“There are disappearances all over this country all the time,” Josie said. “Why did her case get so much attention?”
“Her husband had a relative—a cousin, I think—who went to college with a producer at a major network. It was one of those ‘I have a friend of a friend’ situations, you know? Anyway, the cousin got in touch with his old college buddy, asked him to do a piece on her disappearance at the national level. It wasn’t a hard sell. She was a gorgeous, small-town housewife who disappeared into thin air. People ate it up. The segment went viral and the other networks picked it up.”
“If there is the slightest chance that her case is connected with Isabelle Coleman’s, and if Coleman’s case were to get national attention, do you think they’d let her go?”
Trinity shrugged. She swallowed her food and her face turned serious. “Or they could kill her and dump her body. If Ginger was telling the truth, and let’s say it’s some kind of trafficking ring, I think they only let her go because she couldn’t remember anything. At least, that’s what her husband said. He said they drugged her.”
“Maybe they’ve drugged Isabelle too.”
“Why do you think the cases are connected?”
“I don’t. I mean, no reason. It’s just weird that three women would be abducted around here, that’s all.”
“I didn’t peg you for a conspiracy theorist,” Trinity said.
“I’m not,” said Josie. “I’m just saying it’s worth checking out. What if Blackwell tells me something that does connect to the Coleman case?”
Trinity’s eyes narrowed. “Does the chief know you’re running your own investigation now? Why are you talking to me about this and not Denton PD?”
“They’re pretty much at the limit of what they can handle right now,” she told Trinity. “Besides, I’d like to have some actual leads before I take this to the chief.”
“I don’t believe you, but I also don’t think the cases are connected. You know the deal: if you find a connection, I’m the first to know.”
Reluctantly, Josie said, “Yes, that’s what we agreed on. I didn’t forget in the last hour. But why don’t you think there will be a connection?”
Trinity shrugged. “Look at June Spencer. Everyone thought she ran away, but she was in Donald Drummond’s house. We have no way of knowing anything.”
“Jesus. There are perverts everywhere. What if I’m right about the news coverage thing? Can you get national coverage for the Coleman case?”
Trinity leaned back in her chair and twisted a lock of hair around one of her index fingers. She stared at her empty plate thoughtfully. Josie had never seen a woman eat as much as Trinity Payne did, and she couldn’t weigh more than one hundred twenty pounds. “I can try. I still have some contacts in New York. Coleman’s perfect for the national news—a gorgeous, blond teenager with her whole life ahead of her—I’ll see what I can do.”
Josie was keying the Blackwells’ new address into Google Maps when Trinity asked her, “Come on, tell me. Is it true that June Spencer killed Sherri Gosnell with a fork?”
Josie froze and shot Trinity a cutting look. “Trinity, please.”
“Just tell me. When’s the last time you heard of someone being killed with a fork? It must have been brutal.”
Josie went back to Google Maps. “There was a lot of blood,” she conceded.
“What do you think drove her over the edge?”
Josie shrugged. “I have no idea. I wasn’t in the room when it happened. She was already in bad shape when she got to Rockview. Are you sure the Blackwells still live in this place?”
She had pulled up the street view of the address Trinity gave her. Trinity leaned over to glance at the computer screen. “I’m sure they’re still there,” she told Josie. “It took them forever to sell their house in Bowersville. I can’t imagine them having moved again already. Good luck getting her to talk to you though.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Blackwells had changed their name and moved to Phillipsburg, New Jersey. That was why Josie had been unable to locate them. Luckily for her, when Trinity covered Ginger’s case she had promised Mr. Blackwell to continue trying to uncover evidence that Ginger’s case was not a hoax, in exchange for knowing where they were going and what their new names would be. It was always a quid pro quo with Trinity.
Josie left early in the morning and drove straight eastward, fifteen miles over the speed limit, turning a four-hour trip into a three-hour trip. Trinity had given her a cell phone number for Ginger’s husband, but Josie was afraid if she called ahead, the man would shut her down before she even had a chance to go to New Jersey. The element of surprise was best. She just hoped that the Blackwells—or the Gilmores as they were now known—were in.
Phillipsburg was just about the quaintest town Josie had ever seen. It reminded her a lot of Denton. Most of its buildings were grouped densely along the Delaware River directly across from Easton, Pennsylvania, but as Josie drove deeper into New Jersey, Phillipsburg’s clean, quaint streets gave way to long, rural roads and farmland. It had a distinct country feel to it. The Blackwells had moved to the outskirts. Their large, two-story Cape Cod with its gray siding and black shutters lay along a rural road between two farms. Josie estimated a good quarter-mile between the road and the house, all grass cut to golf green standards. A long gravel driveway led to the side of the house where the attached garage sat, its doors like two eyes tightly shut. The area around the house had been meticulously landscaped and lovingly decorated. It looked like the perfect suburban family paradise.
She parked outside of the garage and walked to the front door, ears tuned to the low, gravelly bark of what sounded like a large dog coming from inside the house. The storm door was accented with decorative steel bars. Josie tugged on its handle but it was locked. The low bark continued from inside, the sound so powerful she could almost feel its vibration from where she stood. She rang the doorbell and waited. After a few minutes, the heavier black door creaked open just wide enough to reveal the white of an eyeball. “Can I help you?”
Josie pressed her face between the bars of the storm door and spoke into the pane of glass. “Mrs.… uh, Gilmore?”
“She’s not here.”
“Well, actually I’m looking for Ginger Blackwell.”
The eye blinked. The barking, closer now, rose in intensity. “Who are you?” the woman asked, her tone strident now.
Josie had to shout over the barking. “My name is Josie Quinn. I’m from Denton.”
“Go away.”
“I’m a detective with their police department—I mean, I’m off duty now, but I’m a police officer. I just need to ask you some questions.”
The eye was so wide it looked cartoonish. “I’m calling 911. I suggest you leave immediately. Do not come back.”
The eyeball disappeared, and the inner door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin closing.
“Wait!” Josie cried. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted into the glass. “Mrs. Blackwell, please! Just hear me out. Please. Another girl has gone missing. I need your help.”
But she was certain she couldn’t be heard over the barking. She waited a few minutes for the noise to die down and tried again, shouting once more into the heavy glass pane of the storm door in the gap between two of the steel bars. The barking began anew. She repeated the process several more times, waiting for a police cruiser to roll into the driveway at any moment. But it didn’t.
After the fifth or sixth attempt to get Ginger’s attention the door cracked open again. Josie’s throat burned from trying to be heard through the doors; her voice was hoarse, her words tumbling out too fast. “Mrs. Blackwe— Please, another girl is missing, need your help, I—”
The woman’s tone was icy. “If you think I’m going to help the Denton police department, you’re out of your mind. Go away before I call the police, for real this time.”