Final vow, p.8
Final Vow, page 8
Hanks sets his full glass of water down on a side table, and we make our way back through the immaculate living room, past all those photos of mother and son, and that unsettling portrait above the fireplace.
At the door, Maryanne watches us put our shoes back on with barely concealed impatience. The second we step outside, the door closes behind us with a pointed click. The deadbolt turns. Shadow glances back, ears pricked.
The gusts buffet us as we walk to the car. I glance over my shoulder at the house and catch a glimpse of Maryanne through the glass, still holding Benji as she watches us leave.
Hanks blows out a long breath as we reach the sedan. “That woman was anxious to get back to her son.”
I snort. “You’d think he was a toddler.”
He opens the driver’s door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “There’s something going on there.”
I help Shadow into the back seat and climb into the passenger side. Through the windshield, the house gleams spotlessly against the blue sky.
“Agreed,” I say. “But is it connected to Samantha’s murder?”
Hanks starts the engine. “That’s what we need to find out.”
We pull out of the driveway, the steep descent making my stomach lurch. I keep my gaze on the road ahead, but my mind is back on that deck—on Benji’s face when I asked about his mother and Samantha.
What had he been about to say?
CHAPTER 11
We swing by the Daily Grind on our way back to the station. The line is out the door—summer visitors clogging the narrow space while Maya and her lone barista, Matty, hustle behind the counter. Maya spots me through the crowd and holds up a white paper bag with a knowing grin.
“Saved you the last one,” she says when we eventually squeeze through, Shadow threading between legs. “Chocolate chip. Figured you’d be by.”
“You’re a saint.” I take the bag and inhale the buttery sweetness. She pulls a homemade biscuit from the jar she keeps behind the register for Shadow, and he takes it delicately.
Back in Hanks’s office, I settle onto his worn leather couch with my scone while Shadow circles twice and flops down on the cushion beside me, crunching on his treat. Hanks takes his usual spot behind the desk.
“Brooks has the gate footage,” Hanks reminds me between bites. “Hope he has something for us soon.”
I nod, brushing crumbs from my uniform. “In the meantime, what do you think? Grayson Taylor’s our top suspect?”
“Seems that way.” His gaze drifts to Samantha’s phone in the clear evidence baggie on his desk.
We eat fast, and as soon as we’ve tossed the trash, Hanks and I don gloves. I pull a chair around next to his and power up the phone, then unlock it with the code Benji gave us.
I open her Messenger app as Hanks looks over my shoulder. Two message threads. That’s it.
The first is a group chat. I start at the beginning—the messages date back almost a year. The participants are familiar names: Kim Nelson, Courtney Harris, and a few others I recognize from the bridesmaid roster.
“Bachelorette planning,” I murmur, skimming through the messages. Venue options for a weekend in Seattle. Debates over matching pajamas. Color swatches for dresses. Courtney lobbying hard for a party bus.
Nothing suspicious. Just a group of women excited to celebrate.
“Seems pretty normal.” I back out of the group chat and tap on the second thread. The name at the top makes my pulse pick up. Grayson Taylor.
The profile picture shows a man in his late twenties with slicked-back blond hair and a sharp jaw. He’s wearing a leather jacket and leaning against a brick wall, trying very hard to look cool. There’s something unsettling about the intensity of his eyes, even in a tiny thumbnail.
The first message is dated nine months ago. Hanks makes a note of it.
Hey, Sam. Long time no talk. Saw your engagement post. Congrats, I guess.
Been thinking about you a lot lately.
Remember junior prom? Best night of my life.
Hanks leans closer, reading over my shoulder. “Keep going.”
Samantha doesn’t respond. A week passes, then another flurry from Grayson.
Hello? I know you’re reading these.
Just want to catch up. Is that so wrong?
Come on, Sam. Don’t be like that.
Still no response. I swipe on. The messages continue—sporadic at first, then more frequent. His tone shifts gradually, the casual friendliness curdling into something needier.
I miss you. I think about you all the time. Don’t you think about what we could’ve been?
This guy you’re marrying, does he even know you like I do?
We had something special. You can’t just forget that.
Why won’t you answer me?
“Yikes,” I mutter.
Hanks snorts. “Real Cassanova.”
The messages get longer and more desperate.
I drove by your place last night. Saw your car in the driveway. I almost knocked, but I didn’t want to freak you out. Would’ve been cool to see you though.
Please, Sam. Just give me another chance. I can make you happy.
Happier than that accountant ever could.
My skin crawls. This guy sounds incredibly entitled. But is he dangerous?
Samantha finally responds about a month in.
Grayson, please stop messaging me. I’m engaged and happy. What we had was a long time ago. I’ve moved on, and I need you to do the same.
You don’t mean that.
I definitely do. Please respect my wishes and stop contacting me.
Sam, come on. You’re making a mistake. This guy isn’t right for you. I KNOW you still have feelings for me. I can tell.
I don’t. Move on, Grayson. I’m blocking you.
Think you’re too good for me? Stuck-up bitch. You’re gonna regret this.
The messages stop abruptly after that. She must have blocked him. I sit back, my stomach tight. “And then he showed up at her school.”
As far as we know, Samantha never reached out to the police in Portland for help. Maybe she genuinely believed she could handle it on her own, that blocking Grayson would be enough to make him go away.
“Check his profile,” Hanks says.
I navigate to Grayson’s Facebook page. The privacy settings are loose—I can see most of his posts and photos without being connected to him.
Seems like he spends his nights out drinking, playing pool. A few mirror selfies of his slim, tattooed build.
Hanks and I find some decent ones of his face and print them out. We’ll need to check through the photos of the wedding guests and staff we interviewed to see if he’s among them, maybe going by an alias.
As the printer behind Hanks’s desk whirs to life, a knock at the door makes us both glance up.
Nathan Brooks pokes his head in, his boyish face flushed with barely contained excitement and a tablet tucked under his arm. “Hey!” He grins when he sees me. “How’s it going?”
I can’t help but smile back. Nathan’s enthusiasm is infectious, even on the worst days. “Getting there. You?”
“Pretty good.” He steps into the office. “I finished reviewing that gate footage.”
Hanks waves him in as he grabs the printed photos from the tray and taps them against his desk to straighten the pages. “And?”
“First, I confirmed that the gate is the only entrance to the property. The place has tall stone walls around the perimeter, so unless someone scaled them on foot, everyone came and went through there.”
“Could someone have climbed the wall?” I ask.
Nathan considers this. “Possible, I guess. But according to the venue staff, it’s eight feet tall with decorative iron spikes on top. You’d need a ladder, and you’d risk being seen from the lawn or the road.”
Unlikely, then.
Hanks nods slowly. “What else?”
“Good news first.” Nathan splays his hands. “No one left after the victim was found. Once people realized what happened and our officers arrived, everyone stayed put. Gate camera confirms it.”
Hanks settles back in his chair. “The bad news?”
Nathan takes a breath. “About thirty minutes before the murder was called in, someone did leave. In a hurry.”
He pulls up a video clip and turns the tablet so we can see. The footage is grainy but clear enough—a red car speeding through the open gate, tires kicking up gravel. It’s an older model, boxy and weathered, paint faded to a dull rust color.
“It’s a Nissan Maxima, early nineties,” Nathan says. “I got the plates.”
Hanks sits taller, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Did you run them?”
Nathan nods, swiping to his notes. “Vehicle is registered to a Wilma Taylor. Home address is listed in Banks.”
“Taylor?” I look at Hanks. “Like Grayson Taylor?”
Hanks spins to his computer and taps at his keyboard, then freezes. “Grayson Taylor. Picked up last year for loitering. Listed as living at 5344 SE Riverrun Road, in Banks.”
Nathan nods. “Same address.”
Hanks lurches to his feet, reaching for his tweed jacket. “Good work, Brooks.” He claps the younger man on the shoulder as he strides past.
Nathan beams. “Oh, I also got plates for everyone who went in and out that day.”
Hanks hovers in the doorway as Shadow and I rise and I grab my things. “Cross-check ’em against the guest and vendor list. Let me know if anyone stands out.”
“I’ll do that.”
I’m right behind Hanks as we head out of his office, my mind racing. Kim Nelson told us Grayson Taylor still lives with his mother, meaning it’d be easy to borrow her car. He was likely at that venue. He was there, on Samantha’s wedding day, and he left in a hurry roughly half an hour before her body was discovered.
“Banks is about an hour from here,” I say, falling into step beside Hanks as we push through the bullpen toward the back exit.
“Then we’d better get moving.” He holds the door for me and Shadow. “Let’s hope Grayson Taylor is home.”
CHAPTER 12
The drive takes us inland, the winding roads flanked by towering Douglas firs. Shadow dozes in the back seat, occasionally lifting his head when we slow for a curve, then settling back down with a sigh.
Banks is a small rural town east of the mountains. We exit the highway and navigate a series of increasingly narrow streets through farmland until the GPS takes us into a small subdivision and announces our destination.
Wilma Taylor’s house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac in an older, shaded neighborhood that’s seen better days. The homes here were probably nice once, maybe thirty years ago, but now the neighborhood has a tired, sagging look.
Her place is one of the worst on the block. A single-story ranch with peeling beige paint, bordered by a chain-link fence.
The driveway and carport are empty.
Hanks parks at the curb and cuts the engine. We both study the house for a moment.
“No car,” I say.
“Noticed that.” He pushes open his door. “Let’s see if anyone’s home.”
Shadow perks up the moment I open the back door, hopping out and immediately putting his nose to work. His ears swivel as he takes in the crunchy overgrown grass and the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street.
Hanks unlatches the gate, and we walk up the cracked concrete path to the front door.
He knocks on the metal security screen—three sharp raps.
For a long moment, there’s nothing. Then footsteps shuffle closer, and the inner door creaks open a few inches. A face appears in the gap—a woman with gray hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, deep lines carved around her mouth and eyes. She’s thin, almost gaunt, in a faded housecoat over pajamas despite the hour.
“Yeah?” Her voice is rough. Smoker’s rasp.
“Ma’am, are you Wilma Taylor?” Hanks asks.
Her eyes narrow, flicking between us. She takes in my uniform, Hanks’s badge clipped to his belt, and Shadow sitting at attention beside me. “What’s this about?”
“Do you know Grayson Taylor?” I ask.
A flicker of wariness passes across her face. “He’s my son.” She crosses her arms over her thin chest. “Why?”
Hanks keeps his tone neutral. “Is he home?”
“I don’t think so. He’s got an apartment in the basement with his own entrance around back. I haven’t heard him moving around.” She glances past us toward the empty driveway. “Goddamn it. He took my car again.”
Hanks and I exchange a look.
“Does he do that often?” Hanks asks. “Take your car?”
“Often enough.” She’s studying us more carefully now, her wariness sharpening into something closer to alarm. “You gonna tell me what this is about? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Ma’am, can we come in?” I ask gently. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Wilma’s gaze drops to Shadow. “He gonna chase my cats?”
“No, ma’am. He’s a trained K-9. He’ll behave.”
She considers this for a moment, then sighs. “Fine.”
The deadbolt clicks. She pushes the security door open and steps aside to let us in.
I crinkle my nose at the smell of cat litter and something cooking—tomato sauce, maybe, with an undercurrent of garlic. The interior is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. Shadow’s nose twitches as he crosses the threshold, his ears pricking at a sound I can’t hear. A moment later, a tabby cat darts across the hallway and disappears into a back room.
Shadow tracks its movement with his eyes but stays at my side, professional as always.
Wilma leads us into a living room that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks. Laundry is piled on one end of a worn floral couch. The carpet is thin in the paths between furniture, and the walls are bare except for a few framed photos. A much younger Wilma and school portraits of a blond boy who must be Grayson.
No pictures from recent years.
Wilma settles into a La-Z-Boy recliner that’s clearly her usual spot, the armrests darkened with use. She reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the side table, then seems to think better of it.
Hanks and I stay standing. There’s nowhere to sit that isn’t covered in clothes or cat hair.
“Mrs. Taylor—” Hanks begins.
“Ms.,” she corrects. “Never married Grayson’s father. He ended up taking off when Grayson was in high school.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Guess it made the split easier at least.”
I study her face. She’s fifty-two according to the DMV records, but she looks older, like life has been difficult.
“Ms. Taylor,” Hanks says. “Did your son borrow your car yesterday?”
“Yeah.” She frowns. “Why? He get in an accident or something?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “That’s all I need.”
Hanks pulls out his notepad. “Is this the vehicle registered in your name? Red 1993 Nissan Maxima, Oregon plates Tango-Victor-Foxtrot-two-eight-three?”
“Yeah.” Her gaze bounces between us. “Look, are you gonna tell me what’s going on? You’re making me nervous.”
I keep my voice gentle. “He wasn’t in an accident, Ms. Taylor. We just think he may have witnessed something, and we’d like to speak with him. Do you know where he was yesterday?”
She shakes her head slowly, reaching for the cigarettes again. This time she pulls one out and holds it between her fingers, unlit. “He doesn’t tell me much anymore. We used to be close when he was younger. Now I barely see him, even though he lives right downstairs.”
“Does he work?” Hanks asks.
“Part-time.” She rolls the cigarette. “Delivers pizzas a few nights a week. Dead-end job. He could be doing so much more—he’s smart, you know. Got good grades in high school before he started slacking off.” She shakes her head, nostrils flared. “His father leaving messed him up. He was never the same after that.”
I have a feeling that despite their challenges, she cares deeply about her son. “Does he have friends? People he spends time with?”
Wilma shrugs. “Some people he hangs around with on weekends sometimes. But mostly he’s alone. Down in that basement, playing video games and doing God knows what else.” The cat leaps onto the arm of her recliner, and she strokes it absently. “I stopped going down there. He made it clear I’m not welcome.”
Shadow watches the cat with keen interest, his ears pricked forward, but he doesn’t move from his spot beside me.
“Ms. Taylor,” I say, “would you mind checking his apartment? Just in case he’s down there?”
She hesitates, her hand stilling on the cat’s fur. “This gonna get him into trouble?”
“We just want to talk to him,” Hanks says. “The sooner we can do that, the better.”
She tucks the cigarette behind her ear and pushes herself up from the recliner with a grunt. “Fine. This way.”
We follow her through the kitchen—dishes piled in the sink, a pot of sauce simmering on the stove—to a door beside the refrigerator. She pulls a key from her housecoat pocket and unlocks it.
“Grayson?” she calls down the stairs. “You down there?”
Silence.
The wooden steps creak under our weight as we descend into the basement. The smell changes as we go—less cat and cigarettes, more stale sweat and garbage. By the time we reach the bottom, I’m breathing through my mouth.
Shadow’s hackles rise.
The apartment is a single large room with a bathroom in one corner, the door hanging open to reveal a toilet with the seat up and a shower curtain covered in mildew. Fast-food wrappers and empty energy drink cans litter the floor around a gaming setup—two monitors, a tangle of cords and controllers.
Wilma makes a disgusted noise. “Place is a pigsty!”
My eyes drift to red sheets tacked high on the wall, hanging like curtains. Odd. There are no windows down here.
Wilma must find them just as puzzling because she marches across the space, dodging greasy take-out bags and empty soda bottles. “Now what the hell is this?” She pulls back one of the sheets.
