11:10 A.M.
For Miranda, the next twenty-four hours passed in fog of pacing and moping, of channel-surfing and simply staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell she was going to do with her time. She wrapped her days around her job. That’s what she did. It was all she had.
Jake had called twice. Both times she’d let it go to voice mail. Both messages had said pretty much the same thing—he wondered how she was, he was worried, and he asked her to please give him a call.
She hadn’t. She wasn’t ready.
Summer’s words kept coming back to her.
“Seems to me, you can’t trust anyone.”
Could she trust anyone? Jake had the opportunity to take the box and its evidence. She shook her head. No, she couldn’t see it.
But what about Buddy? He hadn’t left the department, so she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he hadn’t had the opportunity. But could he have called someone, asked them to do it.
Who? Someone under his command? And chance tarnishing his reputation? No way. So who else? Ian Stark?
She stood and began to pace. Stark had the most to lose. His son’s reputation and by association, his own as well. Perhaps worse, it’d be a blow to the university—a popular professor—and son of the university president—drugging and raping his students?
It didn’t get much more damaging than that.
Ian Stark had known what his son was. She didn’t have proof, but would stake her life on it. So had Catherine Stark. They were the most likely to have retrieved the damning evidence.
The key, Miranda remembered. She hadn’t thought of it since Jake surprised her and she stuffed it into her pocket. She hurried to the bedroom and retrieved the pants she’d been wearing. The key fell out of the pocket, landing at her feet.
She picked it up, curling her fingers around it.
What did the key belong to? A lockbox of some sort, she thought. But there hadn’t been one at Stark’s house. Not in his faculty office at the university either. So where?
His parents.
She could imagine him asking his parents to keep it for him. Or him storing it in his childhood bedroom, tucking it there on the top shelf of his closet.
Make them believe you. Do whatever it takes.
Miranda straightened, crossed to her closet and the jacket she’d worn the previous day. There, in the inside pocket, the photo of the sweet little boy who would become a monster.
She gazed at young Richard Stark’s cherubic face, an idea forming. With her first sense of purpose in twenty-four hours, she headed to the shower.
* * *
Miranda pulled up in front of Ian and Catherine Stark’s home. Before coming here, she’d driven by the campus administration building. A silver Infiniti sedan had been parked in the spot marked RESERVED FOR PRESIDENT.
Perfect. With Ian Stark tied up at work, maybe she’d have a chance to connect with his wife.
Miranda took a deep, fortifying breath, collected the tissue-wrapped package from the passenger seat, and tucked it into her purse. She climbed out of her car and headed up the walk.
Catherine Stark herself answered the door. When she saw it was Miranda, she grew visibly upset. “I can’t talk to you,” she said, and began to close the door.
Miranda stopped her. “Wait, please. I have something for you.” She handed over the package. “It’s my fault it was broken.”
The woman peeled away the tissue. When she saw what it was, tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“I couldn’t salvage the frame,” Miranda said. “So I bought a new one.”
She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge Miranda in any way. Just gazed at the photo of a smiling toddler and his adoring mother.
“He was a beautiful little boy,” Miranda said softly.
“Yes,” she whispered and looked up. “And very sweet.” She lightly touched the glass. “He was my heart.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Stark.” And she was. Not just for the physical loss of her only child, but for the loss of the sweet little boy she’d loved. That loss, Miranda knew, had come long before his murder. “I can only image how difficult this has been.”
“We couldn’t have more children,” she said, almost to herself. “We tried. We … it was me. I couldn’t carry another child.”
A lump formed in Miranda’s throat. She didn’t respond because she wasn’t sure she could.
“Maybe I loved him too much,” she whispered, gaze returning to the photograph. “Maybe we both did.”
“I don’t think anyone can be loved too much.” Catherine Stark didn’t respond and Miranda went on. “I want you to know, I have nothing against you or your husband. I’m just trying to do my job.”
The woman lifted her gaze. “Why did this have to happen? Why … him?”
Again, Miranda had the feeling she wasn’t talking about the murder—or only the murder—but about the loss of the sweet boy her son had started out to be. “I don’t know. I wish it hadn’t happened to you.”
“Thank you for … bringing this. It was very kind.”
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”
She nodded and started to close the door. Miranda stopped her. “Wait, Mrs.… Catherine?”
“Yes?”
“We found a key at Richard’s. It appears to go to a lockbox of some type. Do you know … did your son have one?”
Mrs. Stark seemed to freeze a moment, then shook her head, movement stiff. “How would that help you find his killer?”
Miranda lifted a shoulder. “We’re not sure, but it raises questions. Perhaps the killer took the box?”
“Good-bye, Detective. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
What, not who, Miranda thought as the door snapped shut. From the other side, she heard the click of the deadbolt falling into place.
Miranda hurried back to her car. The quicker she exited, the less likely she was to be seen here. If Buddy got wind she was pursuing the case on her own, she’d never get her badge back.
Miranda reached her car, climbed in, and started it up. She pulled away from the curb, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She had planted the seed; she could only hope that something grew from it. If nothing did, she had no idea where she’d turn next.