“Come on, Will. It would really help if I could tell Zoe you’ve arrested someone for—”
“Don’t tell her that. We haven’t arrested anyone. But we . . . we think we know who it was. Chase figured it out.”
“Who?”
“Look, I can’t give you the name, Clive. You know that.”
“Will, we’ve known each other for a long time. You can trust me. I just need to put my daughter’s mind at ease.”
There was a moment of intense silence. Was Shepherd whispering the name in her father’s ear? She crept as close as she could without giving her position away.
“Okay. But you can’t tell anyone about this; it would screw us all. Our suspect is Manny Anderson.”
Zoe held her breath. She knew Manny Anderson. He was a high school senior. He often sat in the town’s library, reading by himself. Zoe had seen him several times lately when she’d borrowed books for her own research.
“Gwen and Pete’s kid? No!”
“It turns out he was known to follow Beth Hartley around before he . . . before she was killed. And a student testified he heard Manny ask Clara out once. And you know the really weird thing?”
“What?” her dad whispered.
“You know how all the girls were found, right? Naked, strangled to death with a gray tie that was left around their throat?”
Zoe’s eyes widened. She hadn’t heard this detail until now.
“Right,” her dad said.
“Pete Anderson wears gray ties to work. Every damn day. We think Manny is using his ties to kill the girls.”
Gray ties. Zoe had to stop herself from barging into the kitchen, screaming. The one detail she hadn’t mentioned when she had talked to Shepherd in the police station. Glover had a bunch of gray ties in his porn drawer.
How would it sound if she stepped in now? It would sound like she was using this detail to get herself off the hook. After eavesdropping on their conversation. Again, they wouldn’t believe her. And she’d only make things worse for herself.
Was it just another coincidence?
Could she keep it to herself? Tell no one?
“That’s . . . terrible,” her dad said.
“Manny Anderson was always a weird kid. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t have a lot of friends. One of those quiet types, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But his teacher told me he draws some really weird cartoons in his notebooks, and he plays Dungeons and Dragons with his friends almost every weekend. Never had a girlfriend . . . I don’t know. It all adds up.”
Zoe was suddenly furious. It added up to nothing. Weird cartoons? Dungeons and Dragons? Shepherd’s reasoning was infinitely weaker than her own. Essentially, the police had done what they’d accused her of. They had searched for a suspect, and once they saw someone who more or less fit, they began tying the case to him.
They were wrong, and she was right. And they wouldn’t listen to her because she was just a hysterical fourteen-year-old girl.
“But, Dad, listen.” Zoe was desperate to convince him, but it was like trying to discuss things with an angry brick wall.
“No, Zoe, I don’t want to hear anything more about this. Do you realize Rod could sue if he found out you’re spreading these lies about him?”
“I’m not spreading lies. I just told the police what I—”
“Not to mention the fact that you broke into his house.”
They had gone over this three times, and every time it came back to the fact that she had broken into Glover’s house.
“I know, but he had gray ties in his—”
“Enough!”
His angry bark shocked her into silence. His face was nearly crimson, and his palms were shaking.
“Rod Glover is our neighbor,” he said, his voice strained and clipped. “You can’t go accusing people of horrible things without consequence. We know he has an alibi for the time Clara was killed—”
“But, Dad, we don’t know he really was in the search party. Maybe he joined and then—”
“I was in the search party. I saw Rod several times.”
Her entire resolve deflated. It was true, then. Rod Glover hadn’t killed Clara. She had accused him for no reason.
“Breaking into our neighbor’s house.” He raised a finger, starting to count her misdeeds. “Going to the police, accusing him for no good reason. Going to Durant Pond on your own.”
They both stared at his three raised fingers.
“Mom and I are going to a town meeting,” he said. “There’s going to be a discussion about the murders and the emergency measures that the community will take until the killer is behind bars. You stay here with Andrea. And tomorrow, we will talk about your punishment. At length.”
She sat on her bed, staring at the floor as he left the room. She heard him and her mother saying goodbye to Andrea, and then the front door opened and closed. The lock clicked, and they were gone.
Andrea walked into the room and climbed into Zoe’s bed. Zoe lay down and blinked away the looming tears. She should have let the police do their job. The killer probably was Manny Anderson. His romantic interest in both Clara and Beth was quite suspicious. And he had easy access to the murder weapon.
Strangled with a gray tie.
She shivered, trying to banish the images that popped into her mind.
“Zoe, are Daddy and Mommy angry at you?” Andrea asked.
“Even worse,” Zoe said. “They’re disappointed.”
“That’s not worse.”
“It kinda is.”
“Why are they angry?”
“Because I . . . said some things that weren’t true.”
Andrea’s eyes widened. “You lied?”
“No. I was just wrong.”
“Oh.”
They lay on the bed, curling against each other. Zoe listened to Andrea’s breathing, drawing strength from her sister’s innocence. She could hear footsteps in the street and then the front door lock clicking. Their mother had probably forgotten her purse again. She always did.
“Mommy?” Andrea called, obviously thinking the same.
There was no response and no footsteps. Frowning, Zoe got off the bed and walked to the doorway. There was a shadowy figure in the dark hallway. Too tall to be their mother, too thin to be their father. Their eyes met.
It was Rod Glover.
CHAPTER 46
Chicago, Illinois, Thursday, July 21, 2016
Veronika Murray, the woman found dead in West Pullman two years before, had been engaged to a man named Clifford Sorenson, according to the police report. Zoe called him and asked if they could meet. Sorenson had a plumbing business in West Pullman and told her she was welcome to drop by his office.
Sorenson’s Plumbing was more like a warehouse than an office. A small white sign hung above the front door with the business name on it in an uninspiring blue font. The same logo was printed on two blue vans parked in front. Zoe paid the taxi driver, a middle-aged man with a scruffy gray beard and mustache.
“You want me to wait outside?” he asked.
“It might take a while,” she told him. “I can call a cab when I leave.”
“Well,” he said, glancing at a nearby burger joint’s sign, “it’s past my lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten yet. I’ll be around.”
Zoe sighed. He was a talkative sort of guy, and she wasn’t in the mood for another chat about North Korea on her way back, but she could see no way to shake him off politely. “That’s great,” she said. “But if you get tired of waiting, feel free to leave.”
He shrugged. She got out of the cab and entered the warehouse.
The space inside was lined with long metallic shelves, all of them brimming with pipes, faucets, and tools Zoe couldn’t even name. In her past, she was proud to have dealt with a clog in the sink all by herself, but anything beyond that resulted in an immediate panicked phone call to a plumber. Of all the problems that could occur in her home, she felt a plumbing problem was the worst, a crisis that would empty her bank account and turn all of her worldly possessions into a soggy mess.
Two men stood by one of the shelves, picking pipes and placing them in a large cardboard box. She approached them.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Clifford Sorenson.”
“That’s me,” one of them said. “You’re Zoe?”