Trinity yawned and put her phone on the nightstand. Her eyes narrowed as she searched her memory. “I just remember how surprised everyone was—everyone who knew him—but then again, everyone who knew him said he’d been depressed. Nobody could pinpoint when it started or why. Just that he didn’t seem like himself. It’s weird, right? All these people saw him getting more and more depressed each day, but no one thought he’d hurt himself. Maybe because he was a psychologist people just assumed he’d never do that. Anyway, it was only his adult daughter who thought he hadn’t killed himself.”
“Why was that?”
Trinity shrugged. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, Josie. I just remember that my producer didn’t want to interview her because he didn’t want to introduce this alternate theory when the police had the whole case wrapped up pretty tightly.”
“Did he leave a note?” Josie asked.
“He left a Microsoft Word document open on his computer with the words typed, ‘I’m sorry.’ The daughter kept saying anyone could have done that.”
“She thought someone murdered him?”
“Or that someone drove him to do it,” Trinity said.
“Why would she say that?”
Trinity slouched down on the bed, nestling her head into the pillow, and closed her eyes. “I really don’t remember. You could probably ask her, though. I’m sure she still lives in Pennsylvania. She was a college professor, like her dad. Not at the same school or the same subject. She taught kinesiology, which I only remember because it seemed so unusual.”
“Kinesiology?” Josie said. “Is that like muscle-testing?”
“The study of how the human body moves. Mechanics and stuff. I don’t know. It was all very vague, and that was a long time ago. Anyway, her name was… oh, crap. It begins with a D… Devon— definitely Devon. I remember because it was so close to Denton. Same last name. I don’t know if she was married or not. Well, I guess she was married at that time because she said how she was taking fertility treatments after having had all these miscarriages. She miscarried again after her dad’s suicide. Stress. It was the saddest thing. One of the saddest stories I ever covered. Her mom had died when she was a kid. All she had was her father. Anyway, she’s got a PhD and I think she kept her father’s last name. Dr. Rafferty.”
“Thanks,” said Josie. “Go back to sleep.”
Trinity pulled the covers back up to her neck. “Happy to.”
Back downstairs, Josie used her laptop to track down Devon Rafferty. To Josie’s surprise, she now lived in Denton and taught kinesiology at the university. Josie found her home address easily and punched it into her phone’s GPS system. She would try Devon’s home first and if she wasn’t there, then she would try the university. She really hoped Devon was at home, though as she didn’t relish the idea of traipsing all over the huge campus trying to find the right building.
In the car, her eyes burned with exhaustion and yet her mind was on fire with questions. Thatcher Toland had started to look like a front-runner in terms of their persons of interest. But then there was the matter of Gabriel Watts possibly having been seen accosting Amber before her death—and the fact that he’d been unaccounted for the past couple of days. Sheriff’s Deputy Tiercar had been checking his home regularly throughout the day and still had not encountered him. Then there was this other tragedy at Russell Haven Dam. It might be completely unrelated, and with the disparate puzzle pieces they already had, it seemed like it would be, but Josie couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer had chosen Russell Haven Dam because it was of great significance to him. Although they had a lot of leads to track down, they were really no closer to finding Amber. Josie had to follow any lead she had, no matter how obscure it seemed. She texted Noah and Gretchen to let them know where she was headed, which was either on a wild goose chase or toward a lead that might help her find Amber—and a killer.
Thirty-Four
Devon Rafferty’s home was located in the hills above the university campus. It was a beautiful stone building with bright red tin roofing on both the house and the attached three-car garage. It sat about two acres back from the road. Trees crowded around it. Josie imagined they provided ample shade during the spring and summer months. On the far side of the garage was a patio area complete with Adirondack chairs surrounding a fire pit. Against one of the closed garage doors leaned two bikes. Josie pulled down the long driveway. A small tan Toyota sedan was parked behind a silver Land Rover. Josie parked next to the Land Rover and made her way up the stone path to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited.
A moment later, the heavy door swung open and a young girl, about eleven or twelve years old, stared at Josie. Her hair was cut in a bob. An oversized sweatshirt with the United States Navy logo on its left breast swallowed her small frame. It matched her navy-blue leggings. Brown UGG boots completed the ensemble. She peered at Josie with narrowed eyes. Then she turned slightly and called over her shoulder. “Mom! Dad! That lady cop who’s always on TV is here!” Looking back at Josie, she said, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
From somewhere behind the girl, a male voice yelled, “Lilly!” in a warning tone. Then: “Hang on!”
Josie said, “Have you?”
Lilly smiled ever so slightly and folded her arms over her chest. “No. Not yet.”
“People go to jail for that kind of thing,” Josie told her.
“Not everyone. My dad’s shot people. I mean, he says he can’t say if he did, but he’s a Navy Seal so probably he did and he just can’t tell you.”
A tall, burly man in jeans and a fleece appeared behind Lilly, carrying a duffel bag. He had a thick head of red hair, a well-trimmed beard, and an infectious smile. A small gold cross hung around his neck. “Lilly!” He dropped the bag on the floor, nudged his daughter aside, and extended a hand to Josie. “I’m so sorry about her. She’s a little precocious. I’m Bob. I’m retired—” he looked pointedly at his daughter, “from the Navy. This is my daughter, Lilly. What can we help you with?”
Josie shook his hand. “Detective Josie Quinn.”
Lilly looked up at her father. “Maybe she’s here to arrest us.”
Bob laughed and slung an arm around her shoulder. Looking down at her, he said, “Do they arrest young women for asking strangers inappropriate questions?”
“I only ask because I’m curious,” said Lilly. “Mom says I have a curious soul.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You get that from your mother. Why don’t you go get her? She’ll want to talk to this detective.”
Lilly ran off, deeper into the house. Bob waved Josie inside. A long, tiled hall led to what looked like a kitchen at the rear of the house. To one side of the foyer was a living room and to the other there appeared to be a home office. The rooms were filled with houseplants, eclectic, brightly colored pieces of furniture, and vibrantly painted abstract canvases. Everywhere Josie looked was color. Life. It was welcoming and cozy. Next to the front door was a collection of shoes. Sneakers, mostly. One set small, one set slightly larger. No men’s shoes.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Bob. “My ex-wife will be…” he hesitated. His genial smile turned to a grimace. “Happy.”