perfectly aligned and in its place, like the cool crystal.
Everything in place but those cookies.
Store-bought. Not the gourmet kind from some chichi bakery. Normal ones. Egan had a hard time imagining her standing in her kitchen. Surrounded by all that expensive glitter. Wearing silk designer clothes. And eating Oreos.
“Wait. There is something,” she said a moment later. “I have a small clock that was a Christmas gift from my mother. It’s portable and probably worth a lot. It’s on the nightstand, next to the dream journal I’ve been keeping for the psychiatrist.”
Egan didn’t remember seeing a clock or a journal, but then his attention had been on those open French doors, not the nightstand. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number to the SAPD dispatch, who in turn connected him with Detective Mark Willows.
“This is Sgt. Caldwell,” he said when Willows answered.
“Glad you called,” Willows interrupted before Egan could explain. “I just got an update from the CSI guys. They took Ms. Stallings’s lock from her bedroom door so they can test it to see if it was picked. They’ll replace it with a temp so we can secure the house.”
“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”
“Well, we don’t want another break-in. This is just preliminary, but those shoe prints left on her bedroom floor are about a size eleven. Some kind of athletic shoes. So, we’re probably looking for a male.”
Egan made a note to check Kenneth Sutton’s shoe size. “I need you to check on the nightstand in the master bedroom and tell me what’s there,” Egan said to the detective.
“Give me a minute. I’m walking that way.” Egan heard the sound of the man’s movement. And waited. “There’s a phone and a clock,” Willows reported. “The phone is white, and the clock is about the size of baseball. It’s gold, and it’s got pearls and what looks like emeralds all around the dial. Heck, the friggin’ hands look like they’re made of diamonds. Caldwell, this is some clock.”
Yes, and the intruder didn’t take it. “Is there anything else on the nightstand?”
“Just a pen. Common, ordinary variety.”
Oh, man. “There’s no paper or notepad?”
“Nada.”
“Thanks. Make sure CSI checks that nightstand for prints.” Egan hung up, ready to relay that to Caroline, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew.
“My dream journal is missing,” she mumbled.
“Yeah. The expensive clock is still there, though. So, let me guess—everyone at that lunch today heard that you’d been keeping a journal.”
The color crept back into her face, and she looked as if she wanted to curse. She nodded.
Hell.
Egan leaned in and looked straight into her eyes. “Caroline, what exactly did you write in that journal?”
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