Free Devil Smoke by C. J. Lyons Page B

was not the case here. Maybe since Sarah’s wallet and cell were presumably stolen when her car was broken into, she could ask Burroughs to report her as a victim of identity theft. That would allow them access without needing court orders—although it would still be a slow slog wading through the bureaucracies surrounding Sarah’s various accounts.
    Lucy’s eyes blurred as Wash flipped through Sarah Brown’s photos, one image morphing into the next. “She really does have a thing for ferns and moss. Did the camera card’s GIS info give you anything to go on?”
    “No. It’s all for the area around the trail she was found on. The first photo on the memory card is from earlier that same day, the trailhead sign—probably to help her organize her files when she downloads them.”
    “If you were a professional photographer, wouldn’t you have a big computer and screen? They didn’t find any in her apartment.”
    “These days, you can use your laptop, screencast to a hi-def TV, and the image is bigger than life, filled with all the detail she’d need to edit them. Same thing as what I’m doing here.”
    “So she could have had everything in the car and lost it all in the smash and grab. I guess I was just expecting all sorts of equipment at home—lights and whatnot. But Burroughs didn’t mention anything.”
    “Look at what she shoots.” He nodded to the image on the screen, which was filled with layers of thick, richly colored moss. “I’ll bet she does it all in the field with what she can carry with her.”
    “Doesn’t help us much, then.”
    Before she could ask anything else her phone rang. TK.
    “Lucy? We have a problem.”
     
     
     

     
     

Chapter 13
     
     
    TOMMY HELD SARAH much as he’d become accustomed to holding his daughter, trying to comfort her the best he could. But holding Sarah felt so different—and yet, so very familiar, in ways he fought to deny.
    The scent of her shampoo, the feel of her hair, simply having a woman lean on him, need him… He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting, searing moment it was Charlotte he held, not a stranger. He wanted to savor, to etch this exact second of time into his memory so that he would not lose it as he had so many other moments with Charlotte.
    But something inside him refused to allow him even that small measure of comfort. He didn’t push Sarah away in his need, but neither did he submerge himself in the intoxication of faux memory and denial.
    Instead, as he’d done millions of times during the past 363 days, he relived those last moments with Charlotte.
    He’d been pulling out of the driveway on his way to work. Nellie was waiting in the Pathfinder for Charlotte to drive her to school. Charlotte came out of the house, cell phone to her ear, her expression suddenly clouding, then growing—angry? Frustrated? Concerned? A mix of all three, maybe?
    He hadn’t kept on driving. No. He’d stopped, half in and half out of the driveway. Had been poised to shift into park, roll his window down, and ask her what was wrong. But she glanced up when he stopped the car, shook her head, and waved him off.
    And he’d gone. He’d left. Never to see her again.
    The vision of those final moments—the entire encounter less than four seconds by his estimate—brought with it so many questions. And emotions. It used to be denial. It wasn’t his fault—he’d done everything he could. Then came anger, right on Kübler-Ross’s schedule. Why hadn’t she let him help? What had she been hiding from him? How could she have put herself in danger? What if something had happened when she had Nellie with her instead of later?
    The questions raged on, unrelenting and never ending. Without answers, without even a body to mourn, he had gotten stuck in anger. Well, there was the occasional bargaining, and definitely some depression, but absolutely no acceptance. A maelstrom of grief consumed him from the moment he woke—when he did sleep—and followed him