“I suppose that makes sense,” Sean said. “Maybe we should take it to Rob.”
Camila nodded enthusiastical y. “He’s in his office,” she said.
“Let’s go and talk to him now.”
Parekh was wil ing to be convinced. He was happy for Camila and Hannah to take an overnight trip to Yorktown on the Project’s dol ar, but he wanted Sean in the office. Afterward, Camila was prickly. It was pretty obvious she’d wanted to go to Yorktown with Sean, not Hannah. Camila didn’t trust her, not yet. She needed to work on that.
“Do you drive, Camila?” Hannah asked.
“I can, but I don’t have a car.”
“I do. I can drive, if you like.” After lying to Rob about having a car, she’d booked a rental. The company had agreed to deliver the car to her apartment building and it had been parked outside when she woke up that morning. They agreed to take an hour to pack overnight bags. Hannah picked Camila up outside her place just after ten A.M.
“There’s coffee, if you want it,” Hannah said, gesturing to one of two Starbucks cups sitting in the car’s cup holders. “Cappuccino, two sugars, right?” She gave Camila a sideways glance. The other girl paused in the act of putting on her seat belt and looked at Hannah.
She laughed.
“Okay, my bad. Forgiven?”
“Forgiven.”
They drove out of Charlottesvil e in the direction of Yorktown.
“So what do we say to her?” Camila said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do we lay it al out on the table? That we’re representing Michael Dandridge, that we’re there about the case? Or do we just try to . . . I don’t know. Finesse it in some way.”
Hannah thought about it for a minute. “Honestly, I can’t think of any way we could just casual y bring it up without seeming like crazy people or journalists. And I think if I was the ex-girlfriend of the friend of someone convicted of a crime like that, there’s no way I’d want to talk to a journalist. Who wants to be publicly connected to something like this?”
“Yes,” Camila said. “Although, you know, people are crazy. Some people wil do anything for attention. There’s a reason The Jerry Springer Show was around for so long.”
“I guess we could wait and see what she’s like,” Hannah said.
Camila thought about it. “You’re right, direct is best. It’s not like we can pretend we’re journalists, right?”
“I guess not.”
The drive to Yorktown was very pretty, the highway lined with mature oak and sycamore trees, which broke up every now and again to reveal glimpses of manicured farmland. When they turned off the highway for Yorktown itself they found a picture-postcard of smal -town America, with wide, open streets and beautiful y maintained heritage homes, American flags fluttering.
“I’d like to go to where it happened,” Hannah said quietly. “Is that al right?”
“You mean the murder?” Camila said.
Hannah nodded.
“Yes. Okay.”
Camila entered the address on her phone and they set out.
Conversation died to almost nothing. It was only a ten-minute drive on the Old Wil iamsburg Road. Camila’s Waze app cal ed out directions, and Hannah fol owed them, pul ing in eventual y outside a smal apartment building. It was a two-story building, made with white-painted weatherboard and pale yel ow brick. The first floor had an external balcony, so that each apartment had a door that opened directly outside. Hannah and Camila sat in the car and stared up at the first floor.
“Have you seen the pictures yet?” Camila asked.
Hannah turned to her. “No. No, I haven’t seen them.”
Camila looked pale, her usual energy leached away. “Maybe don’t look,” she said. “I don’t know that anyone needs to see that, if they can avoid it.”
Hannah turned to look back at the apartments. “I see now what Professor Parekh meant about everything being so close together, about people overhearing.” The building looked cheap, poorly built.
The wal s were probably paper thin.
“It’s military housing,” Camila said. “You know, looking at this, it makes even less sense that Dandridge would have been the kil er. I mean, he’d never been on base, never had any interaction with Sarah Fitzhugh or any of her neighbors. Why would he choose her apartment?” Camila pointed at the building. “It’s the one right in the middle, by the way, that one on the first floor. Why would he choose that apartment to break into? How could he have known what he would find? I mean, there’s nothing about this building that even shouts families, in particular. He could have been breaking into an apartment fil ed with servicemen.”
“I don’t know, Camila. But there’s so much we don’t know. And to play devil’s advocate for a moment, the prosecution could easily argue that Dandridge saw Sarah somewhere. Maybe in a supermarket checkout. That he fol owed her home.” There were a hundred ways it could have happened.
“Yes, but how could he have known she would be alone that night?”
Hannah shrugged. “He could have done what we’re doing.
Parked outside. Watched her for a while.”
Camila looked around. The street was very quiet. The apartment building had off-street parking. There were no parked cars on the street other than theirs. “I think it’s a stretch,” she said. “I mean, this is military housing. If I were a murdering rapist, I think I would choose more obvious victims.”
Hannah started the car again, pul ed away, and drove back in the direction of Yorktown. “Maybe that’s something we should look at,”
Hannah said. “See if we can find other crimes where the perpetrator specifical y targeted military wives or girlfriends. It could be a thing.”
“That’s a good idea,” Camila said.
They drove to the B and B, pul ed in, and parked. “Are you nervous?” Camila asked.
“A bit,” Hannah said. “But you’ve done this before, right?”
“I’ve met witnesses,” Camila said. “Asked some questions. And inmates, of course. But this feels important, you know? I don’t want to screw it up.”
They walked side by side to the front door. The inn was a very pretty, Colonial-style, two-and-a-half story redbrick, with tal chimneys and dormer windows. There was a generous porch at the front of the building with tables and chairs and umbrel as set up, so that visitors could choose to eat breakfast or take tea outside perhaps, and look over the river. Hannah knocked on the door. It was opened a few minutes later by a dark-haired woman, in her forties, and dressed in slacks and a pristine white shirt. She had an open, welcoming smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Angie?” Camila said. “Angie Meyer?”
“Wel , I’m Angie McKenzie now, but yes.”
“I’m Camila Martinez, and this is my classmate Hannah Rokeby.”