Page 90 of Accidental Murder
“Documents. Medical in nature.” Smith scratched the stubble on his chin. “We haven’t examined anything in detail.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Yeah, sure. We’ve got footprints everywhere. Different patterns, different sizes. Boots, as well as hard-soled shoes. My team is making casts.”
“Did you scour the forest for other bodies?”
“Yes, ma’am. Haven’t found any. And, yeah, we poked around and under the vegetable garden. Nada.”
Megan cupped her hands around her eyes to block the glare from the portable lights and surveyed the scene. She pointed to a rundown hut. “What’s in there?”
“Tools and such. There might’ve been a motorcycle, but it’s gone. No corpses.”
“May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Outside the shed, Megan found a single tire track. She bent to inspect it and smiled. Whoever had ridden the motorcycle out of the shack hadn’t weighed much, and Kayla was an experienced rider.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Loathing her role as babysitter,Megan marched to Vaughn’s car. “What are you looking at?”
He whirled around. “Kayla’s backpack.” He motioned to a satchel and sheafs of papers on the hood of the car. “It was?—”
“Beneath the seat.”
“Where is she?”
“I think she took off on a motorcycle.”
“So she’s alive?” His relief was palpable.
“Officer, do you mind?” Megan motioned Smith’s colleague to move away. He obeyed. A chill worked its way through the lightweight fabric of her raincoat. She grumbled. When would she learn temperatures in December could drop to near freezing? “What’ve we got?” She eyed the backpack and zeroed in on the papers. Some looked like sketches.
Vaughn pointed to the artwork. “Those are mine.”
Megan held out her hand. “Let me see your phone.” He furnished it. She scanned his call list. She didn’t recognize of the numbers, but why would she? “Is Kayla using a burner phone?”
“Yes.”
“Are any of these numbers hers?”
“No, she hasn’t called me.”
As much as Megan resented Vaughn’s presence, an inner voice said,Trust him. Utilizing her cell phone flashlight, she perused the papers. Memos and correspondence on Wilkerson Hospital letterhead. Journal entries. A letter from Sara Simmons to David Macintyre.
She moved on to the next page. “Tell me everything you know about her. I have to figure out what she’s up to.”
“She’s hunting down the guy who killed her sister,” he stated. “She won’t stop until she finds him. That’s how she is with a computer. Find a problem. Fix it. Don’t stop until you do. The FBI offered her a job once, but she turned them down, claiming the work would be too regimented.”
Megan heard the admiration in his voice.
“She doesn’t let society rule her actions,” he went on. “She’s an independent thinker. Curious to a fault. She says inquisitiveness comes with her job. Miss a detail when fixing a computer and you screw up a machine.”
Megan sighed. Lately she’d been failing to notice a whole bunch of details. She reviewed a memo from Sara Simmons to David Macintyre. Pretty harmless. Where had Kayla stumbled upon the documents? Sara Simmons’s office? Each had a notation in a separate font and a handwrittenSSnext to the date, as if Simmons had been corroborating her data. “Tell me about last night at the motel.”
“We were both clothed and slept on top of the bed.”
