? You manipulated that poor woman into letting you in. So what sensational little story are you going to write about
