Free Thread of Fear by Laura Griffin

Jones. The handwriting slanted sharply left. 339 Elm St. A phone number had been listed, then crossed out repeatedly.
    A prickle of anticipation traveled down Sullivan’s spine. Practically every piece of information on the form looked invented.
    “You check out these references?” Sullivan asked.
    “Heck, I was just happy to get an applicant.” She fisted a hand on her hip. “This isn’t exactly dream work, and I cain’t afford to pay more than minimum wage.”
    Sullivan’s pulse quickened as he scrutinized the form. “Ron” had listed a ten-digit social. “You ever see his driver’s license? A Social Security card?”
    The shopkeeper shook her head. “He said he’d lost his card, but he was getting a new one. He was American, though—I could tell that just by looking. So I told him not to worry about it.” She bit her lip guiltily. “I always paid him in cash. I’m not real caught up on some of my tax stuff, to tell you the truth.”
    Sullivan didn’t comment, so of course she hurried to fill the silence.
    “He just seemed like a regular guy, you know? Until he quit coming last week. No forwarding address, nothing.”
    “How did he get to work?”
    “The bus.” She gazed up at the ceiling and tapped her chin, as if trying to remember. “I can’t recall what line.”
    Sullivan glanced around the room. “You have a computer on the premises?”
    “Sure, out front.”
    Investigators were working the theory that Shelby had met someone in an Internet chat room during the weeks prior to her abduction. “He ever use it that you know?”
    “Every now and then he would, if we weren’t busy. But most days he stayed back here. Real quiet type.”
    Sullivan glanced out the door, which led to a service drive. His heart was pounding like it did sometimes when a lead panned out.
    “You give him a key?” he asked.
    “No. But he closed up a couple times, so I’d lend him my hide-a-key, and he always put it back. Like I say, I never had any problems with him.”
    Sullivan poked his head outside.
    “That’s where we get all our drop-offs,” she explained. “I come back and quote them a price. They either take it or leave it.”
    He surveyed the surrounding area. Across the driveway was a narrow strip of grass, then the edge of another parking lot. The shopping center about forty yards away included a Mailboxes, Etc., a sandwich shop, and a ballet studio. A trio of girls was standing outside. They huddled against the coldin bulky jackets, their legs bare except for pale pink tights. A white SUV pulled up to the curb to collect them.
    Sullivan took out his cell phone. His supervisor answered on the first ring.
    “It’s Sullivan. I’m over here in Birmingham.”
    “And?”
    “And I think we’ve got something.”
     

    Fiona entered the autopsy suite and sent a silent thanks to whatever thoughtful staffer had just left here.
    While she had been signing in and receiving a visitor’s badge, someone had transferred Jane Doe from the cooler to a gurney in the autopsy room, which was a relatively bearable sixty degrees. A metal folding chair had been set up for Fiona alongside the sheet-covered body. Having put in many grueling hours under much less hospitable conditions, she appreciated such considerations and attributed them to Jack. From the moment he’d ushered her into the Grainger County Administrative Building, it had been apparent he was a popular man around here. It shouldn’t have surprised her, really. He had that confident, easygoing way about him that made the men want to talk sports and the women want to flutter their lashes.
    Fiona crossed the room, which seemed blessedly quiet for a county morgue. She glanced around, quickly taking in the stainless steel tables and sinks, the lights and hoses, the metal cart neatly loaded with sterilized tools, and felt vaguely comforted. From county to county and state to state, these rooms all had a sameness about them.
    She took a small plastic container