One Last Breath by Sarah Sutton (macos ebook reader .TXT) 📕

who comes in here quite a bit. He chases news stories and tries to sell his footage to news organizations.” The manager stared into the distance, as if trying to recall a memory. He then turned his head back to Tara and sighed. “Look, I don’t really know what this is about.” He studied Tara’s face for an answer, but she didn’t give him one. She knew he was on the brink of revealing something, and she didn’t want any revelation of her own to ruin it. His eyes fell from her gaze as he shook his head. He was clearly contemplating what he was about to say, but then he opened his mouth. “I’m not sure what a memory card has to do with any case you’re working on, and I really hope this doesn’t have to do with those girls whose bodies were found,” he started. He studied Tara’s face once more, but then his eyes fell again and remained on the floor. “He owns a Canon IOS, that stringer. It would work with this memory card.” He looked up to meet her eyes and sighed again. “He was at a story of a house fire two weeks ago, tried to sell it to a local station.”

At his words, Tara felt that they were closer than they had ever been. This is it, she thought, and it made perfect sense. A stringer, Tara knew, would have somewhat of a professional understanding of crime. He would know not to leave fingerprints. He would possibly know how long it takes to trace a call. Tara turned to Warren and met his eyes briefly. He knew it too; they had a solid lead.

She turned back to the manager. “How do you know? That he was at a house fire.”

“He told me. He always tells me stories he’s been at without me even asking. It’s a bit strange, actually, but I think it’s his way of trying to make himself sound important.”

“When was he in here last?” Tara asked.

The manager thought for a moment, staring off into the distance. “I’m pretty sure that was the last time he was in here,” he replied. It was before any of the bodies were found, and it only heightened Tara’s suspicion.

“Do you happen to have his address?”

The manager nodded as he moved to the computer on his desk. He leaned over and began to type something. “His name is Ben Ford,” he said as he began scrolling through results. “I order equipment for him once in a while. Here.” He stood up and nodded for them to take a look. Tara and Warren hovered over the computer as well. Right next to a recent order was Ben Ford’s name and address. Tara typed it into her phone.

“Do you know how long he’s been a stringer?” she asked as she finished typing in the address.

The manager pursed his lips. “He’s been coming in here for about two years now. He used to work at the local station, WPX9, a while back, but he got laid off from budget cuts, he said, and he’s been doing this solo gig ever since.” The manager shrugged. “He’s pretty young, early thirties maybe, so I don’t think he’s been doing this for much longer than that.”

Tara thanked him. He had been a stringer for what sounded like a year before Alyssa White even went missing. Could being laid off and a year without a steady job have taken him over the edge? A hope swirled at a force she had never felt throughout this case. It was a realization that they might be closer than ever. And as they exited the room, she wondered if they now held what they had been looking for all along, and if they were about to come face to face with the killer.

***

They pulled into the driveway of a two-story Cape Cod home on a street amongst others that were all very much alike. The street was quiet, the neighborhood was quaint. It was not what Tara was expecting. It was a rather nice neighborhood, not far from the water, and Tara knew that houses around there were not cheap. For someone who didn’t have a steady income, Tara was expecting Ben Ford to occupy an apartment, not a house like this. But there were also two other cars in the driveway.

“Looks like he doesn’t live alone,” Tara said as the car stuttered to a halt. As she spoke those words, a woman came around the bend of the house, walking across the lawn toward the driveway. She looked to be in her late sixties. She held two towels, and she was just about to toss them onto a clothing line but then stopped in her tracks, her eyes darting to the car. She squinted, trying to make out who it was, but then she began to walk toward them.

Warren took a deep breath. “I guess you’re right,” he said as he opened the car door and stepped out. Tara did the same as she wondered if they even had the right address. Maybe we mixed up the numbering of the houses. They knew little about Ben Ford, but they did know that he was most likely in his early thirties. This woman was most likely not his wife. But then it occurred to Tara that she was maybe his mother.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked. She now stood inches from them. She tucked her frizzy brown hair behind her ears that was rooted in gray as she gazed at them with confusion and concern. She wore cargo pants and a t-shirt, revealing her tanned, wrinkled skin and that she had spent countless years outdoors and under the sun.

“Does Ben Ford live here?” Tara asked.

The woman shot her head back like she had been struck. “Who’s asking?” She still clutched the towels, and Tara could see that her grip was getting tighter. It was a strong reaction, she thought. She seemed