But Sophie was already buried in her report again.
Natalie ran through the facts of this investigation, trying to figure out whether she had enough for an article. She had already reported the basics. A soccer coach at Whitcomb Academy, a small private school for gifted and talented girls, had been using a picklock kit to get into girls’ dorm rooms at night, where he had allegedly raped them. After one of the victims attempted suicide, the truth came out, and the parents went to the county sheriff.
The sheriff had moved quickly, arresting the coach on a host of felonies, and promising a full investigation. And then . . . nothing.
After two weeks of investigating the case, the sheriff let it go, and the DA dropped the charges against the coach for lack of evidence. Given that the evidence included semen samples on one of the girls’ sheets, a picklock kit, and fifteen victims telling almost exactly the same story, this came as a surprise to everyone. But it had been good news for the coach, who’d promptly disappeared, leaving no forwarding address.
Understandably, the girls’ parents had been outraged, some insinuating that the sheriff and the DA had been bought off or intimidated by the school’s administration. Feeling that they had nowhere left to turn, the parents had come to the newspaper. Natalie had done some preliminary poking around, gathering police reports and tax documents for all the players. She had arranged to interview the families, but she’d gone to Mexico before she’d gotten the chance.
And now no one wanted to talk.
It looked like she would end up dropping the story.
She stretched, unable to stifle a yawn, wishing she could run out for another café au lait. Even though Julian and Marc had cleared her house and the Denver police had parked a surveillance team on her street, she hadn’t slept well last night, every sound she’d heard making her jump. The ice maker. The AC kicking on. The creaking of her wooden floors. In her mind all of them became Sr. Scar Face. Then she’d imagined Zach was there, holding her, sleeping beside her, and she’d finally fallen asleep.
She’d been tempted more times than she could count to call him today just to make sure he was okay. She was so afraid her deposition had gotten him into trouble. If only his superiors in the Justice Department understood that he’d done what he’d done to keep her safe . . .
Oh, who was she fooling? She wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to know that he was okay. But if she called, she’d only make it harder on herself. He’d made it clear that he didn’t feel capable of having a relationship, and she had too much self-respect to throw herself at any man.
Outside her window, gray clouds rose over the mountains, promising a late afternoon thunderstorm. Already the wind was picking up, branches swaying.
Don’t we have to get skin to skin for this to work?
Are you saying you want to get naked with me, angel?
That’s not what I meant.
No? Too bad.
Memories of another thunderstorm came back to her. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d taken shelter with Zach in that alcove and made love underneath the little waterfall. But in fact, it was just the day before yesterday.
Too much, too fast. Two worlds apart.
She grabbed her file and stood, then walked the short distance to Tom’s office. He had a way of resurrecting investigations she thought were dead in the water. And if he thought she was wasting her time on this one, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell her.
He glanced up, a shock of gray curls slipping over his forehead, reading glasses low on his nose. “Benoit.”
She stepped into the mess that was Tom’s office—newspapers piled everywhere, manila file folders with coffee stains, books stacked wherever there was space, and on the wall above his head, a poster with his favorite quote, from George Orwell:In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.
“I think this Whitcomb Academy investigation is at a dead end, but I wanted to run through it with you first.”
“Let’s hear it.”
She refreshed his memory about the facts of the case, then told him what had happened with the girls’ families today. “I feel like there’s something there, but I can’t find a way to crack the nut. I’m not even sure where the nut is.”
He frowned, clearly thinking it through. “So the alleged victims and their families won’t talk. The school won’t talk. And the sheriff and DA won’t talk.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”
“What about the perp?”
“He skipped town the day after they let him out of jail. His neighbors said a moving van showed up and cleared out his apartment. No forwarding address.”
“I assume you’ve already gotten everyone’s tax records.”
Natalie nodded. “The sheriff’s, the DA’s, the administrator’s, the alleged perpetrator’s, as well as all of the school’s public records for the past five years. There was nothing that seemed suspicious to me, but then I admit I’m not a tax genius.”
“You could fax those documents to that forensic accountant we keep on retainer and see what she finds. She knows all the tricks. If anyone is playing games, she’ll be able to spot it.”