“Hm. And what kinds of things did he say he needed the money for?” Margot was grasping at straws now, but money could leave a trace. If Wallace had borrowed it to pay for a property or something, at least she’d have somewhere to start.
“Oh.” Annabelle waved a hand. “Many things. Once, he had a medical bill he couldn’t pay off. Once, he said he wanted to buy my kids Christmas gifts—which he did, actually. I always tried to say no when he asked, but usually, I just gave in. It was easier that way. Hell, I’m still paying for his storage unit after all these years. Which is exactly why my husband says I’m too soft on him. I’d stop paying, but I don’t know what Elliott has in there and I don’t want it to just get thrown out. Like I said, he didn’t even like me touching his stuff as a kid—if I got rid of whatever he has in there, he’d probably go ballistic. And anyway, he’s family.”
“Where is his storage unit?”
“Oh, it’s in this little place you’ve never heard of. Waterford Mills. I think he likes to have some sort of a home base. You know, because he moves around so much.”
“Right.” Margot smiled evenly, but inside she was jumping, because she had heard of Waterford Mills. It was a little town no more than ten miles away from Wakarusa. And if there was a storage unit facility there, Margot would bet all the money she had left in the bank that it was the only one.
“Anyway,” Annabelle said, “I’m late for my appointment as is, so I have to get going. But let me give you my phone number. In case something comes up. Like I said, I may not be close to my brother, but he doesn’t deserve this. If you’re trying to help him, I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Margot nodded weakly. The truth was she felt bad for Annabelle. The woman was blindly defending a depraved man because the alternative—entertaining the idea that her own brother was a murderer—was too awful to bear.
There was a twinge of discomfort in Margot’s stomach as she recalled all the times in the past twelve hours that she’d assured herself her uncle was a good person. But that wasn’t the same thing. She believed Wallace was guilty because the evidence had led her to him, not because his guilt meant her uncle’s innocence. Still, as she stood and thanked Annabelle one last time, the thought that zipped through her mind with a ferocity she hadn’t expected was Better your family than mine.
* * *
—
As it turned out, Margot was right about Waterford Mills; the little town had only one storage unit, and she made a detour on her way back to Wakarusa to scope it out. Like the town in which it was located, the facility was small, with no more than a hundred units or so. Margot drove around the perimeter marked by a tall chain-link fence and pulled up to the front gate, which was closed with a thick chain and a padlock. Attached to the gate was a sign that read: WATERFORD MILLS STORAGE UNIT, with a phone number beneath. Margot put her car in park, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
“Yep,” a gruff voice answered after a few rings.
“Um, hi. Is this—”
“Waterford Mills Storage Unit? Yep.”
“Great. My name’s Margot Wallace. I’m the niece of one of your renters, Elliott Wallace. Um, I’m actually calling because my uncle passed away a few weeks ago and I’m helping my family organize all his things.”
It was a lie that could easily be disproven if the man on the phone called Annabelle to confirm or just did a quick Google search of Elliott and discovered he wasn’t in fact dead, but Margot knew that people usually believed what you told them. And even if he did call her bluff, she’d be no worse off now than she was a minute ago.
“I know he’s renting a storage unit at your place,” she said, “but I don’t know the number of the unit. Would you mind looking that up for me?”
Margot wouldn’t push her luck by asking to be let in, but with the correct name of the renter and a plausible story, she doubted the man would see the harm in sharing the unit number, especially in a small town like this. Sure enough, the gruff voice said, “Yeah, all right. What’d you say his name was?”
“Elliott Wallace.”
A few moments later, the man came back on the line and told her the number of Wallace’s unit. She jotted it into her phone, thanked him for his time, then hung up and immediately called Pete.
“Margot?” he said. “Hey. What’s up?” By his tone, she could tell their mutual halfhearted apologies had smoothed things over as far as he was concerned, for which she was grateful.
“I found a lead to Wallace,” she said without preamble. “We need to tell state to get a search warrant for a storage unit in Waterford Mills.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. What’re you talking about?”
Margot forced herself to take a deep breath, then explained what Annabelle had told her about her brother’s unit. “It has years’ worth of Wallace’s stuff,” she said when she finished. “What if he stored away something incriminating? It makes sense. Serial killers like to hold on to trophies of their kills, but Wallace is too transient to keep everything with him through every move. What if he stored them away?”
“Okay…But wait, Margot. The only thing you have on this guy is that he was a person of interest in Polly Limon’s case. No detective in the world is gonna bother a judge for a search warrant because of that.”
“That’s not true. I also have—”
“Oh right,” he interrupted. “You also have the twenty-five-year-old memory of a pothead saying that January had an imaginary friend with the name Elephant Wallace.”
Margot huffed out a breath. “Wallace was at January’s dance recital. I have a picture proving it. That’s not a coincidence. He’s connected to two dead girls.”
“I know. And I agree with you. All I’m saying is that no one’s gonna approve a search warrant based off what you have. I’m sorry.”
Margot closed her eyes. “He’s the answer to this case, Pete. I know it.”
“Okay then. Keep digging. I’ll do what I can over here. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
After they hung up, Margot slammed her phone onto the seat next to her and let out a frustrated groan that turned into a scream. She grabbed her steering wheel and rattled it hard. She felt so sure Wallace was the answer to this case—but how the hell was she supposed to prove it?
She let go of the steering wheel, giving it one last smack of her hands, then slumped back into her seat. She sat like that for a long moment, her breath steadying, her heartbeat slowing. Then, finally, she sat up and twisted the key in the ignition. By the time she got home, it was dusk, the overcast sky a gunmetal gray. Yet again, Margot had left her uncle alone for too long. Yet again, her stomach twisted with guilt. Although she was used to the feeling by now, it hadn’t lost its sting.
She parked in the driveway, then walked through the brittle grass to Luke’s front stoop, but when she tried to twist the doorknob, it stuck beneath her hand. And that was when she remembered she still hadn’t made a copy of his house key. She’d gotten close—she’d driven halfway to the hardware store the other morning—but she’d been interrupted by Linda’s call with her lead to Jace and had gotten distracted. And then, the next few days had unspooled such a flurry of revelations that making a copy of the key had simply fallen out of her head.
Margot rattled the knob again, but again it didn’t budge. She knocked, waited. Nothing happened. “Shit,” she hissed beneath her breath. “Uncle Luke! It’s me, Margot!”
She listened, but the house was still and quiet.
“Fuck.” She knocked again, harder now. “Uncle Luke! Can you let me in?”
She stopped to listen, and this time, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Margot let out a breath of relief, but when the door swung open a few moments later, it caught in her throat. Adrenaline coursed so quickly through her body it felt like electricity running through her veins. Her vision spotted and she swayed.
Standing in front of her was Luke, her beloved uncle, her favorite person in the world. And in his hands was an enormous hunting rifle, aimed at Margot’s face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Krissy, 2009