Margot nodded. “Fine. I’m fine. Sorry.” She flashed him a weak smile, then turned quickly back to the photo on her laptop.
It had been taken in what was no doubt one of the auditoriums where January’s dance recitals were staged. January was in center frame, an enormous bouquet of white roses in her arms. Behind her was a mass of people—other little girls in costumes, moms and dads, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. And there, in the far-right corner, miniscule and blurry, but still recognizable, was Elliott Wallace. He was standing alone with his unblinking gaze focused on the back of January’s head.
Margot had found him.
She stared, heart pounding. She could hardly believe it. After being told she was wrong so many times—by her ex-boss, by Detective Lacks, by Detective Townsend—Margot had been vindicated.
But then, as she stared at the face of the man she was so sure was a killer, something else caught her eye—a familiar red smudge at the edge of the photo.
“No.” The word came out of her as a whisper.
It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make any sense. Luke had always said he didn’t know Billy or Krissy. And he certainly hadn’t known January, so he would’ve had no reason to go to her dance recitals. But then why, in this photo that had clearly been taken after one of January’s performances, was Margot staring at him now? Though half his face had been cut off by the frame, she could see his image clearly. He was far closer than Elliott Wallace, and she could see his ear, his jaw, and the giveaway: his favorite red bandanna wrapped around his neck, the very one Margot had given him for Christmas all those years ago.
Blood rushed in her ears. Margot turned to look at Luke and her breath caught in her throat. He was staring at her, his face as blank and solemn as Jace’s.
“By the way,” he said. “Have you seen Margot recently?”
Margot swallowed. “Why do you ask?”
He narrowed his eyes almost suspiciously at her, then turned back to the TV. “I’m worried about her. She’s been asking a lot about January. I’m afraid she’ll find out what really happened.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Margot, 2019
Margot sat frozen on the couch, her breath trapped in her throat, palms prickling. She stared at her uncle’s profile as he stared at the TV. He was only a few feet away, and yet the distance between them felt like an uncrossable gulf.
Throughout her entire life, Luke had taught Margot to be honest and real. In a town of people who cared far more about appearances than truth, her unguarded and uncontrived uncle had been her salvation. Luke had never hidden who he was—or at least that was what she’d always thought. Apparently she’d been wrong. Apparently, like everyone else in this town, he also wore a mask. After years of maintaining that he didn’t know January or the Jacobs family, here he was in a photograph taken at the girl’s recital.
Margot glanced from her uncle in the photo to her uncle on the couch. “Uncle Luke?”
But her voice sounded weak, and he must not have heard, because he kept his eyes on the TV. She cleared her throat. “Luke?”
He turned his head, eyebrows raised, and Margot could tell by the vague look in his eye that he still didn’t recognize her. Who was she to him now? she wondered. Was she his late wife or was she a stranger?
“What are you worried about Margot finding out?” she asked.
Luke frowned. “What?”
“You just said you’re worried about Margot because she’s been asking about January. You said you’re scared ‘she’ll find out what really happened.’ What did you mean?” She felt traitorous using his condition to mine for information, but then again, he’d betrayed her first.
Luke’s frown deepened.
“Luke?” she said after a moment. “What were you talking about? What ‘really happened’?”
“Hm?” He blinked hard, shaking his head as if trying to clear away cobwebs. “What’re you talking about?”
Just then, a loud roar came from the TV and they both looked over at it. On the screen, a lion was tearing into some disemboweled animal, its muzzle and mane covered in blood.
“Man, I love this show,” Luke said. “Don’t you?”
But Margot couldn’t speak. Her mind was swirling with conflicting versions of her uncle: Luke at January’s recital, Luke telling Margot he didn’t know the Jacobses, Luke worried she might find out what really happened. With a trembling hand, she clicked her laptop shut and tucked it under her arm. She needed to get away from him. When she stood, she realized her body was shaking.
“Be right back,” she said, but Luke either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He continued to watch the TV as Margot walked out of the room.
The moment her bedroom door shut behind her, she locked it, then fell back against it and slid to the floor. What the hell was happening? A minute ago, she’d connected Elliott Wallace to Polly Limon and January, thinking she’d solved the case, and now—what? What exactly did she think her uncle had done? Just because Luke had gone to January’s recitals, her rational brain interjected, didn’t mean he’d killed her. But then why lie about it for all these years?
Margot felt as if everything she knew, her entire world, had just been flipped upside down. She grabbed her phone from her back pocket in a knee-jerk instinct to call someone, but after a moment of staring at the screen, she slammed it to the floor, pressing it into the carpet. It was Luke she called in moments like this.
She sat there, her back against the door, her eyes roving blankly around the little office-turned–guest room. After a moment her gaze caught on Luke’s old desk. As a child, that desk had been the only thing in her aunt and uncle’s house that Margot hadn’t been allowed to touch. According to Luke, his work stuff was in there and he didn’t want it getting disorganized. But now that she thought of it, she couldn’t actually remember him ever using it.
She stood, double-checked that the door was locked, then strode quickly to the desk, sinking into the faux leather chair on the opposite side. On the desk’s surface was a computer with a connected keyboard, a glass vase of pens, pencils, and highlighters, and a cheap-looking desk lamp with a flexible neck. Margot pressed the power button on the desktop and began quietly opening desk drawers as she waited for it to boot up. In the shallow tray centered beneath the desk, among a smattering of loose paper clips, sticky notes, and thumbtacks, she spotted a small gold key.
Just as Margot went to pick it up, the computer came to life with a loud chime and she sat up straight, craning her neck to listen for any movement from the other room. What would he do, she wondered, if he caught her snooping around his desk? Yesterday, the question would have made Margot laugh. Now, it made her scared.
She turned her attention to the screen, in the center of which was a box to enter a password. She chewed the inside of her cheek as she thought. Luke had been an accountant, a numbers person, but he also had a sentimental side. She typed in the digits of her aunt’s birthday, but the little box shook in disapproval, so she tried the digits of his, with the same disappointing result. She deleted the numbers, then slowly typed in her own birthday. When she hit enter, the computer chimed happily and her uncle’s desktop came into view. Margot’s chest tightened. For the next hour or so, she searched every file and folder she could find. But the minutes ticked by and she discovered nothing. She decided to move on and check the rest of the desk drawers, but just as she was about to pull another open, she heard it—a thud from somewhere beyond her door.