On Wednesday morning Hannah cal ed Jan and got an update on how things were going in Maine. In Hannah’s absence, Jan had committed to coming in every day, doing a little work about the house, and keeping an eye on Laura. Laura didn’t have a job. That just wasn’t possible for her because of her PTSD and extreme anxiety. Her attempts to work had always ended in disaster—alcohol abuse and a shame spiral that was very difficult to turn around. What worked best for Laura was sticking to a routine. Monday to Saturday, she and Hannah walked together in the morning. Sunday was for sleeping in. While Hannah was at school, Laura read or visited the library or, if she was feeling wel , her yoga class. They ate dinner together at five P.M. every day, almost without exception. It was a very rigid schedule, but it was what worked. The predictability of the routine soothed Laura’s frayed nerves, and she was happier and much more comfortable when they kept things simple. Leaving her alone like this would be like setting off a bomb in the middle of her fragile stability.
Hannah had worried and worried about the decision to come to Charlottesvil e, had weighed the risks of going versus the risks of doing nothing and ultimately decided that she had no choice. But it was one thing to accept that she had to go when the risks were stil hypothetical, now she had to face the real-world consequences of that decision. According to Jan, Laura was eating al right (which meant she was probably eating almost nothing) but she was agitated. She was wandering in the garden, spending time on her computer, not settling down with a book. When pushed, Jan—the gentlest of women—had admitted that Laura was snappish and easily irritated. To most people this might seem like nothing to worry about, but anyone who knew Laura wel would recognize signs of an imminent implosion. Knowing that the effort was completely inadequate, but needing to do something, Hannah got on the phone again, cal ed a local bakery, and placed an order for muffins to be delivered to the house. She thought about cal ing Laura, but they had already planned a cal for the evening, and it would be better to stick to their arrangement. She should press on with her work. At least that way, she might have some progress to report.
Hannah got to the office at eight A.M. and tried to shake off a nagging sense of disquiet. It was better, at least, to sit at her desk, hot coffee in hand, without the disapproving presence of Rachel Mears sitting to her right. Better stil to have the freedom to search through the Dandridge files in the system without anyone looking over her shoulder. Important too, not to be so distracted by Laura and by her own activities that she forgot she was stil on trial. If Robert Parekh felt like she wasn’t making a meaningful contribution, he would remove her from the team just as quickly as he had added her to it. She’d have to have something to show him if he came looking. He had asked them to look for ways to attack the pil ars of the prosecution’s case—the anonymous cal er, the confession, and the eyewitness lineup. There was no way she was going to do anything that might help Dandridge, but she needed to look like she was working hard and being productive. Hannah sipped her coffee and thought things through. Parekh was right about one thing—the evidence against Dandridge was weak. But that sheriff . . . Pierce?
He’d worked very hard to put Dandridge away. He must have been convinced of Dandridge’s guilt and he must have had a good reason.
Men who rape and murder women rarely strike once. Maybe Dandridge had done it before and gotten away with it and Pierce had somehow known about it. That would explain Sheriff Pierce’s determined effort to put Dandridge away.
Hannah ran a search online for any newspaper reporting about rapes and murders in the years around the Fitzhugh murder. It felt amateurish, to her, to be reading the bits and scraps of reporting she could glean from search engine results and online newspapers. But she wasn’t a cop. She didn’t have access to police or federal databases. After fifteen minutes she had managed to find only one rape with a shooting in Richmond, and one attempted rape with a breakin in Victory Hil . Victory Hil was very close to Yorktown, and the attack had taken place about ten months after the Fitzhugh murder. Hannah searched again; read every article she could find.
The attacker had worn a black balaclava and had climbed in through an open window. The victim had been at home with her baby. The attacker took the victim to her bedroom, threatening to hurt the child if she didn’t comply, but the victim’s husband came home unexpectedly and the attacker had climbed out of the window and fled. According to the police, he’d left no DNA.
Hannah sat and thought. The husband had been on a business trip that had been cut short unexpectedly. Could Dandridge have known the family? Known that the husband had intended to be away that night? It felt like the Sarah Fitzhugh case. Sarah’s husband had been away on a tour of duty. Dandridge had a job working on pleasure cruises; Sarah Fitzhugh’s husband had been a sailor.
Maybe there was some connection between them that had led to Dandridge finding out that Sarah’s husband was away. It was frustrating not to know more about the Victory Hil case. Maybe the husband there had some sort of work connection with Dandridge too? It took her a minute to see the problem—the Victory Hil attack had been ten months after the Fitzhugh murder. Dandridge would already have been in prison. Hannah shook herself and turned back to the case file, started to read again. She had to know the Dandridge case as wel as any of them. Better.
An hour later, Camila dropped into the seat beside her, cheeks flushed from exertion. She put a coffee cup down on the table and unwound a brightly colored scarf from around her neck.
“So,” she said. “After I left you last night I started thinking about Neil Prosper. The guy Michael spent the evening of the murder with, the man who should have been his alibi. I started thinking about what else we could do to try to track him down.”
Hannah was very conscious that her notes were on her desk where Camila could see them. Had she written anything that would look out of place? She couldn’t look at them to check without drawing attention to what she had written. Sean arrived, and when Camila turned to greet him Hannah turned her notepad over. Better safe than sorry.
“It occurred to me that Prosper was an alum of Yorktown High School,” Camila continued. “And every single yearbook for Yorktown High is online. So I trawled through them and I found the name of the girl Prosper was dating when he went to school there. Sweet couple.
They were voted most likely to break up.”
“Nice,” Sean said.
“Wel , I did manage to track her down. She’s on Facebook, so it wasn’t exactly a chal enge. I messaged her last night, asked her if she was stil in touch with Neil since high school. She isn’t, but—”
“She knows someone who is?” Sean asked.
“No,” Camila said. “But she does know who he was dating around the time of the murder. And she gave me the woman’s number.
Angela Meyer. Angie Meyer. She stil lives in Yorktown. She runs her parents’ B and B.”
“Have you spoken to her?” Hannah asked.
“Not yet. I was thinking maybe we should go down there.”
“What, to Yorktown?” Sean said.
“Maybe. She runs this B and B. Couldn’t we stay there? Try to figure out what kind of person she is. Choose the right moment to ask some questions?”
Sean considered.
“Think about it,” Camila said. “This is an actual solid lead.
Someone who not only knew and spent time with Neil Prosper, but who probably knew Michael too. Maybe she knows where Neil is, maybe she doesn’t, but it’s possible she might have other information. I mean, what if she cal ed Neil at home that night, and she could confirm the alibi, or something. Or she might know something else, something we wouldn’t even think to ask.”