“What?”
“The person who initiates the Facebook page. Position yourself as a person of honor and ownership of Jackie and Randi. You met them in college maybe. First Jackie, then Randi, then Charlie. You all hung out together in Boston. You love them, you grieve for them, and now you’ve appointed yourself memory keeper. If your theory is correct, and the killer is a social outsider, that alone will aggravate her. She murdered Jackie and Randi so that they would belong to her. And now in death, you’re taking them back. You’re claiming their memory. Colloquially speaking, that should piss her off.”
“I like it,” D.D. said.
“Killing is about power. So you must interrupt the power equation, deliberately provoking and threatening the authority of the killer. She’s not in control. You are. In fact, you are the best friend Jackie and Randi ever had, because you will keep them alive forever. Your love, your power, is greater than hers.”
“And I have better shoes,” D.D. added. “Women can’t stand that.”
Quincy’s low chuckle. “Sounds like you’re on the right track.”
“Thank you,” D.D. said honestly. “This has been very helpful.” She paused. “Can I ask you one last question?”
“By all means.”
“Could it be Charlene? She’s setting herself up as the third victim, but what if that’s just a ruse? What if she’s the perpetrator and this is how she’s covering her tracks?”
The receiver was quiet again. “I don’t know,” Quincy said at last. “That’s a complicated way to get away with murder. But one thing’s for certain—you’ll know on the twenty-second.”
Chapter 21
J.T. AND I SHOT ROUNDS for an hour. I practiced at twenty feet, then fifty feet, then thirty yards. No long-range targets for me. For me, the challenge would be up close and personal.
When I emptied my last box of ammo, I sat on a hay bail near the fence line and worked on cleaning my gun. Snow had started, dusting my dark hair with light flakes as I hunched over my Taurus, meticulously taking it apart.
Tulip had left me for the warmth of J.T.’s house and the comfort of his wife’s company. J.T. was still shooting. He had a 150-yard target he liked to play with. Sometimes, he’d shoot happy faces, or a five-point star, maybe a heart for his wife on Valentine’s Day. I guess we all have our talents.
When my phone rang, I ignored it at first, then remembered Michael, the prepaid cell I’d slipped into the boy’s pocket on the bus, and quickly checked the display.
Not Michael, but I recognized the number. I hit answer and brought Detective D. D. Warren to my ear.
“Work last night?” she asked me.
“Yes.”
“Sleep this morning?”
“No.”
“Same as the rest of us then. Come on down. We got a plan.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m your new best friend. Literally. Meet me at police headquarters, thirty minutes. We got something to show you.”
The detective hung up. I looked up to find J.T. watching me.
“Gotta go?” he asked.
“Guess so.”
“’Kay,” he said.
“’Kay.”
I went to fetch my dog. When I returned outside with Tulip, J.T. was gone and only the scent of gunpowder lingered in the air.
“He’s not good at good-bye,” his wife, Tess, murmured behind me. She’d come out onto the covered front porch, arms crossed over her black-and-gray plaid shirt for warmth. She was younger than J.T., closer to fifty than sixty, with silver strands liberally sprinkling her pale blond hair. In faded jeans and fleece-lined slippers, with her hair pulled loosely back to reveal a delicately boned face, she wasn’t a beautiful woman, but striking. She had a way of looking at me that reminded me of J.T. They didn’t just look, they saw, and they trusted in their ability to handle what they’d seen. The two of them fit each other perfectly.