The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty
then?’ Miles asked. ‘Why not call Smith and ask what he thinks?’
It was a good question. Smith had been at both crime scenes. He would certainly know.
But this time that wasn’t enough. She had to see for herself. To know for certain whether there was any connection at all between this crime scene and the one on that day, fifteen years ago, when her childhood ended.
Because no one ever caught that murderer.
That little girl never got justice.
‘Please, Miles,’ she pleaded. ‘I just … I have to do this. I need two seconds looking through a window.’
He held her gaze, his expression a complex mix of doubt and worry.
Harper thought he’d refuse. His relationship with the police was important to him. Ever since he’d been laid off he’d had to tread a fine line with the newspaper, the police and his work. He did not want her to mess that up.
But then, shaking his head, he held up his hands in surrender.
‘Tell me this before we throw our careers away. How do you propose to illegally cross that police line and get into that house without the cops and detectives and their merry band promptly arresting you?’
Harper pointed at the houses peeking out through the trees behind the crime house.
‘Through the backyard.’
Here’s a thing about crime scenes most people don’t know: they’re boring.
The vast majority of any reporter’s time at a crime scene is spent waiting around. First you wait for the detectives, then you wait for the forensics team, then you wait for the coroner. Sometimes, hours will pass before you’re even told what you’re waiting for.
At a crime scene this high profile, Harper knew she had time to burn. The forensics unit had just begun putting on their white moon suits when she stepped away from the crime tape. Nothing would be announced until they’d had a chance to examine the house.
As she hurried down the street, nobody noticed her departure. Everyone was still focused on the yellow house.
Around the corner, away from the gawkers and journalists, the neighborhood seemed calm and peaceful. But Harper wasn’t.
Despite her bravura performance with Miles, she was so nervous her stomach burned. She had to force her hands to unclench. She’d always pushed the limits but she’d never done anything like this before.
For one thing it was wildly, profoundly illegal.
If she got caught, the police would undoubtedly arrest her. The newspaper would be unlikely to bail her out because breaking the law was not part of her job description. Not overtly, anyway. Oh, they were happy to take advantage of it when she broke the rules and got a good story, but if she were ever truly busted for it, they’d let her hang.
And yet, she didn’t stop. She had to know.
In her mind, she kept seeing that girl in her school clothes, standing dazed and shocked in a protective phalanx of police.
She looked so small. So vulnerable.
Was that how she’d looked that day?
And Smith – what was he doing there? A single homicide, even in a neighborhood like this, ordinarily merited his oversight from a distance but not his physical presence. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him at a crime scene. Certainly not since he was promoted to lieutenant four years ago.
‘I’m a paper-pusher now,’ he’d told her at the time, pride in his voice. ‘I’m off the street at last. Got a chair that cost as much as I make in a week and a great big office, and by God, I’m going to use them.’
He’d been true to his word. Until now.
What if he was here because he had seen this once before?
The next street along was a perfect mirror image of Constance Street. The same brightly painted, over-priced houses with lush gardens behind low fences.
The blue paint on Number 3691 was perfect and its front garden was lavish. Fat, pink roses spilled over the glossy black bars of the wrought-iron fence in a fragrant tumble.
It was directly behind the murder scene.
If she stood on her toes, Harper could see the yellow house from the sidewalk.
Given the well-maintained look of the house, odds were ten to one the lawyer or banker who lived here was at work and the place was empty.
Or a trophy wife could be inside, watching cable and doing her nails.
There was only one way to find out.
Setting her jaw, Harper lifted the cool metal latch on the heavy gate and walked with purpose to the door. When she knocked, the sound echoed in the quiet street like a gunshot.
For a moment, she stood still, summoning an excuse, waiting for footsteps.
None came.
Just to be sure, she knocked again.
Still, nothing.
Pulling her phone from her pocket she called Miles.
He answered immediately.
‘I’m in,’ she said, hurrying down the steps toward the side of the house. ‘Do it now.’
There was a long silence.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ he asked.
‘I’m already doing it.’
Without waiting for his reply she hung up, setting the phone to silent before she shoved it into her pocket.
Back on Constance Street, Miles should now be going up to the officer standing guard and demanding to talk to a senior detective. He’d complain about the slow pace and lack of information. He’d get Natalie and Josh involved – it was never very hard to get them riled up about deadlines.
Hopefully, this would keep everyone busy out front, ensuring nobody wandered around to the back while she was there.
That was the plan, anyway.
The really terrible plan.
There was no gate between the front and back garden of number 3691. A narrow walkway led past a ginger hedge on the side of the house to the perfectly manicured back garden.
A patio table surrounded by six wicker chairs sat near the back door. A curving stone path led through lush daisies and climbing bougainvillea to where two pear trees bookended the yard right in front of the back fence.
Ducking behind one of the trees, Harper peered into the backyard of the murder house.
The garden across the fence wasn’t at all like the one in which she now stood. The lawn was neat, but unimaginative.
A purple bicycle leaned against the wall of the house near a rusted barbecue grill that looked like it hadn’t been used in quite a while.
This was the house of a single mom too busy to worry about gardening.
From here, Harper could see the murder house had big windows lining the rear wall and a back door with three steps leading down to the patio.
The fence between the two houses was about four-feet tall and chain link. That was normal around here – the summer humidity and heavy winter rains destroyed wood so quickly most people didn’t bother with it. Harper could make it over the fence easily.
The only problem was, now that she was here, all she could see was that she was about twenty long steps from getting arrested. There was no place to hide in that yard. And the hot sun reflected off the