Cross Her Heart (Bree Taggert #1)(11)

Bree startled as her hearing returned in a rush of sounds and sensations. “Yes. I’m sorry. I, um . . .”

She didn’t know what to say or do. Her mind felt like a vacuum.

Erin is dead?

It didn’t seem possible. The deputy left the office for a minute and returned with a bottle of water. After twisting off the cap, he handed her the bottle. She took it but didn’t drink. Her throat was so dry that she was afraid she’d choke.

“Are you sure it’s my sister?” Bree’s voice was barely audible.

“Yes. The medical examiner has positively identified her.” He perched on the corner of his desk.

“Where are the children?”

“With your brother.”

Who hadn’t answered his phone all night. Bree suppressed a flash of anger. She had no right to be upset with Adam. He’d been with the kids when they’d needed him. Bree had been hundreds of miles away. Besides, Adam was distracted on a good day. He’d had his hands full last night.

“What have the children been told?” she asked.

“Last night, I told them their mother had been killed.” His face creased with sadness. “I didn’t give them any details.”

Bree closed her eyes for one full breath as she reeled in her sorrow. When she opened them, her words grated against her vocal cords. “I want to see her.”

“Of course. I’ll find out when the medical examiner will release the body. Do you have a funeral home in mind?”

Bree flinched at the word body. Of course there would be an autopsy. “I want to see her ASAP.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll give you the ME’s number.”

“Thank you.” She shook her head, not in response to his statement, but to clear it. “How did my sister die?”

“She was shot.”

“Where and when?”

“At her husband’s house. Can you tell me why they were separated?”

“He had a drug problem.” Bree absorbed his answers. “Where is Justin?”

“We don’t know.”

What does that mean?

Did Erin’s husband kill her, like their father had killed their mother?

Emotions clawed for a hold. Bree’s compartmentalizing skills were failing her. She latched on to her anger for stability. “Why was she at Justin’s place, and who found her body?”

The chief deputy returned to his chair, putting some distance between them. He leaned his elbows on the desk and considered her for a few seconds. “Her body was found by a friend of Justin’s. We don’t know why she was there.”

The man with the dog she’d seen in the lobby flashed into her head, and she remembered him from the wedding. He’d been Justin’s best man. Matt. Matt Flynn.

The chief deputy said, “Look, Ms. Taggert—”

“Detective Taggert,” Bree reminded him.

“Detective Taggert,” he corrected. “I know you’re upset. But this is not your jurisdiction, and I can’t allow a member of the victim’s family to be part of this investigation.”

“But you can give me the consideration of keeping me informed.” Bree’s words sounded cold, and she clung to the icy feeling in her gut. When it thawed, the pain would break through, and she wanted no part of it.

The chief deputy nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “Here are the facts I can share. Your sister was shot inside the home of her estranged husband, Justin Moore, yesterday evening between seven thirty and eight thirty.”

Bree knew there were other questions she should be asking, but her mind felt sluggish with shock.

“Do you have any other suspects?” she asked.

“We are just beginning our investigation.” The chief deputy shifted forward. “When was the last time you saw your sister?”

“She and the kids came to Philly in August, and we spoke on the phone once or twice a month.” Which now seemed so . . . inadequate.

Grief bubbled in Bree’s throat. She swallowed it.

Not yet.

Keep it together.

But her control felt as weak as a single silk thread.

“What about Erin’s pickup truck?” Her sister had driven a white farm truck, an older model F-150. Bree hadn’t seen it at the house.

“I put a BOLO alert out on the vehicle,” the chief deputy said.

“Do you think he’s driving it?”

“It’s a reasonable theory. It’s her only vehicle. Now it’s missing and so is he.”

Bree thought if Justin had killed Erin and driven off in her truck, he would have dumped it by now. Anyone with two brain cells would assume law enforcement was searching for the vehicle.

“I assure you that we are looking at all of the evidence,” the chief deputy said. “I will share more information when I am able.” His chair squeaked as he shifted his weight back, signaling that he was finished. “I’m going to have more questions for you. I’ll need your contact information.”

Bree gave him her cell number. She was going to have more questions for him too, once she got her act together.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Bree said. “When will Erin’s house be released?”